The dangers of shellfish

There are words, phrases, quotes that you often bandy around with your comrades. These often have a kind of special meaning that is not readily understood by the masses. It's what makes friendships special, and gives you that oh-so-unique feeling that your lives (compared to anyone else's) would make an awesome sitcom.

One spirited night in Rio during Carnival, amongst a group of people I did not know particularly well, conversation somehow veered towards the subject of "crabs", or as they are more formally known, pubic lice. As the conversation became more and more lively, one boisterous young lady boldly announced, "My sister-in-law had crabs!"

The silence in the room was as deaf as Helen Keller. Was this it? Was I, the King of Awkward Moments, finally getting to witness someone else's awkgasm, or brain fart, where statements are made without a solitary thought? Would I finally have my very own comrade-in-awk?

Alas, no. She instead followed it up with this qualifier:  "Well, I should say EX-sister-in-law. My brother dumped her cheating ass!"

Without a single moment of thought (perhaps riding high on my false sense of safety), I misguidedly raised/blurted the following toast:

"TO A SHELLFISH FREE FAMILY!"

Do you know that moment when mid-sentence you recognise that not only does what you're saying not make any sense, that what you're saying is perhaps offensive, immature, and disgusting, that what you're saying is going to leave the worst first impression in history? I do. Well.

My lips and tongue were powerless to stop the nonsense spurting forth from the metaphorical loins of my vocal chords. It was out there. It was done.

I hung my head hoping in that exact instance somebody had perhaps started a loud coughing fit or distraction to cover musky scent of my awkgasm. Of course, I've never been that lucky, but call me an optimist.

I watched the face of the girl who made the original statement with the kind of intensity usually reserved for David Attenborough when observing some kind of rare and exotic pink skinned, hard-nosed salamander. I observed as my toast registered on each of her facial features. First the eyes, the slight twitch of recognition. Then the forehead, the furrow of the brow. Then the mouth, the upwards turn of a grin.

Wait, what?! A grin? Is this... validation?

Then, the unexpected: A return of the toast! "TO A SHELLFISH FREE FAMILY!" she proclaimed with a loud laugh. Before I knew it, our glasses were raised and smashing together with enthusiastic vigor. Not only did she find it funny, but it also became one of our own personal jokes.

I'm happy to say, we are now friends.

Was there a moral to this story? I don't know. But it sure did feel good to be saved. At least once.

One man-child and a baby

It has been said that a good story should always have a beginning, a middle and an end. This is not a good story.

This is a story about my end.

One thing you need to know about South America is the over-reliance on buses. The cost of flights is astronomical, with even the cheapest seats going for hundreds of dollars. Alternatively, there are buses. Hundreds of bus companies line over-crowded terminals, shouting at passersby to come aboard their "luxury coaches". Sure, in Argentina or Chile these buses may range from decent to better-than-business-class, but in countries such as Bolivia and Peru, where prices are low, expect some interesting cost-cutting measures. Hence, when booking a bus from one small Bolivian town to another, well, hold tight.

The other thing you need to know about South America is that even the strongest stomach is bound to get a case of food poisoning at some stage. Having previously been well acquainted with various forms of E. Coli and Salmonella (thank you Iguazu Falls cheese and corn pizza), I have learnt to recognise the warning signs that prelude complete digestive failure.

And so, lets begin in Uyuni, Bolivia. A town famed for its proximity to the Salt Flats, and not for its cuisine. As it turns out, ordering a lasagna can lead to consequences more explosive than a Bolivian miner's protest.

After a day of vomiting behind town monuments, and more graphic expulsions behind quickly-closed doors, I made the decision not to join my fellow amigos on an overnight toilet-free bus to Tupiza. Perhaps the wisest decision of my life. After a night of sheer agony, and with an untested stomach, I boarded a 5:00am bus. Just how would my body react to newly ingested fluids? With great trepidation, I took my seat, and with hyper-vigilance clenched every muscle at the first sign of each and every faint stomach growl.

So there I sat, the only tourist on a bus full of traditionally dressed Bolivian locals, loading their giant bags of produce and crafts into every conceivable nook and cranny of the already cramped coach. I sat there, alone. The seat next to mine empty.

And that's when I met her. The woman who would come to forever change the way I think of travel. Stout, rotund, and willfully oblivious, she nestled herself into the tiny seat next to mine, and with one heave forced a single buttock under my armrest and onto my once self-occupied chair space. All the while, her two babies (one tied to her back, one held at the front) slept peacefully. In the process of unleashing Back-Baby, Front-Baby was shoved aside into the only space left available : My lap.

