Waxing and waning on sex tourism

'I see a lot of gringas in here, but you are like a yeti.’

I was in an awkward position to feign offense, given I had one leg over my head and nothing on but my alpaca socks and sweater. This is what happens when you wax in Peru – you get a frown and some sarcasm.

Jimena, my ‘technician’, was working in a very dimly-lit salon abutting a flute and fruit juice market where indigenous women chatted by the lucuma ‘eggfruits’. She furrowed her brow at me. Again. I suspected Jimena did not love her job.

She drew the thin white curtains, took a deep breath and went about her yeti work when a man walked in.

'He-hello?'

Hmm. He twanged strongly of North Carolina. I believed he was one of my people, getting out in the world! Yay my people!

'Sí señor, usted necesita un masaje?'

'Ohh, I uh... no speak Espan-yolo. English?'

'Marianela! Este hombre quiere hablar Inglés!'

A girl I suspected to be about 15 sped out of the back room at her auntie's order and said triumphantly, 'Yes, I speaking English.'

'Oh, wonderful!' The man wrung his hands together and through the curtains I could see he was short, grey and very nervous. 'I would like a massage please... but... um... do you do a... huh... happy ending?'

He whispered these last two words as if he were... ashamed.

His request was so inaudible that Jimena made him repeat it twice more before Marianela translated. Then the auntie and her niece began what I suspected to be very common conversation in Cusco: do we want to give this old white guy an orgasm for some extra soles?

After a very short discussion, Marianela said yes. Technically, Jimena did, and Marianela nodded in bewildered, uncomfortable agreement.

There are ladies all over the Plaza de Armas, the city’s main square, handing out cards for massages, pedicures, waxing and – wink – more. For a town swarmed with hike-happy Inca Trail-ers chewing coca leaves and popping altitude pills, a little pampering is actually a nice, uh, touch.

And an especially nice touch for the guy about to get touched. North Carolina was now disrobing and lumbering giddily onto the mensaje table. You know, the one only three feet away from mine.

As Jimena was only halfway done de-yeti-fying me, I realized I would be enduring not just the normal delights associated with hot wax and hair removal, but now I had to do it listening to an old man get rubbed down in every sense by an impoverished teenage girl at the behest of her own family?

This is the time to believe in the privacy and sound absorption capabilities of chiffon curtains, Jules. Do not vomit.

It would be easy to end the story here and write off this dude as a creep taking advantage of Peru's poor. But while one tourist made his intentions clear with heavy breathing and smarm, another sat wondering where the lascivious line gets drawn.

You see, amigos, I have a confession. The reason I was getting a wax that day was not because I love having hair ripped from my pores in sensitive areas. It was because I met a very charming and handsome local fellow who had taken me for hot chocolate at Jack's Cafe and told me over and over again how beautiful and intelligent I am, and what a fascinating life I'd been leading.

You guys, I am so fascinating.

Life lesson: when a cute boy asks you to make out on a park bench in South America, as per Latino tradition, you do it. Don't think, just beso.

My Hot Novio and I spent an amorous week together. We went for dinner, we went dancing, hiked to ruins, lots of fun things! And, as an unfortunately relevant aside, because he was rather poorly, I gladly paid. For everything. As in food, drinks, hotel, trips…

I mean, it was all very innocent.
I wondered if North Carolina thought his happy ending was innocent…

But my affair with Hot Novio wasn’t blatant! We were young lovers!
North Carolina’s affair was also very discreet – hello? There was a curtain! Okay, and a major age gap.

But Hot Novio was clearly willing, able and enthusiastic... obviously.
Marianela is also willing and able, though unenthusiastic... obviomente.

Oh my god, you guys. I'm a sex tourist.

But wait, I am not nefarious in my intentions. Is that a requirement?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized the difference between a dirty old man from Raleigh and a dirty young woman from Seattle maybe wasn’t that great after all.

Very quickly, I wanted to leave. One man’s lechery was enough. My own was just freaking me out.

'Rapido!' I pleaded to Jimena, realizing the guy next to me was probably whispering the same thing.

Eww.

Intercultural gesticulation

I was feeling kind of underwhelmed anyway.

I'd been down under for two weeks with The Diplomat without feeling like I knew what Australian 'culture' was. I figured Hugh Jackman, fit and frisky on a surfboard, might do the trick.

The beach: the answer to all cultural mysteries.

I'd missed my beaching opportunity on the east coast because god was punishing the nation for selling it's soul to Oprah the month prior.

'Oprah's Ultimate Australian Adventure' probably sounded good to the tourism board at the time, but do you really want thousands of middle-aged Angel Networkers asking for the nearest Outback Steakhouse and telling Aboriginals how to live their best life (according to this month's edition of 'O')?

