AS THE TACO TURNS - The Lion Sleeps Tonight

     I love road tripping in Mexico, but an African safari getaway had been on my “bucket list” since I saw Mogambo and later Out of Africa. 

     A few months ago, my friend Susan mentioned she was planning to visit her cousin Melissa, who lived in Nairobi, and wondered if I might like to tag along.
     Arrangements were made, and our travel date set for early June.  In preparation for my big adventure, I decided to bone-up for our trip by watching Animal Planet.  As luck would have it, the first episode I watched was about wildlife on the Masai Mara plains in Kenya.  Ground zero footage was chock-a-block full of fast- footed, flesh eating felines.  Cheetahs, leopards, and lions crouched in parched grass waiting to devour something.  A friend also emailed me a YouTube video called Battle of Kruger, an adrenaline popping pursuit filmed by a visitor at an African game reserve.  In it, the camera pans the bank of a river.  On its brow, a pride of lions loll contentedly.  A herd of Cape buffalo meander toward the pride, unsuspecting of the impending danger.  The herd sees them.  Mayhem ensues as the startled buffalo panic and turn, clambering to distance themselves from the lions.  Two lionesses seize a calf.  A third lioness is jettisoned into the air by the horns of the calf’s mother, who returns to protect her young.   In an attempt to hang onto their picnic, they drag the prey into the river. Two crocodiles emerge from brackish water and lock their powerful jaws around the calf hoping to steal a meal.   To the victors go the spoils, and the lionesses manage to extricate the calf from the crocodiles’ death grip. An adult buffalo charges the lions. They scatter, releasing the lucky dogie that walks back to the herd, shaken but seemingly uninjured.  All’s well that ends well; at least for the buffalo.   The film was fascinating and my enthusiasm rose.  I was captivated by its wildness and lack of human interference.  I don’t like to hunt, so I was bewildered by the blood thirst smoldering in my soul.


 Hit Me with Your Best Shot

     “Make sure you get your yellow fever shot early.”  Susan said.
      I made an appointment at the Public Health Clinic.
     After the doctor and I discussed where in Kenya I was planning to travel, she handed me a list of recommended shots and immunizations.
     “Nairobi has no outbreaks, but since you are traveling to the Rift Valley, you will need a yellow fever shot and malaria pills.  Also Hepatitis A, tetanus and rabies shots are not required, but as a precautionary measure, you may want to consider having them.”
     “I had a Hepatitis A vaccination five years ago and as for rabies and tetanus shots, if a rabid baboon bites me, and then stabs me with a rusty nail, I will seek medical treatment immediately.” 
     She regarded me with an uneasiness of mind and left the room.
    When she came back, I was poked with a needle and given enough malaria pills for a week long safari.

 Lake Nakuru

     After what seemed like a week on an airplane, we arrived in Kenya and spent the night at Melissa and Joel’s home in a quiet suburb of Nairobi. The next morning we climbed into their Land Rover for the 160 mile drive to Lake Nakuru and the game park situated on its shore. The area is known for its viewing opportunities of thousands of pink flamingos that feed on the lakes algae population.       
    Melissa, her husband Joel and their two children Amara and Thomas were joining us and we looked forward to our adventure.
     We arrived at Sunbird Lodge, a retreat overlooking Lake Nakuru, our home for the next two nights.  I stood on the veranda looking towards the water and could see clusters of pink cherry blossoms bobbing on the lakes surface.  I focused my binoculars.  The blossoms were cliques of long legged fuschia colored water fowl.
                                                            
 Nakuru National Park
     
      Finally I had an opportunity to view animals of the African savannah up close without peering through a fence or over a moat. I was radiant with anticipation.
     Wildebeest, Cape buffalo, elephants and giraffes were just some of the creatures we spotted as we inched our way through the reserve on a self-drive safari.
     “I feel spiritually connected to these creatures,”  Susan gushed.  “I understand now the powerful emotional bond between man and beast that Dian Fossey and Joy Adamson wrote so passionately about.”
     I thought the animals seemed indignant when they had to step out of the road to allow us to pass, their annoyance akin to my husband’s off putting attitude when I ask him for home project help in the middle of a Seahawks football game.   If they had the opportunity and were equipped to do so, they would have dismembered the smiles of wonderment off our faces.  I was sure of it. 
     Around noon, we arrived at Baboon Cliff, a picnic area with a panoramic view of Lake Nakuru.  This was one of the few areas in the park where visitors were allowed out of their cars.  The picnic tables were empty and soon it became apparent why.  Before we had a chance to unpack our lunches, six vervet monkeys jumped through our windows and commandeered the vehicle.  One little hooligan dumped the contents of my purse on the floor, and shot me a nasty look when he couldn’t find anything he wanted except for a stick of gum.  Their ringleader scored a clutch of bananas from behind the back seat and raised them over his head like a warrior showing off a battle trophy.  Then they were gone. 
     I had to laugh when Amara, Melissa and Joel’s precocious six year old, tugged at her mother’s sleeve and exclaimed with the beautifully modulated diction of a duchess,   
      “Mummy…..those monkeys are maaadddd!!!” 

