vivid green vacation

PART ONE: LOOK HOMEWARD DIPSHIT

The return journey from Honduras was trying. Still wavering between Technicolor hallucinations and Disney jungle animation from the all-you-could-vomit Bill Burrough’s Yage Team Adventure buffet, the pilot hauling me and Jock Goldstein from Corozal to a private airfield south of Mexico City looked like an eleven year old extra from “The Mission.” The only sensible thing to do was inhale tequila and pass out. Jock declined my invitation to abuse the bewitching stench. He thought Ricky, our diminutive, boxed aeronautics professional, might need assistance reaching the pre-Kennedy administration Piper Apache’s rudder pedal.

A violent drop hurled my spinal column back into gravity’s complete control seconds before rubber melted with runway gravel. Aside from chain-smoking purple Guatemalan, Ricky was fond of unleashing unexpected 1,500 feet aerial swoons to pass the time. (I learned this from Jock, who is convinced his genitalia suffered permanent tissue damage from repeated attempts to seek sanctuary just below his throat. Luckily, I was unconscious from acute alcohol poisoning during all but a tiny snippet of the three hour horror show).

Shaky but surprised to be alive, we crawled into the back of a panel van and jostled forty miles or so to airplane numero dos. Our new pilot gave me the chills. Deep wear on the wooden handle of his machete was disconcerting. On the bright side, he was tall enough to legally careen around Space Mountain. Jock rifled through his duffle bag and found a handful of anti-anxiety pills leftover from a stab at delivering mail. We washed them down with what the locals mistakenly think is water. While our new pilot went through his pre-flight check -- kicking tires and bouncing atop each wing -- Jock and I contemplated making a run for it. But where would we go?

Before we could decide on whether or not to simply dash for the clearing and become seriously existential, the pilot wandered over. My Spanish is strictly retail, just proficient enough to pay $100.00 dollars for landfill curios.

“What did he say?” I asked.
“If we need to take a dump, the outhouse/terminal wouldn’t be his first choice,” said Jock.

We contemplated the pilot’s advice in silence.

COMING WHENEVER, PART TWO: CHICHUACHUA DESPAIR