Anyway, I couldn't blame god - it was all doomsday floods and hurricanes on the Great Barrier Reef, so westward ho!

Beach bag full of SPF and David Sedaris, I waited for Number 411 to take me to Scarborough Beach, outside Perth. As the bus came rambling down the deserted roadway and I stood up, taking my bag and walking three feet to the 'Bus Stop' signpost, money in hand - exact change, thank you!

I believed these efforts to be obvious international signals for 'I'd like to ride your bus! And - I will pay!'

I watched the bus approach. I saw the driver look at me. And then I watched the bus sail right past.

What the effy eff?

I then did what every woman ignored by a man does. I ran after him.

I caught up at the next light, breathy but willing to give this guy the benefit of the doubt. I had already learned direct eye contact in Australia does not equate acknowledgment of one's existence.

I rapped on the door.
He looked at me.
I pointed to the door.
He kept looking, indifferent.
I pointed to myself, then the door, then made an 'open' motion.

He shook his head no and put his hand up in the air, waved, then pointed at me and shook his head again.

Wave? He wouldn't pick me up because I didn't wave?

It was quite a change coming from free-wheeling South America, where the designated bus stops are wherever somebody wants to get on. No Latino - or accompanying farm goat - is left behind. Waving optional.

I furrowed my brow, rolled my eyes sidelong, stomped a little for effect, then mimed my ascent from the bus stop bench to the bus stop sign and flopped my hands forward in an appeal to just let me on the damn bus already.

This is what Oprah's soulless Australia had reduced me to: a temper tantrum with a public servant. A'la charades.

At this point, all the other passengers became interested in our mime-off, and I'd like to think some asked him to just open the door for this nice foreign lady who maybe had a wave impediment? But the driver wagged his index finger at me, the international sign for 'I am a patronizing figure of authority and you are not.'

The light changed and he left me standing to brood in a viscous bisque of irritability. This is the Ultimate Adventure? Somebody get me a koala to hug, stat.

I changed my strategy and made a complete fool of myself, again, flagging down the next 411 with every limb and digit flopping in the air. I also changed my ticket to leave Australia a week early.

After all that, Hugh wasn't even at the beach.

How to Waste Time in the Airport

Pace around the McCafe wondering how ethically wrong it really is to crave an egg mcmuffin at McDonald´s whilst on vacation in a foreign country

Realize South American mcmuffins don´t involve muffins at all, just bagels

Think that with a bagel, it´s not the same meal, and walk out of the McCafe, smug, but still wanting a tasty buttermilk muffin breakfast sandwich

Stare blankly at the Aerolineas Argentinas man when he tells you there´s no flight to Auckland today, ma'am, didn´t you confirm?

Regret that huge glass of red wine you drank to put you to sleep on the now non-existent flight that´s making it hard to take him seriously

Feel annoyed by being called ma'am

Wonder if that´s what happens after you turn 30 and frown

Stop frowning to avoid further forehead lines and wonder what´s a step older than 'ma'am'?

Decide there isn´t one - ma'am is as old as you can get

Think about the mcmuffin

Curse yourself for not confirming the flight

Give yourself a break for not confirming because after all, you´re only a human being

Glare at the Aerolineas Argentinas counter and curse the day it was born!

Admit 'curse the day it was born' is an antiquated phrase

Decide to rue the day instead

Realize airline workers are only human beings, too, and feel conflicted

Lament airlines are inanimate objects that aren´t actually born or human, but rather huge evil fucking corporations

Go back to being pissed off

Wonder when it became popular to pay to wrap your bag in lime green cellophane

Practice melodramatic sighing

Decide South Americans are being oppressed by the McCafe with this whole bagel mcmuffin business

Pace the McCafe again

Scowl in protest

Remember the scowl lines, young lady!

Repeat

Beauty Queens and Bumblebees

I have never asked for seats in the barbed wire cage section before. In fact, I didn´t know that´s what I was ordering when I dragged my friend Robbie to the soccer match in Buenos Aires last weekend.

The last thing on my South American to-do list was see a soccer game live. I´d tried in Colombia and Peru, but it never worked out. It was either too dangerous to go alone or too far away.

The only ´sporting event´ I´d found until now was a cholita wrestling match in La Paz, where grown women and men dressed up in spandex diapers and proceeded to knock each other around the ring, against concrete walls and with metal chairs, to the delight of expletive-screaming Bolivians. And their children. At least I learned some new vocabulary from a 12-year-old... isn´t socially-accepted violence great?