 Amboseli

     After returning to Nairobi, Susan and I packed a few items and loaded our bags into the car.  George, Melissa’s driver, would be escorting us to Porini, a tented camp near Amboseli Park.  George’s directional instincts and primitive map served us well, and after four hours on the road, we spotted a sign that read Porini Camp.  Once we left the asphalt road and entered the Conservancy, the dirt roads forked and the only signs to guide us to our destination were rocks crudely carved with what looked like hieroglyphics.  We passed two Masai men dressed in traditional robes carrying spears.  Luckily, they were employees of Porini Camp and, under their guidance, we were soon at journeys’ end. 
     Susan and I were shown the tent where we would be staying.  It had two beds, a bathroom with a flushing loo and a sink with running water. There was nothing primitive about these digs.  This canvas accommodation had “eco-glam”. 
     After unpacking we walked to the dining tent where we were served a glass of wine and snacks.
     While waiting to meet the Porini activity director, I picked up a magazine from the coffee table and read an article about a woman, who sought medical attention when, what she thought was a pimple, started to wiggle.  It was actually botfly larva and had to be suffocated with Vaseline, and pulled out of her scalp the following day.   
     “Susan!” I yelped, “My doctor gave me a yellow fever shot and malaria pills, but she didn’t say anything about larva penetration prevention.”
     She grabbed the magazine from my trembling hands, and dismissively cast it back on the table after reading a couple of paragraphs.
     “Don’t worry.  That happened in Sri Lanka.”

 “Are you ready for an evening game drive?”  said Olekorinko, our activity director.  “You can bring your wine if you like.”
     Our safari guide was very knowledgeable and pointed out many nocturnal mammals we probably would not have noticed.  Soon a radio call came in and our driver spun the vehicle around.
     “There is a lion nearby,” Said Gazonga, our driver. 
     It was dark now. The spotlights robbed dense underbrush of color, washing the scrub and grasses sepia, like an old photograph. 
     “Look, there he is!”  Whispered our guide.
     “What’s with the chocker around his neck?” said Susan.
       Explained Gozonga   “That’s a tracking collar.  It makes it possible for researchers to study the lion’s habits.”
       I thought it looked like a pet collar, and wondered if there was a leash tied to a tree out of sight from the tourists.  Even though we were shining a spotlight on Simba, he laid there submissively. The circumstances seemed a little suspicious. But then maybe it was the wine.
     We returned to camp, and after a delicious meal I was ready for bed.  I could hear the sound of cracking branches behind our tent so I popped an Ambian, and put in earplugs to deafen distractions.  The next morning Susan asked me if I heard the lion.
    “No,” I replied “I must have slept through.”
     “Well, it sounded like jake brakes on a semi-truck.  I think it was right behind our tent.”
     My thoughts snagged on the notion of implicit consequences.  Rolling out of bed and, if I was lucky, rolling under the bed in my self medicated state, would have been the best survival tactic I could have managed if the oversized cat craved a midnight snack.  
     The following day we woke early, and drove to Amboseli for a game drive through the untamed savannah.  It is world famous for viewing large mammals in its swamps, where elephants wallow half submerged in tall grasses.
     I knew Amboseli had spectacular views of Kilimanjaro.  I had seen postcard pictures of the alpine marvel taken from Observation Hill, the park’s high point.  The sky was overcast while we were there, but for a brief moment I beheld its majesty.  Gasping for air, the mountain pushed its head through the clouds like a child being born.  Our eyes met.  Its face was that of an old man, carved and craggy with a shock of white hair at its crown.  I hoped that our next visit would be longer. 

 The Porkin Pachyderms Beast Laid Plans

     We tumbled over dirt roads on our way to the swamps.  On our right a ponderous Pachyderm plodded towards the water.
     “That is a young male.  He is aroused by the scent of a female and wants to mate.” Gazonga pointed out to us.
     The elephants I had seen in zoos had only four legs.  This one appeared to have five.
     “Hey Dumbo; newsflash!” I barked “Your prop’s a spinnin’ but your anchor’s a draggin’ and slowin’ you down.  At this rate, trust me; she’ll be cruisin’ an ocean with motion while you’re still puttering to port.”
     We arrived at the marshlands and saw hundreds of elephants and a few hippos.  I didn’t see any Wild Kingdom kills that day. If Dumbo had put more gitty- up in his gait, I might have seen elephants makin’ whoopee, but for now, I had seen enough.

 Meeting our Neighbors

     That evening Olekorinko asked Susan and me if we would like to visit a manyatta and experience the Masai way of life.  A manyatta is an encampment consisting of mud and wattle dwellings surrounded by thorn bromas to protect the villagers and their livestock from wild animal attacks.  The villagers greeted us in their traditional robes and were festooned in elaborate beaded jewelry. They showed us some dances which they set to song.  I was amazed by their physical attributes.  They were beautiful and tall and willowy.   They live on a diet of cow’s milk mixed with blood, and I didn’t see a muffin top in the bunch.  I guess the Got Milk campaign is telling the truth.  Milk does do a body good.
     The village elder invited us to see the inside of one of the huts.  I entered the shelter and was immediately enveloped in the darkness of a windowless labyrinth formed out of mud.  I reached out and touched the adobe walls to keep from falling.  The passage emptied into a small chamber of living space.  A primitive bed, built out of dirt and covered with animal skins, filled up most of the room.  That was it.  There wasn’t the least bit of clutter.  Scant light filtered into the den through chinks above the bed. There were no closets, and I wondered where they hung their clothes and stored all their beaded baubles.    