I don't know about you, but babies in general make me rather uncomfortable. They are so small and fragile, and frankly, I just don't want the responsibility of not accidentally dropping them on their soft spots. Taken aback, I sat, baby perched on my lap, surely looking aghast. At least the baby wouldn't be there for long, only until Back-Baby was rightfully positioned somewhere less prone to suffocation.

I watched as the woman skillfully untied her baby-carrying wrap and held Back-Baby in her right arm. Perfect, there would be room for Lap-Baby (formally known as Front-Baby) to be gently cradled in her left arm. I waited. And waited. And yet she showed no sign of taking her child back.

Still shocked and astounded, I held the baby tightly as the bus bumped and winded around canyons and mountains (terrain straight out of a Road Runner cartoon), jittering loudly and shaking in ways that could only be described as unhelpfully conducive to digestion.

Ask yourself, how many times have I ever muttered "Don't throw up on the baby"?

My answer: Approximately 357 times.

Frantically, I searched for words in my limited Spanish vocabulary to express my desire, nay, need to get this stomach weight of a baby off of my lap.

No pequeño niño para me, por favor. Which I believed translated to: No small child for me, please.

Of course, completely flustered and awkgasming, I lacked the courage to try my uncertain phrase out, and so I sat. For six hours. Launching into the air with each bump, holding a stranger's baby for dear life, and using all my will to keep my digestive fluids contained to less baby-present areas. For six hours.

As our bus finally pulled into the Tupiza terminal, I looked at my newly bonded pal with a sense of endearment. Whether he knew it or not, we had both survived a potential disaster. And in that moment, he was gone. Snatched back into his mother's arms as she wordlessly and without eye-contact scooped up her beyond-lucky son and disembarked from the front of the vehicle.

My Bolivian family was no more.

Attempts at humour

On a steaming hot day in Buenos Aires the following conversation took place.

Friend: Oh, that breeze is really nice.
Me: You could say it´s some Buenos Air, eh?
*high fives*

Off to a flying start

It seems hack-ish to begin a blog with a airplane story. After all, airplane observations are second only to gender differences in the lame humour category. Alas, when I have a public awkgasm witnessed by forty-three percent of the economy class, I would be remiss to leave it unreported.

There is this feeling you get around the six hour mark of a lengthy flight. Right after the second round of individually portioned cheese and crackers, and moments before people begin to draw their blinds en mass affording the relative privacy of darkness. It is at this moment you decide that jeans were perhaps not the greatest choice for extended periods of sitting. You shift uncontrollably from one buttock to the other, contorting one's own body within the limits of the seeming prison created between the armrests. And in this time of discomfort you will come to realise that a solution is within immediate grasp. A button! Not just any button, a button with the mystical powers to provide just a hint of pleasure to even most poorly attired travelers. The jeans button. 

Just a small twist, and pop! Relief. Sweet, sweet relief. With this, you sink deeper into your chair and fall into a brief and constantly disturbed slumber. 

Free beer? Yes. Free water? Please. Orange juice with your meal? Don't mind if I do. Bladder capacity? Full. Not to worry, there's a simple solution only metres away. You stand, and virtually straddling (hover-straddling?) the gentleman and baby in the aisle seat you move past them with drunk-ninja-like precision. The end to your suffering is within easy stumble. You look down towards your feet, avoiding eye contact with those facing you lest they know what shameful acts you are about to commit in the confined room with the Magical Sucking Toilet Bowl. Something is not right; that freedom which you once craved feels curiously wrong in an upright position. Your eyes travel towards your crotch... Your exposed crotch! 

You freeze mid-step, panicked. How did this happen? Oh yes, you recall, I released the button. But why is the zip somewhere around the top of my thighs? There you are. This is your predicament. Flustered, embarrassed, and positively awkgasming, seconds feel like only a serving suggestion. Have they always been this long? All eyes are on you and your act of indecent exposure. It's your move big guy, what are you going to do? Here there are two options: Attempt a quick button and zip up in the middle of the aisle, risking further attention from previously unengaged passengers, or continue striding towards the toilet in the hope that people are more interested in your adorable and attractive face to even notice what's going on in your normally panted region. How long can you stand there, groin at eye-level, making a decision? Zip! Button! Done! Run!

It is as you enter the toilet and pull the lock shut that another thought begins to dawn on you: A man arises from his seat, fully unbuttoned and unzipped and heads towards the bathroom. What would you think he was doing in his seat?

In the eyes of the economy class you are the guy who pleasured himself, straddled a father and baby, and exposed himself to a plane full of upstanding citizens. If every choice in your life has led you to this moment, you should probably begin to leave your fate in the hands of a Magic 8 Ball. 

Life: You're doing it wrong.

You can't stay in the toilet forever, but you sure can try. It's not too bad in there. The Magical Sucking Toilet would never judge you. Imagine what that thing has seen.