So when Robbie arrived, a Londoner more preoccupied with the design and color scheme of the uniforms than any actual sport, I thought ´Oh, Robbie´s European, he must like soccer! A real sport. This is my last chance... this is going to be the best soccer match EVER!!´

Sometimes people find my unwarranted optimism endearing. Robbie does not, which is partly why I love him. But, humoring me, we made our way up the concrete steps to the top of River Plate stadium, one section away from the opposing team´s fans, chanting merrilly along with the drumline and waving their black and yellow banners.

´I like River´s red sashes,´ observed Robbie, bored. ´They look like beauty queens. Little beauty queens running around with bumblebees... geez, where can I get a beer?´

The ´nosebleed section´ is a double-entendre in Buenos Aires. We entered a section rimmed with a tall chicken-wire fence encircled in barbed wire. It was the kind of security measures you see on the outside of prisons (but not in Bolivia!). And they don´t sell beer there.

Police officers stood at the exit and watched the game with their batons at the ready. River Plate fans had their red and white flags out and peole were chanting and jumping around with lots of drums and not enough cowbell. It was as I had imagined: lots of singing, some fireworks and pretty good soccer.

The game started and ended uneventfully. Halftime was a bit of a snore - intermission entertainment has yet to catch on, but I see opportunities galore for marching bands and kiddie slam dunk contests in South America - and the worst part was there was no garlic fries, milkshakes or vendors tossing peanuts in the stadium. Only questionable-looking hamburgers.

We weren´t even in the ´Los Borrachos del Tablon´ section (the Terrace Drunks), but there was good reason we stood for an hour post-match waiting to leave: they were letting the Olimpio fans out first. Not only were we waiting for them to exit the stadium, but exit the actual neighborhood should a mass exodus of beauty queens go all cholita in the streets.

Alas, the only inappropriateness came in the form of four lascivious teenagers who jumped on the chicken wire and thrust their pelvises in the general bumblebee direction with accompanying crude hand motions.

It wasn´t classy, but it was classically South American.

N'Djamena

Usually, I loathe children. Babies are the worst because they are complete narcissists - it's all about them, all the time. I'd like to see a baby cook me mushy peas one day! Children cry for unreasonable reasons, they wet the bed, they can't even drive. Frankly, I am not a kid kind of person and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

But last week, my anti-child resolve was tested by a pair of plucky 9-year-olds living on a hippie commune on the lush island of Chiloe, along the middle of Chile's pretty coast. We stayed at the guesthouse of our travel agent, a lady we met arbitrarily wandering out of the bus station in search of a penguin-gawking tour.

'Well, I have a guesthouse in our backyard, it's beautiful and quiet and we'd love to have you stay - then you can rent our 4x4 to visit the penguin colony tomorrow! I just have to pick up my girls from school, then we'll be on our way'.

I kind of didn't pay attention to that last part after another 24-hour bus journey around Chile. So when she swung around again in the super cool minivan-cum-SUV, not one, not two, but three little girls were sat in the backseat. The two 9-year-olds, and a 3-year-old, all excited and acting goofy because of the funny foreigners in the car and peppering their mom with requests for ice cream.

I assumed they would exclusively speak Spanish, which would instantly impede any attempt to converse with me, the anti-child lady.

'Oh, you're American, oh my gosh, our dad is American, and we're half-American!' the first-born twin, Miska, exclaimed. Her glee was palpable.

'Did you know we have 2 dogs, 5 cows, 10 chickens with little baby chickens - ooh, they're so cute! - and one sheep, but Pepe, our sheep's girlfriend, got killed last month because there was this pack of wild dogs and they got hungry and ate her, and Miska cried because she always cries,' said Tamie, the younger twin, while Miska shouted, 'I don't cry all the time! Moooom!'

We pulled into the neighborhood, which was basically fancy houses with farmland beset on a lush green hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It was a shade that reminded me forthwith (!) of Oregon and when I found out Miska and Tamie's parents grow their own food in the backyard, built their own yoga house on the beach, and just got electricity two weeks ago, I just wondered where the organic goji berry bog was. Oh, how it made me miss Eugene!

'Did you know that Thanksgiving is on Thursday, but tomorrow is Saturday, and because Thanksgiving is about sharing, you have to come over and cook with us?' Miska asked, rather, ordered me. 'I'll give your assignments after lunch. Wanna listen to the Jonas Brothers?'

So over the compound we traipsed to prepare a Thanksgiving meal for this family of proud half-Americans, with my two English girlfriends who have never celebrated Thanksgiving Dinner in their lives but gamely sous cheffed our Chilean version. I was on carrot peeling and pie crust kneading duty while Miska played my favorite game in the world: trivia.

I started: Which country has the strongest economy in Western Europe?