A Purrfect Ending

     We left Amboseli on a Safarilink bush plane, and headed for another Porini Camp close to the Masai Mara Game Park in South Western Kenya. 
     The Cessna Caravan flew us to Nairobi where we changed planes.  Susan and I placed our luggage next to the plane bound for the Masai Mara airstrip.  When we arrived at our destination, we were greeted by Porini guides. 
     “My name is Thonyaratsengphatraghanh.” The taller of the two said with a smile. 
     I didn’t catch the other chap’s name because it was too difficult to pronounce.
     “Please call me Ben,” said Thon.  “Simon will be driving us.”    
     “Once the pilot unloads our bags, we will be ready to go.” I explained to Ben.
     The pilot looked at us with a puzzled expression on his face.  There were no bags.
      I looked at Susan in disbelief.  How could there be no bags? I had watched them load our suitcases into the bush plane in Nairobi.  The plane did make an intermediary stop to unload four Japanese passengers who were staying at a lodge.  But there must have been a positive bag check before the porter loaded luggage into the van. Then I had a thought.  
      “Call the manager of the hotel,” I told the pilot. “I am pretty sure you will find them there.  In all likelihood, the driver pointed to our bags after they were mistakenly offloaded and asked a passenger if the bags belonged to him. My guess is that he nodded his head which in Japanese means no.”
     Sure enough, our suitcases were located.  They were sitting behind the front desk at the lodge, but in a couple of hours they were safe, sound and unpacked.  I felt relief that our luggage was not abandoned and lost on a tarmac somewhere in the Serengeti.      
      The next morning we departed on a game drive with Simon and Ben.  

     “Look up in that tree.  It’s a Secretary Bird.  It builds its nest high in the acacia tree to avoid predators. Lions hunt them."  Ben said while offering me his binoculars.

     I had seen this bird earlier strutting amongst the grasses looking for food.  Its legs were crane like with black feathers half way down its thigh resembling short pants.  Grey plumage distinguished its lanky upper body and the crest of black feathers at the back of its neck looked like quill pens.

 Perhaps today would bring a twist of good fortune and we might see a kill.  It didn’t have to be a leopard attacking a zebra or a gazelle.  If a cheetah pursued something less spectacular; a mongoose perhaps, that would be fine.  If the mongoose escaped down a hole, successfully evading the cheetah’s death grip or we happened upon a bloated body of an Oryx ripped to shreds by hyenas, that would be okay too. 
     We saw bones scattered on the plains, bleached white from the sun.  They appeared to have been lying next to the road for a long time.  Didn't carnivores devour meals regularly?  I paused and reflected; were they props?  Or was I becoming a devout skeptic?


The radio crackled.  Ben picked up the walkie- talkie and spoke in Swahili.
     Simon spun the vehicle around and we made a beeline north.  Ben offered up a nugget of knowledge.
     “Lions are mating nearby.” 
     We arrived at a knoll where the wagons circled two lions. By the time we arrived they had finished their lovemaking and the male was lying on his back smoking a cigarette.
      In one of the vehicles a lanky woman with black Capri pants and a grey blouse poked out the sky roof to take pictures.  Her hair was clipped up in a ponytail.  She looked like a Secretary Bird.
    “Let’s move our car back so that woman can get closer,” said Susan. “Maybe great sex makes lions hungry.”
     The lions were disinclined to rouse out of their stupor, so we decided to set up lunch near a creek where we could view pods of hippos.  As the Land Cruiser crossed the creek, Ben pointed to a large male frolicking in coffee colored water. 
      He is enjoying sex with a female.”
     Susan grabbed her camera.  The water in the creek was murky and we couldn’t see the other hippo. 
     “How long can she hold her breath?” asked Susan.
     “Up to five minutes.” Replied Ben.
     About two minutes later, two nostrils surfaced and quickly disappeared.
     “I think she just said “Help me.”  I mumbled to Susan.  “I am not sure the sex is consensual. And look, there’s another hippo floating behind the humping hippo waiting for his turn.  It looks suspiciously dysfunctional to me.”
     Susan shrugged her shoulders and snapped a few more shots.

 Out of Africa

      Our trip was over and I packed my suitcase with sadness in my heart.  Although I had not witnessed a kill, I had seen hippo kink and all of the Big Five animals. A friend of mine made a perceptive comment when I told him that the wild animals were more passive than I thought they would be.  He said that when he went to Hollywood for a week, he was lucky to see two stars. The chance of seeing Sean Penn kicking paparazzi ass using the reporter's camera as a billy club would have been a long shot.  I could see his point.
    

Susan asked me which animals were my favorites.  I think the baboon wins my rave review for top mammal because of its cheeky disposition and my favorite avian was the Secretary Bird.
    Where else in the world besides Africa can one see so many animals grazing together, each offering the other species protection and support, free to roam thousands of acres without fences?  I saw a side of life that could not be shared through the pages of a book or in a movie.  

    

    

      

    

    

    

      

      

    

    

    

    

    

AS THE TACO TURNS - The Louse in My Blouse

     “Can you believe it?” said my next door neighbor Tammy Faye as she threw open her screen door. “This one brings the body count up to forty this year.”
     She approached my door carrying a dustpan, her arms extended as if offering a tray of hors d’oeuvres. A lifeless scorpion lay in the silver scoop, as flat as a pancake.
     I shook my head incredulously. “Tammy Faye, your condo must be a top ten destination spot for arthropod pilgrims. Where did you find the uninvited guest?”
     "I heard Dixie barking. I walked into the living room to see what was causing the ruckus and she had the thing cornered behind a stool. I grabbed my Weber stainless steel spatula and whacked it.”
     I was impressed. I had no idea a grill accessory could be so versatile.
     The curved tailed creature made me think of Wile E. Coyote, the sad sack cartoon character who spent most of his waking hours either being flattened under the wheels of a semi truck or squashed by a falling anvil.
     I had come across a scorpion in my house twice. The pitiful thing was standing at my screen door scratching to be let out.
     Tammy Faye is a meticulous housekeeper who hates bugs.
     Perhaps scorpions are tidy, I thought. Disgusted with the mountains of dust bunnies and cockroach carcasses under my bed, it was plausible that it decided to move on to cleaner pastures.
     The other time, one fell from the ceiling fan and landed on Larry’s bare chest. He flicked it with his finger with such velocity that the scorpion launched into the air, executed three perfect loop de loops and landed on its eight feet with the perfection of a Mary Lou Retton balance beam dismount.
     Not wishing to sully my karma through an act of violence, I used a broom to shepherd the aerialist out my door and onto Tammy Faye’s stoop.
     “Go my little wayfarer,” I chirped. “Find the path that leads to your clan, but beware of the dangers that lurk within.”
     I didn’t see the little fellow again and suspect he is living happily with his family in a dark crevasse inside Tammy Faye’s air conditioner.



I think bugs are fascinating. When I was a kid I was given an Uncle Milton’s Ant Farm for Christmas. I would sit for hours watching my captives carry bits of twigs from one tunnel to another.
     Many people are repulsed by insects. It’s sad. If bugs didn’t have multiple legs and eyes and instead looked like puppies, they would be welcomed as guests in anyone’s home and never see the underside of a boot heel.
     In Mexico, I have seen bugs shaped like sticks and I have seen centipedes that resemble Koosh balls. If a creepy crawler is say, no bigger than a belly button, I will pick it up with a Kleenex and toss it outside. If it is bigger than a belly button, I will make Larry pick it up and toss it outside.
     However, my charitable nature was taken advantage of this year by an angry spider with a bad attitude and I exterminated its arachnid ass to kingdom come. I was wearing my favorite nightie. It has elastic under the bodice. An empire cut I believe it is called. I woke up the following morning with several red bumps on my breasts and around my back. I looked like I was wearing a polka dot bikini top. Larry had the same bites under the elastic of his Fruit of the Looms. At first I thought the bed was infested with fleas or bedbugs, but diligent examination disclosed nothing. It appeared to be a vermin hit and run.  I resolved to protect my cleavage from another assault. A few hours later, suspicious rings formed around the bumps and I searched the internet for an answer. The probable culprit was a spider so I bought a can of insecticide. We put on haz-mat gear and lifted the mattress off the bed frame. We found no evidence of  life but copiously sprayed the bed frame until its wooden slats gleamed in toxic film.
     I envisioned a cluster of spiders hunkered down in a hidey- hole plotting their next move. I raise the can and place my finger on the trigger. “RAAAIIID!” they scream and an explosion is followed by a puff of smoke.
     One week later, Larry and I are still free of bug bites.
     “I wonder if they found another dark place to set up housekeeping and start a new family.” I mentioned to Larry as we were having a cup of coffee at the kitchen table.
     I heard my neighbor’s screen door open and shut and my name being called.
     Tammy Faye stood outside. She lowered her bathing suit straps to reveal a series of red bumps with a bulls-eye pattern.
     “What do you think did this?” she asked with knit brows. 
       I smiled and handed her my can of insecticide.

AS THE TACO TURNS - Night and Bray

     I first saw them ten months ago. If not for the trickle of light spilling from a waning moon, they would have escaped my notice altogether. Their bodies were ghostly silhouettes, but I could see his lips resting on her neck. They had no regard of my presence as I passed.
     That evening their lively serenades deprived the sleepy town of Barra de Navidad of its slumber.  His croon was not a lilting warble. Indeed, it was an explosive death rattle as loud as a lawnmower.
     Eeyore, eeyore.
     I wrapped the pillow around my ears in an attempt to muffle punch -drunk donkey -lust braying.
     Yikes, had I remembered to fill my Ambian prescription?    
     The next morning I discovered them kanoodling under a palm tree at the edge of town. I paused, resting my hands on a broken down fencepost.
     She was the smaller of the two and looked quite young; I guessed maybe sixteen or so in human years. Judging from the tuft of gray fur at his jaw line, he must be older.  Yes, considerably so…she was hardly old enough to have experienced the cruel sting of rejection.
     I decided to name them.
     “Hmm, I pointed to the jenny. "I shall call you Eliza Doolittle and your inamorata shall be Professor Henry Higgins.”

In the film My Fair Lady, Eliza and Professor Higgins never shagged. In fact, they didn’t even kiss, but at the end of the movie when she hunched over and tenderly placed a slipper on his foot while staring lovingly into his eyes, you knew they would be getting it on before the credits finished rolling. And like my new friends, theirs was a May- December romance.
     “He may be attentive to you now little sister," I admonished. " But let’s see where your precious DonJuankey is ten months from now.”   
     She cast an indifferent glance my way from under a woolly eyebrow and flicked her tail dismissively as if to say "What do you know about love anyway?"
     Their dalliances continued for the next few days. I would catch a glimpse of them here and there and sometimes I could hear the clatter of eight hooves clip clopping down a cobblestone street.
     Then one day they were gone. For many days the only animals I saw behind our house were a herd of goats.
     Two months shy of a year I saw Eliza again. It was Christmas Eve and she approached my bay window where I had placed a nativity scene. Her belly was heavy with life. She bore a yoke of sadness that made her seem tired and despondent. Professor Higgins was nowhere to be seen. I wondered, had he promised her a life full of adventure and then galloped out of town like he was fleeing a barn fire when he figured out she was in a family way?
     Her silky muzzle rapped against the window as if she were knocking to be let in. Had she seen the Baby Jesus and prayed there might be a place for a knocked up burro next to the manger? She sighed, turned and walked away.