'Um, I'm 9, can you try one a little easier, please?'

Point taken. So we exchanged these little gems...

How many countries border Switzerland?
Who was the second US President?
How many land-locked countries are in South America?
What's the deepest trench in the world?
What language is spoken in Suriname?

And so on...

But then Miska asked me a question that made me sort of love her and hate her at the same time: What's the capital of Chad?

I didn't know. 'Can you even find Chad on a map?' she said, hand on her hip, so totally pleased with herself for perplexing a full-on American.

Well, no. I can't. I had been bested by a 9-year-old half-American. And it stung.

It's not my fault I lost the game because somebody is going to be a geography bee winner someday. But if I'm honest, I'd like to be there to watch her win. Perhaps we could celebrate with a glass of organic goji berry tea from the backyard bog? Viva N'Djamena!

Dia de los Snort-os

I knew it was going to be a weird day when the man took my student ID card to cut lines of cocaine for our tour group. For weeks the backpacker circuit had been abuzz with story of the San Pedro Prison in La Paz, a special place for murderers, rapists and pedophiles. Also, a a place you could take drugs with said lovely people. Lots of people were reading the book, ´Marching Powder´, an account of an English inmate who started offering tours of the inside.

The inside was still a mystery. I hadn´t actually met anyone who had been inside. But whenever I talked to someone about San Pedro, we spoke in serious italics. For emphasis.

Generally, I tend to avoid prisons, which I have always found to be wise. I don´t like violence, drugs or orange jumpsuits, and on TV, that´s all prison´s about.

But, it was Day of the Dead. And I had convinced some burly-looking guys from the north of England to come with me. Israelis would have been preferable, but they were too cheap to do it. You have to pay 400 Bolivianos to get in - roughly $50 - plus bribes once you´re on the inside to stay safe. But the pound is strong, and so it was - two electrical engineers from York, and yours truly.

San Pedro is capitalism at its most glossy-eyed. Every prisoner must pay for his own cell (who they pay was never clear), which has created an entire community of strung-out venture captalists. Restaurants, laundry, artisans and drugs or alcohol are all available for a very unfair price. Those who speak foreign languages can make more as tour guides, and those good at beating people up make the best bodyguards. My group got Felipe and Jose for both jobs, respectively.

Felipe is 47, has a tan like George Hamilton and a rasp like Phyllis Diller. A Portuguese national, Felipe was arrested 36 months ago for drug smuggling. He pled guilty at trial and has yet to receive his sentence.

He seemed bitter.

But at least he dressed up for the occasion. His black blazer was just slightly tattered at the elbows and his white button-down was gray, though neatly tucked into his jeans which were held up by a rope. I wondered where he got the rope...

Felipe is a master of languages and almost blew my cover off the bat. We were standing over a pool with a giant painted Beluga whale smiling up at us from below. They used to find corpses floating in the pool every morning not long ago.

´Blah blah blah´, he said to me in French.

´Pardon?´

´Didn´t you say you are from Canada? I thought every Canadian spoke French.´

Shit. I did lie. The York boys told me to because the prisoners here blame Bolivia´s poverty on the United States. Listen, I know we´re bad and stuff, but do I really have to take responsibility for Jose´s armed robbery?

I knew tombe-pas-de-bourrée-glissade-assemblé wasn´t going to help here. The extent of my French is ballet vocabulary. I mean, I doubted Felipe, a self-proclaimed con-man, had ever taken a ballet class, but when you´re on the inside, you can´t make such assumptions.

´Actually, in Vancouver we really don´t speak French. Just English. It´s a western province thing.´ Bright Canadian smile.

I mean, what´s a little white lie among pedophiles anyway?

For two hours, Felipe showed us around, in English. There are 7 main ´neighborhoods' in the prison, all with increasingly better cells or cleaner-looking particleboard. The prison is a hodgepodge, with cells atop each other, and an extremely rickety-looking web of staircases that lead you through atriums, concrete soccer grounds, lots of mini cocaine or chocolate shops or the laundry blocks.

The prisoners get stuff to sell to each other because their wives or girlfriends bring it in. Actually, if you´re married, you can live with your sweetheart in his cell in prison. It´s so romantic that lots of women do. And so do their children. In Bolivia, just because you´re locked up doesn´t mean you lose the right to see your family. The kids are released for school every day, and come back by 5 p.m. for dinner or church.

Prisoners can sell and take drugs because the police don´t go into San Pedro, preferring to let the inmates police themselves. And they do.

Dudes in black shirts with batons are the official security team. They enforce a 3-strikes rule. If you tattle, you get a beating. If you do it again, you are beaten until you bleed. And a third time gets you all that, plus extended time between the walls, where a lot of people are found dead.