    
A few months later I saw a familiar looking donkey grazing in a nearby field. Her figure was as trim as when we first met. A rambunctious filly scampered near her feet and  dashed away to play tag with the goats.
     “Hola, Eliza.” I exclaimed with hearty enthusiasm.
      I offered her my apple.
     “It appears you found yourself a new family, even if they are a different species.  If I could speak Donkey, do you know what I would tell you mi amiga?"
     She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her body language telling me unsolicited nuggets of knowledge would be unwelcome. Nevertheless, I continued.
     “Love is more powerful than a moment of passion, Eliza. Successful relationships are like a mirror. If a horny old jackass looks in, you can’t expect a noble white stallion to look out.”
     She seemed to understand. Her kayak shaped ears perked up and she tossed her head forward. I prided myself that the wisdom of my words had restored in her the heady confidence she would need to rebuild her life.
     I heard a raspy bray, at first faint and then building to lawnmower crescendo.
     Eeyore, eeyore.
     A dun colored burro trotted towards the fence.
     “Professor Higgins,” I trilled. “You’ve come back!”
     Yikes, had I remembered to fill my Ambian prescription?
     "I guess I misjudged your character, you old coot.  I'm sorry I called you a jackass."
     I ran my fingers through his mane and sang him my version of the showtune's chorus.
    
     Someone's chin restin' on my knee
     Warm and tender as he can be
     You've come back for your sweet donkey
     Oh, wouldn't it be loverly

     Eliza hunched over and tenderly placed a bit of apple on Henry's hoof.  She looked up lovingly and stared into his eyes.
    
  

AS THE TACO TURNS - TSA....Make My Day

     I am joyous when I step off of the airplane at the Manzanillo airport. I am riddled with angst thinking about stepping onto the airplane to get there. Over the last twenty plus years, jet travel has morphed from an optimal good time of being wined, dined and conversing with interesting people to a broken expedition I think of as Dead Man Sitting.


Recently, as I breezed through the airport metal detector, a youthful looking agent who appeared to be on his first few days of the new job, pointed below my chin and asked me “Are those real?”
    I recoiled at his method of questioning and looked down at my breasts. Had TSA gathered new classified data? Could silicone breast implants in the wrong hands, so to speak, be ignited and used as mammary missiles by a Jihad Jane? This could mean any woman larger than a B-cup would be subject to further pat down procedures.
     “Of course they are real” I said “I can’t believe you asked me that question.”
     His face flushed crimson and he stammered “N, n, no… I was talking about your pearls.”
     Humph. That was an embarrassing misunderstanding. I looked shiftily side to side hoping that no one else had heard our conversation, then grabbed my shoes and skedaddled to our departure gate. In a few minutes Larry and I would be on our way to Mexico.
     We boarded the plane and I scooted down the aisle humming La Bamba under my breath. “Yo no soy marinero, soy capitan, soy capitan. I mouthed with celebratory abandon. My vigorous enthusiasm was dashed the moment I arrived at my row. In the aisle seat was a mountain of a man whose preponderance of girth spilled over onto the adjacent seat. I rechecked my boarding pass and then studied the numbered placard below the overhead bin. “Merciful Lord, I prayed.  Please let there be some empty seats.”
     Larry prodded me with his computer bag and skirted past me. “I’ll take the window, he said. “You will probably be more comfortable closer to the aisle.” Halcyon days of wine and roses were definitely behind us.
     Hoss stood up and allowed us to situate. I resignedly shoe horned myself into a sliver of space. I usually take life with a grain of salt. Today I would also need a piece of lime and a shot of tequila.
     In a predatory move I quickly flipped the armrest to its horizontal position before he sat down again.


 There is a passenger etiquette rule that is not written on the airline ticket jacket nor buried in the fine print found in the back of the in-flight magazine. I call it the law of first dibs. The passenger sitting in the middle seat is entitled to the sole use of those armrests. The armrests were the only remnant of self indulgence I had and I intended to seize and hold them like a pit-bull defending a pork chop.
     The agent closed the door and my searching eyes swept the cabin. To my chagrin, there was a seat in every seat.
     After takeoff, the flight attendants came through the aisle with a drink trolley. Gi-tanic ordered a double gin and tonic and I followed suit. As he raised his glass, I noticed hash marks tattooed across his knuckles. My instincts are usually spot- on and I pegged him as the kind of fellow who knew his way around the State Penitentiary. I wondered if he was doing time for a crime such as human trafficking or cooking meth,. The tats could indicate Crypts or Blood allegiance. I made a mental note to Google “Gang Ink”.
     “So, have you been to Mexico before?” I queried, thinking that he might be on the lam.
     “Oh yes, many times. My wife and I own a villa near Manzanillo.”
     So much for my female intuition. We chatted for a few minutes and my seat companion ordered another double.
     He continued, “I am a Bio-technician in the research and development department of Glaxco.”
     I cocked my head. The glaze that came over my eyes prompted him to expand.
     “GlaxcoSmithKline. It’s a drug company. “
     Now this was something I could relate to and was surprised I had failed to recognize the name sooner.
     “My name is Booker.” He said and extended his hand.
     “Ah-ha", I thought.  " Booker the Cooker.”  So my cheeky first impression was not far from the truth after all.
      Booker had a posh sounding British accent not unlike Austin Powers or maybe the Queen Mother.
     “Pleased to meet you Booker.  My name is Beth.”
      After a few minutes of sparkling conversation, I felt guilty about having judged a "Booker by its cover" and decided to plunge ahead.
     “I couldn’t help but notice those interesting tattoos, Book. I’ll bet there is an engaging story there.”
     “Oh, Crickey”, he hooted. During me undergrad stint at Oxford Uni, me and a few blokes from the Science Club snuck into the laboratory. We wanted to distill high octane gin to make walloping Pimms Cups. A few hours later, I woke up rat arsed under a lab table clutching a broken beaker in me hand. I looked up and saw a cage. It’s bleedin' door was wide open and a rhesus monkey was sittin on me face, pickin' bits a glass outa me hair.”
     Poking through the fabric of his upscale accent was a working class Cockney dialect. The more he drank, the more he sounded like Ozzy Osbourne.
     He continued, “Later on after I crawled back to me dorm, one of me wanker mates confessed to tatting me knuckles. One mark for each beaker of gin I knocked down. I think I broke a class record.” He shook his head. “That was a cockup occasion I won’t forget anytime soon; you know what I mean?”
     “Umm, not really.” I mumbled. “But that was a jolly good story.”
     I could think of only one memorable incident of celebratory fallout during my youth that happened after a long night of drinking fortified wine. I passed out and my friends stuck cigarettes up my nose and in my ears and posted the photos in a Denny’s bathroom stall.
     I had no idea that Brit geeks could rock down in such an impressive manner but hoped that Booker had gotten his drinking and possible drug abuse under control after he graduated and began working for Glaxco. I was pretty sure that they made Boniva, an osteoporosis preventative drug that I took with regularity. A disconcerting thought popped into my head. That of a somber spokesperson in a Sokolove type ad imploring anyone who had taken Boniva and been diagnosed with Elephantitis to please call 1-800 BAD DRUG concerning a class action lawsuit.
     The pilots made an announcement that we would be landing in approximately twenty minutes and I had to admit that the time had flown by quickly. As we walked off of the airplane and the smell of the sea air welcomed me back, I realized that even though my legs were tingly and I could hardly feel them, it was still possible to have a gobsmacking good time while traveling on a plane.

AS THE TACO TURNS - Vroom and Gloom

    

When the police officer inferred the automobile accident, or as I prefer to call it, miscommunication, was my fault, my mouth dropped open like a gaffed fish.

“When the insurance adjustors arrive, they will decide.” He said in a genial manner. This was to say, he had established a verdict. The adjustors would determine fiduciary obligation.

The Latina who broadsided me had wagged her finger in my face while blathering “No es mia culpa. No es mia culpa.” It’s not my fault. Apparently, she was right.

How could it be my fault? I whined. I conscientiously turned on my blinker. I made a legal left turn. The other car passed on my left as I was making the turn.

Officer Friendly reminded me of a younger, darker version of Anderson Cooper. Come to think of it, I couldn’t recall ever seeing a cop over the age of forty in this area. I wondered if the Barra Police Department pulled them from public service and shoved them into a back office to finish their careers stamping documents once they hit middle age.

My daydream was broken when I glanced over at Anderson’s squad car sidekick, Officer Starsky, and saw the reflection of my mangled car in his sunglasses. Life can be unimaginably cruel I thought. I had just washed and waxed it that morning.

Oh well, my car fared better than the clunker that sideswiped it. Freeway Frieda’s car had careened down an embankment into the silver web of a cyclone fence. Suspicious liquids were pooling under its belly. My Jeep, the champion heavyweight boxer, had outclassed its opponent. Unfortunately, an unanticipated right hook from her bumper had dislodged its side molding and peeled it back like the plastic strip on the back of a Band-Aid.

An hour later the adjustors arrived. “When you want to turn left you should put on your left blinker.” He said. So far, so good I thought. We were on the same page. He continued, “Then leave your blinker on and pull over to the right shoulder and wait for traffic behind you to pass.”

“But I don’t understand. There was no lateral road, only a shoulder.” I protested. Stupefied at his explanation, I racked my brain trying to make sense of it all. One time I had seen a Mexican execute this maneuver. He was carrying a couple of Brahma bulls in the back of his pickup and didn’t want to pitch them into a ditch by making a rapid turn.

Sensing my disbelief and confusion he continued. “Sometimes when a driver turns on his left signal it is a friendly way to say “Go ahead and pass me.” It can also mean that he wants to turn left. But usually drivers use the signal as a courtesy. Do you not have such good manners in your country?” He said in stilted English.

“No, I replied. It is a ubiquitous philosophy in my country that extending that kind of courtesy, as you call it, would be a really bad idea. People would blow their horns and yell at me to get my stoned, stupid ass off of the road."

The police officers had left the scene of the accident without issuing me a ticket. Maybe it was because DWG or Driving While Gringa was not a citable offense.

When I returned to mi casa I scoured the internet in search of Mexican Rules of the Road. My search came up empty so I have compiled a few of my own:

1) If the road on which you are driving lacks a lateral lane and there is traffic behind you, don’t turn. Or at least, don’t turn left.

2) If the big truck in front of you turns on its left hand signal, it means go ahead and pass me. The coast is clear. Maybe.

3) If you are driving at night, stay off of the road and drive through the field. All the cows are on the roads at night and if you kill or injure them it is your fault.

4) Never drive into a round-about a.k.a. Glorieta in a big city like Guadalajara. It will suck you into its black hole vortex and you may be there a couple of hours before it spits you out.