We don´t tour between the walls, thank god.

According to Felipe, if you murder someone in prison in Bolivia, you only get 2 years added onto your sentence. He grimaced. There was that elusive word: sentence. Poor Felipe...

He took us into the kitchen where the prison mush is cooked. Bolivia will pay for water, electricity, tea and bread. The rest is up to the prisoners. The day we visited, it looked like they were cooking killer stew. Five teenage boys were peeling potatoes in the corner with 6-inch knives I was praying were dull.

Avoiding actual eye contact, I could see the peeling had become provocative, as you might imagine it would when you´re a 19-year-old convict.

´Íf you can afford it, it´s great to take a shower here because it´s hot water. I take a shower once a week in the sauna room...´

Felipe´s hygiene was fascinating, but the killer spud peeling gallery was getting raucous. I´m glad my Spanish sucks, because the words coming out of their mouths just sounded foul, and I needed no translation. I grabbed on to a York engineer for dear life, Felipe took the hint, and we went to another, equally uncomfortable area with no visible knives. That smelled.

I wasn´t sure if the aroma of boiled vegetables, mold and nervous sweat was making me ill, or the fact I was in a prison on my own will. Prisons on TV actually look like they smell pretty clean, because prisoners are always assigned to mop and things. But San Pedro is not like TV prisons. TV prisons don´t have little girls hugging you for dear life, and the whole time I kept thinking ´Glad I left my wallet at home´, not ´Geez I hope this little girl isn´t ruined for life.´

I am a terrible person. I mean, she´s already got 10 years of therapy ahead of her...

Also, TV prisons don´t have cocaine labs where you can sample the local product, purported to be the finest in Bolivia. Don´t worry mom, I don´t take drugs, and if I did, it wouldn´t be in an effing prison. But I did proffer my ID card - not my Duck ID, of course! - because one has to appease the drug boss when you´re on the inside.

Pablo, another tour guide, told me San Pedro really isn´t a bad place to live.

´Before I was deported, I did 3 years in SoCal, and it was always the Mexicans vs. the Blacks vs. the Russians... shit man, here´s it´s different. Everybody mixes - Bolivians, the foreign dudes, the drug dealers, the hard murderers. And nobody has to wear that ugly-ass orange bullshit. Fuck, man.´

Fuck, man, indeed.

Inca Trail of Pus

When I´d envisioned summiting those devilishly hard steps of Machu Picchu, I never thought I´d have pus dripping from my ankles.

But sometimes pus happens.

Especially when you have an allergic reaction to the 159 mosquito and sand fly bites covering legs, thighs and an odd spot on my armpit. And the bridge of my nose. Is there even blood there?

I know, I know, the first thing you´re thinking is - but what about the knees? Well, the front, non-veiny part has been spared. But behind the knees... where the flesh is ripe for the bloodsucking... it´s been compromised.

It all started 4 days earlier when I booked a jungle trek through the Sacred Valley of the Incas. It was supposed to be an adventure, and it was. Days of mountain biking, white water rafting, zip lining over rivers and a lot of hiking through the Inca jungle.

I can´t say I hadn´t been warned. For days prior, I´d see hikers filtering in and out of Cusco with tiny red pocks imprinted on legs, ankles and arms, in a bloody staccato. But they weren´t that bad...

So I took a bath in insect repellent and asked our guide, a 24-year-old ham named Willy, if shorts were okay for the first day´s 8-hour trek into the Inca´s ancient Pony Expressway.

´Of course, Miss Suli, becasue the jungle is very hot today.´

Worse advice was never given.

By the time we reached the end of the first day´s trek, my right thigh had swollen inward, hips swollen outward, and my cankles were blistered from the poison of those evil little Incan insects. Maybe anthropologists aren´t 100% sure why this group went extinct... but I sure as hell know.

My elephant-lady-ness got worse the following day when I awoke, legs burning, muscles tight and the ooze starting to weep. Willy took one look at my legs and announced, ´Miss Suli, you scratch at night. Therefore, you are a suffering. If you do not scratch, you is fine.´

´But Willy, I haven´t scratched! They aren´t even itchy, just uncomfortable.´

´No Miss Suli, it is your fault! No scratch!´

And there I was, goo seeping onto the faces of two golden labrador retriever puppies smiling up at me from the plush blanket, staring up at the tin roof, the singular florescent lightbulb swinging under the clatter of rain, and arguing with a Peruvian obsessed with fart jokes about the consequences of scratching.

It was the beginning of the end for me and Willy when we started talking about using ´hot´ as an adjective.

´You know, ´hot´as in really cute or foxy?´

´Oh, you mean like a donkey in the spring?´ We nodded, politely.

´You know what this means, when the donkey is in the spring, he likes so many lady donkeys and...´

´Yeah Willy, but it´s not really the same meaning...´

´Yes, but do you understand this terminology, donkey in the spring? I explain it better to you...´

And he did. We realized this was our guide for the next four days and he was giggling like a 12-year-old boy at his own joke. Other real doozies included:

Miss Suli, you to share a room with Mister Ben tonight, do you know the matrimonial bed? But you are not married! Haha!

Miss Suli, I think you want to become concubine of Mister Florian, do you not? Neither he is married! But he has German mamacita! Haha!

Miss Suli, you know the Inca tradition - we have to sacrifice a lady. I think Miss Suli wants to be sacrificed, yeah guys? Guys, she no likes my jokes.

Well, between the pus and the matrimonial bed, self-sacrifice was sounding like a good option.

The German mamacita had also been prescient enough to wear shorts that day. We agreed the second day to take the train instead of more hiking in mosquito hives. At the station, we encountered a gaggle of middle-aged trekkers from Alabama of all places, one of whom was a doctor. One look at my legs, and I got the riot act read to me on the virtues of amoxicilin.

Which I bought, no prescription necessary, for less than $10. Willy was, for once, silent.

Romancing the Shell

I wonder how often south americans come to an Oregon beach and sit there thinking, "Gosh, I could really use a shell necklace right about now. And maybe a massage from a self-taught, but pretty un-professional."

See, in Cartagena, Colombia's emerald jewel on the Caribbean coast, you don't have to preoccupy with such worries. They are right there in front of you. And behind you. And to you right and left, an armful of shell necklaces conveniently nudged your way so you may compare and contrast as closely as possible.

Lucky me, I went to Playa Blanca, Cartagena's 'nice' beach and got my own armada of shell necklace groupies, enthusiastically encouraging me to pick the right one for such a regal neck.

I realize this isn't harassment in Colombia. Or stalking. But rather good salesmanship, because they knew better than me my mind would change with just a bit more shell nudging.

"This is a one-time opportunity, my queen!"
"Youthful princess, you cannot find this style anywhere but THIS beach!"

This style being so special, it is only manufactured in China.

Colombians must be nonplussed to find no one selling ANYTHING on the Oregon sand - no mango slices, no half-melted ice cream, no cocaine (well...), and definitely no shell necklaces.

"You mean I have to go to a mall? But I'm right here! On the beach! Sell me SOMETHING!"

I fear, in the end, my persistent posse are the victims of some kind of South American Shell Necklace AmWay scheme. Nobody bought their stuff. Mangoes, yes. But the puka shell rosary? Surely someone must buy them, lest waste precious time?

The patience and time-wasting award for the day goes to Big Bird, a pretty lady with the most vibrant canary yellow romper - that's right, I wrote ´romper´ - of all time.

As our boat abutted the beach, she was the tallest of her 10 friends, spoke English, and took to me immediately in what was to be a doomed attraction.

Big Bird wasn't selling necklaces, her gig was a massage. And normally, I'm all over that, but I was distracted, fiddling with my life vest, warding off conch bracelets and in the organizational kerfuffle, I uttered the single word every traveller should exorcise: maybe.

Maybe, in my mind, almost unilaterally means no.

Would you like to have a meeting with HR to discuss your poor attitude? Uhh... Maybe?
Do you want cow entrails soup for breakfast? Well - maybe!
Feel like digging ditches in the rain today? I dunno. Maybe.

But maybe to a woman whose only job is to sell her hands to tourists on the only nice beach for miles is simply an invitation to employ your most unflappable sales strategies.

For Big Bird, this meant hovering. She followed me to lunch. She watched me eat said lunch. She waited for me to finish my dip in the lovely warm water. I kept turning her offer down, generous as they were.

"But you tell me maybe!"

It was true. I said it, not realizing she would understand it, or use it like an effing scarlet letter. Worn down, I said in my most snappy Spanish, "No! Do you understand the word NO?"

And Big Bird just sniffed, looked away and left, as if now I was annoying her. She completely ignored my existence, which is what I had done to her and every shell necklace salesman all day as if they were subhuman.

And then a wave of guilt overcame me. Big Bird was just trying to do her job. It was an irritating job, but honest employment nevertheless. And I am a rich tourist who should treat others with more respect. So I thought about apologizing... you know, maybe.

FARC and Circumstance

Second-hand danger stories are always annoying.