5) I have heard that if you are involved in a car accident you should leave the scene if possible, even if your car has a death rattle and is dragging its axel. The rationale is that both drivers will be taken to jail while the details are sorted out. This did not happen to me because we both had insurance.

6) Take a bus. The driver is probably familiar with his country's capricious set of road rules.

AS THE TACO TURNS - Road Trippin Like a Belle on Wheels Part 3

Writers note: I began this story in my October post.  It is about our driving adventure from Seattle to Barra de Navidad.    


      A month before leaving Seattle I was walking on pins and needles.  I attributed part of my sour attitude to hormone fluctuations, part to anxiety concerning everything that had to be done before leaving for Mexico and part to Larrys irritating habits.  He is not unsanitary but he is messy.  My latest nit-picking was due to irreconcilable differences concerning laundry, or more to the point, his laundry.  We live in a loft condominium and the upstairs bedroom has a half wall.
      I was making coffee downstairs and was startled by the sound of  a pair of  BVDs pitched onto the dining room table.  "Geez Larry----how gross!  We eat on that table."  I growled. 
     He winced at his overshoot.  "Oops, sorry, I was aiming for the lamp."  He answered pseudo apologetically. 
     Socks were strewn across the room and one of them was perched on top of the floorlamp like a nightcap.   I mean really, how hard is it for him to place his undies in the hamper upstairs or better yet, walk them downstairs to the wash machine?
     I ventured into the office and sat down at the computer.  I Googled How to have a happy marriage while encouraging one's husband to clean up after himself and not nag him and be supportive and if that fails, whack him with a nine iron until he takes you seriously.  The search results were compelling.  Suicide came up first, followed by lampshade hangings, which I found disturbingly appropriate.  The next reference puzzled me.  It described symbols of affection attached to each anniversary.  I figured the words happy marriage and maybe iron had prompted this curious search result.  I found out after scrolling down the list that iron is the special remembrance for a sixth year anniversary.  We had recently celebrated our silver anniversary and I was inspired to read on.  The first anniversary has a paper theme but in my opinion, silver would be more appropriate.  Silver is the best conductor of heat and electricity on the planet and exemplifies the passionate high voltage currents coursing through the veins of a newlywed couple.  Paper is what dead fish are wrapped in.  Paper is what doctors' prescriptions are written on.  Wouldn't paper be a more logical choice for a twenty fifth year anniversary symbol?  The person who selected these symbols certainly lacked imagination.


Now here I am thirty days later and one week into our road trip.  I am laying on a king sized bed, staring at our reflection in a mirror above the bed.  Larry was laying face down with his arms and legs splayed across the mattress looking like a chalk outline from a crime scene photo.
    Being at this place at this time seemed cryptically relevant.  The no-tell-motel had altered my state of mind.  Its magic cast a spell over my tepid libido that bitchcraft couldn't break and frankly, I didn't mind a bit.  Hey, silver may tarnish over time but polish and patience makes it shine like new.  
     "Have you seen my briefs?" Larry asked while pulling back the sheets.  I nodded lovingly and pointed to the clothes peg on the wall. 
     "I found them in the ice bucket and hung them up for you." 
     Larry gave me a hug and planted a big, sloppy kiss on my forehead. 
     "Thanks baby, you take good care of me and my underwear too." 
     We dressed, shut the "loveshack" door behind us, and climbed into our car.

AS THE TACO TURNS - Road Trippin Like a Belle on Wheels Part Two

Writer's note:  I began this story in my October post.  It is about our driving adventure from Seattle to Barra de Navidad.  


      I put on my nightie, set my lotions and potions next to the bathroom sink and was ready to brush my teeth, when my contact lens migrated to my brain. My benevolent friend who had guided me through a labyrinth of lane changes a few hours ago had turned into an evil baby jellyfish injecting venom into my optical nerves with its probing tentacles. My skull ached and I rued the narcissism that had driven me to abandon my glasses.
      I swabbed my eyeball with a wet Q-Tip for fifteen minutes before it was captured and successfully extracted. I resumed the task at hand, but the world around me appeared as if I was looking at it through a sheet of Saran Wrap. I felt around for the new night cream I had purchased. It claimed to be the topical version of Botox and I was quite pleased with how tight and tingly my skin felt after I slathered it on my face.
     The next morning I put in a new contact lens and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Nothing could have prepared me for this confidence shaking transfiguration. There was a mottled rash over my cheeks and down my neck. My face appeared to be swaddled in a slab of bacon. On the vanity were two tubes of cream. I picked up the unopened tube of miracle rejuvenation lotion. I was trying to make sense of it all when I spotted a nearly spent tube of hemorrhoid cream. It seemed this endlessly spiraling disaster couldn’t get worse. I was wrong. I plugged in the flat iron so I could style my hair. It flat lined and could not be resuscitated. I was faced with few options or dignity. The hair straightening appliance was my only hope of taming my troll doll locks. A defeated reflection stared back at me from the mirror. It was that of a bush woman: a wild haired, deranged bush woman with a red rimmed eye who had escaped from the Vidal Sassoon Asylum. I decided not to apply makeup.  It would only worsen my already pathetic condition.
      I grabbed a bandana from my bag. It had a picture of a soccer ball and large lumpy letters across the top that spelled out GO CHIVAS! I fashioned it into a makeshift do rag and wrapped it around my head. Luckily, I found a pair of sunglasses in the car with enormous lenses. Seen from a distance I could be mistaken for a bug eyed extraterrestrial whose mothership had landed in Tijuana for reconnaissance accessory shopping. 
     I was almost finished dressing when Larry turned the corner. His mouth dropped and Kyi, who was tagging along behind him, started to bark at me. I raised my hand, braking my open palm inches from his face. In an abrupt voice I admonished, “Don’t even go there. That goes for you too Kyi.”
     Sensing my hostility, Larry slowly backed away. “Alright,” he said “But if you see my wife, tell her I’ll be ready to leave in about twenty minutes.”
     We packed up the car and I walked over to the driver’s side and swung open the door. “Hey Larry, how about you navigate for awhile and I’ll drive?”
      He folded his arms across his chest and rocked back on his heels. “Let’s follow that thought down its winding path,”  he yammered. “Let me refresh your memory. I was a passenger when you nearly totaled your car. Then a year later I was once again in the car with you when you finished the job.” I had to admit his observation had merit.
     I opened the back door for Kyi and then climbed on to the passenger seat. “At least the person riding shotgun gets to choose the music.” I mumbled under my breath. I loaded a CD in the player and cranked up the volume as Aretha Franklin belted out R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
     We trundled our way towards the highway and in a few minutes we were flying south with all the other migrating mammals. Saguaro cactus crested the hills like warring tribes. Their tall vertical trunks were flanked by stubby arms and they appeared to be giving us the finger. I hoped that the vegetation would be friendlier when we arrived in Matzatlan.
     “Hey Larry, check out that prickly cactus. It's hostile and may want to attack us." I pointed out the offender.
     “Why would a sickly Baptist want to attack us?” said Larry. “Besides, this whole country is nothing but Catholics.”
      “I don’t know”, I answered in a deadpan tone of voice. “Maybe he spotted our Darwin Fish bumper sticker.”  Note to self----have Larry make an appointment for a hearing test.

The Sonoran Desert was very interesting in a creepy sort of way. In the distance I spotted three vultures attacking carrion with a fierce hunger. One of them had a mouthful of sticky viscera in it beak. “Wow, those birds are about the ugliest things I have seen on our road trip.” I remarked. Larry looked at me and raised his eyebrow.
     “No, I don’t think they’re the ugliest.” I felt the sting of recognition and adjusted my do rag.
      I turned around and petted Kyi. He gently licked my hand in a gesture of compassion. I had been teaching him a new trick and I took a treat out of his biscuit bag and placed a doggie cookie on top of his nose. He held it for thirty seconds without moving until I gave him the command “Eat it”. A second later I heard crunching sounds. We were working on a more complicated version of the trick and he could almost hold the treat on his nose while shaking hands. I just knew that in a few weeks he would be ready for David Letterman’s Stupid Pet Tricks.
     We arrived in Matzatlan well after dark. Because of the holiday, there was a lack of hotel vacancies. “I think I saw a motel sign when we passed the airport” I said with a modicum of optimism.
     We turned around and in a couple of miles spotted the sign on our left. A black arrow indicated that it was located down the side street. It looked more like a compound than an inn. We pressed a buzzer on a brick post and the mechanical arm swung up allowing our car to pass through. Once inside we parked next to a kiosk type structure with a Plexiglas window. It reminded me of the ticket booth at the Cineplex Theater. I plucked the English/Spanish phrasebook from the floor, hoping to negotiate a good deal on a room and approached the window. I leaned forward and put my mouth up close to the Speak-Thru.
      “Cuanto cuesta por una noche?”
      The woman on the other side of the window answered “Trenta pesos por hora.”
     I thumbed through the “Staying in a Hotel” section of the book. She understood that I was inquiring about a nightly rate but her reply left me bewildered. I turned to Larry and whispered, “I think she said thirty pesos but I don’t get what she meant by hour. Maybe she wants to know what time we are leaving.” I attempted a different approach, this time raising my voice to an 80 decibel shout so she could understand what I was saying.
      We came to a mutually agreeable rate for the night, not because I successfully negotiated a great deal, but when I stuffed the peso equivalent of twenty dollars under the little opening, she shook her head and wagged her finger at me until I finally crammed through enough pesos to make her smile and nod her head. We turned around to return to our car and as an afterthought I turned back to her and blurted out “Oh, y yo tengo a dog, I mean perro.” She looked at Kyi, rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders.
     “Okay” she said. I later realized that okay in these circumstances was the equivalent of the English expression “whatever floats your boat”.
     With a key in hand, we climbed back into the car and followed her to our accommodation. The motel looked like a series of duplexes laid out in a circle. There were no windows that I could see anywhere and no cars parked in the driveways. She opened a garage door and instructed us to park inside. Before we walked into the room I noticed a Lazy Susan type contraption built into the wall next to the door. The room’s interior was a veritable pleasure palace. Frescos of cherubs clutching vulva shaped harps adorned the ceiling. There was no closet for the weary road warrior to hang up wrinkled garments.  All I could see were two pegs next to the kingsized bed. Apparently their guests were strictly the low-key cash and carry types. The Lazy Susan device swiveled like a miniature revolving door. The person outside could not see the person inside and vice versa. A take out pizza delivery could be placed inside of it and money exchanged with no fear of discovery. I marveled at how much thought had been put into art of coitus camouflage.
     At the end of the bed was a wall with a floor to ceiling mirror. I swore I could hear barely perceptible whispers and smell the faint fragrance of popcorn coming from the room adjacent to ours.  I wondered if we were on the peepshow side of a two way mirror. I called Kyi over to my side and we faced our audience. I pulled out a doggie treat and placed it gently on his nose.