Firstly, danger is an overused term. Stranger danger. Austin Danger Powers. Highway to the Danger Zone. So when I heard stuff like kidnappings, armed robberies and other scary death-related stuff goes on in Colombia, I thought - wow, this could be unpleasant. But gee, there's a place that could use some positive press. And off I went.

And the funny part was, as soon as I arrived in Popayan in southern Colombia, I started meeting people who were actually held at knife-point - they, themselves - and taken for the equivalent of $15 by 10-year-old children in Bogota.

And when my two friends finally met up with me in Cali - 3 hours later than planned - it was even funnier to hear them talk about how their bus had been roadblocked by FARC, Colombia's most charming terrorist organization. And when I say funny, I mean in that uncomfortable way that makes you want to clutch your wallet and suck your thumb. Not that I did that...

They told me, first-hand, how they stood single-file while a soldier explained the FARC had nothing to do with the assassination of their leader the day beforehand, and how they were really a peaceful group - difficult to buy when an automatic weapon is aimed at your torso. Doubly difficult when you can see soldiers hiding in the jungle on your narrow stretch of road, rifles ready to cover their compadres should anything turn ugly... Also, their uniforms cost a lot of money. Oh yeah, and all the strife in Colombia, including that leader's death, is the fault of the Americans.

Well, I guess we do have a bad reputation for covert assassinations in this part of the world...

They let them go after 30 minutes of complaining. The FARC could really use a community newspaper or something less, um, scary to inform the masses of their statements of peace. There's a group that could use a PR professional. UO Journalism School, are you reading?

All this wasn't helping my quest to create my own non-danger Colombia story. All FARC and no fun makes Colombia a dull drug lord. So after arriving in Cali, the salsa capital of the world, I decided to make the most of my Mexican salsa lessons and dance for an entire weekend. Employing my best judgment, I decided to first hop on the CHIVA Party Bus with some hostel mates.

For those who don't know, the CHIVA Party Bus is an old schoolbus pimped out in disco lights, a great stereo system and no windows or doors so that innocent pedestrians may also enjoy said strobe lights and overly-loud reggaeton against their will. It is, undoubtedly, the most obvious way on earth to announce I AM A TOURIST, PLEASE ROB ME.

The Party Bus leads you all over town, subjecting all walks of Cali life to our noisome menagerie of shot-swilling foreigners and a fair number of Colombian women, drop-dead gorgeous with their stilettos and silicon out for the night. My favorite was a lady in a red bedazzled tube top and bionic breasts. We called her Boobs. She was extremely friendly and didn't speak a lick of English to her extremely appreciative American novio. I was concerned for her health given the air tightness of her jeans, but 'yeast infection' doesn't translate like you might think it would.

Anyway, everything was going well - we boogied past the posh neighborhoods, then the red light district, and Boobs waved to the skinny and starving homeless people sleeping by the library. I started to wonder just what part of town we could possibly offend next. That's when we arrived at a red light and a huge group of high schoolers were drinking en masse right behind us. Obviously, the Party Bus is way more fun than drinking on the street with your teenage friends. Duh! We had Boobs! So a couple of them hung off the side and danced along with us.

And at that point, all was right with the world. Smiles were smiled. Drinks were drunk. Lovely, young Colombians were enjoying our evening out as much as we were.

But the bus driver was vexed with all this merriment from people who hadn't paid, and lurched the bus forward, knocking some of the boys to the hard concrete below.

Well, nobody likes to be knocked off the Party Bus by a grouchy driver, do they? I mean, I wouldn't.

The DJ cut the music and the boys, mad, started smacking the electric green siding with their fists and yelling things in Spanish that were, frankly, fowl. And it was around this time I thought again, wow, this could be unpleasant.

The boys were scrambling to get into the windowless/doorless bus with agility when the light turned green and we took off, popping onto a viaduct to another classy part of town. Only a few glass beer bottles actually hit us, and even Boobs' botoxed eyebrows seemed to have moved slightly to express pain or concern. I think she was really scared, but no one could tell.

Alas, this could have happened anywhere in the world. And there is no point in running around being scared of the danger that happened to others. Or even the almost-danger that is likely to befall the ridiculous Party Bus on its next round of the city.

I would like to give Colombia props for the following cool things:

* Lush green countryside with deep valleys and pointy, jungly mountains
* Excellent coffee, thanks Juan Valdez
* Fabulous graffiti art
* Men with rhythm on the dance floor (though not even remotely as good-looking as the women - or Ecuadoreans! - they do have pizazz)
* Cowbells in the salsa bars
* Excellent and varied fried food
* Very flirty and helpful police officers
* Super yummy local drink - hot chocolate with melted cheese (mixed) and a fried piece of cornbread

Next stop: Cartagena on the Caribbean coast!

Dar-Won Over

The first rule of thumb when traveling in a foreign country is to always book the first night´s hotel in advance so you have a purpose for being there - finding your room. The second rule is to read the chapter on said foreign country in the FootPrint Guide my Auntie Gayle gave me at Christmas. And the third rule is to always have enough money for instances when, for example, one might need $100 cash to pay for the entrance fee to the Galapagos Islands at an airport with no ATMs. But all of the above requires some degree of planning, something after only two months I´m tired of doing.

So I just bought a ticket from Quito to the Galapagos Islands and decided to wing it when I got there, finally reading the aforementioned chapter on the islands in the airport and boarding the plane last after reading that all-important chapter on ATMs and national park entrance fees. I knew things were going to be all right when, after I´d settled into my seat, the flight attendant paged me and the pilot, a friend of my Uncle George, came out to greet me and make sure I had enough ice in my Sprite. Oh, j´adore Ecuador!

Showing up here on these remote isolas off the Pacific Coast of Ecuador was really half the battle. A single lady with fab knees, traveling alone, looking for a snorkle cruise at the last minute? Discount! Finding a place to stay on the main island while waiting for first-class boat to arrive? Discount! Arriving on board and getting my own cabin when everyone else on board had to share?

My id is on fire, people.

For seven days I cruised with a boat full of 30-somethings, Dutch, German, Brazillian, English and one other American ´performance artist´ named Trek Thunder Kelly. Perhaps you may remember him if you paid attention to the 2003 California gubernatorial race, in which a man spent $20,000 changing his wardrobe to a shade of deep blue ran on a platform of legalizing prostitution. Anyway, we ate a lot of overcooked tuna together and talked about his latest project - he´s in the first of a 3-year journey to write a book about loneliness, and has sworn off drinking, sex and communication with the outside world. I know where he is, and his mom doesn´t. He will spend the next year living in the American Southwest desert, staring at a rock and meditating. In two more years, he promised to add everyone as Facebook friends.

While Trek Thunder Kelly was weird, at least he had some sparkle. Eight of the 16 on board were lawyers. I have tried to think of a joke about this, and alas it just wasn´t all that funny. Correction: they weren´t terribly funny. However, I am accepting jokes about lawyers on a blue-footed booby-watching cruise, and promise to post them on the blog.

I realized I am not particularly a boat person. It´s all that rocking back and forth. And water. Water, water everywhere. Geez, everytime we had to get off the boat, we had to go on a littler one, in the water. And when we came back from the island tours... it all became so obvious. Even when we walked off the boat, we all swayed around like we were drunk in unison - it´s no wonder the animals of the Galapagos aren´t scared of human beings. We were all happy drunks, snapping photos like the ridiculous tourists we were, giggling at the baby sea lions and creeping around the lizards in a Kodak stupor.

The animals, for the most part, obliged, patiently waiting for the flash to come on or the focus to zoom like the little National Geographic covergirls they are. Huge turtles, fat albatrosses, seals, sea lions, iguanas, snakes... you want to pose with a pre-historic, jumbo-sized reptile on the brink of extinction for this year´s Christmas card cover? No problem. Just tilt your head to the left a bit more, by that yellow dragon, please.

We snorkled every day, in freezing cold water, swimming with giant sea turtles lunching on algae in seabeds full of aquamascenery. I just made that word up. Oh yeah, I saw a shark! We had dolphins following our boat, and stalked a humpback whale and her baby en route to the equator line, which was supposed to be a big deal, but it turns out it was just a bunch of 0s on the captain´s computer screen and more vomit-inducing sway action on a windy night. I was hoping for more drama on the boat, besides who had the best seasickness pills. Nobody had to walk the plank, and there weren´t any pirates. There was no mutiny on the bounty. We didn´t get swallowed by a whale.

I had wanted all of those things, but when you´re on a blue-footed boobie boat tour full of lawyers... yeah, still got nothing.

I had such a fun time, I decided to extend my stay in the Galapagos by a week, staying in the only real town here, Puerto Ayora. I feel like I live here now. I know the DJ at Bongo, the only dance club. Javier and I talk about the virtues of Pitbull and all he´s done for Latin hip hop. I make the hike to Tortuga Bay in the afternoons if it´s sunny, being careful not to step on all the lizards and iguanas soaking up the sun. In short, it´s a rough life. But as our nature guide on the boat told us, these Galapagos creatures live so long because they know how to conserve energy, only hunting or moving around when absolutely necessary.

I have embraced this theory of energy conservation and I feel all Darwinian and stuff about my survival. Which is why I eat homemade ice cream and fresh ceviche every day. I recommend you do the same. It does great things for your id.