Packing Heat on a Sunny Day at the Pool

A few weeks ago in a post about first graders dancing like strippers , I casually mentioned that I had taken a ride on the back of a motorcycle being driven by a man toting a pistol in his waistband. Obviously, I survived this episode, but for the briefest of moments that night, I was sure that I had done the last stupid thing I would ever do as a traveler.

It was a hot day, one of the hottest I experienced the entire time I was in Nicaragua. The kind that depletes your very soul of energy. Rivulets of sweat were my fashion accessories, and I could barely string a nice sentence together-I was grumpy because I was hot and I was hot because the temperature exceeded inferno- like levels.

Complete happiness

That does it, I decided.  I'm going to the pool. 113 cordoba ($5) or not, I will  gladly pay for the luxury of not swimming in my own sweat.  Anneriet (roommate) had the same idea and off we went towards Hotel Granada, our steps a bit lighter in anticipation.

Upon arriving at the oasis of blue, we were convinced that we had arrived in paradise. The crystal chlorine water beckoned and it took all of two seconds to dive into it. It was only slightly more refreshing than, say,  bath water, but anything is cooler than a desert, right?

We proceeded to thoroughly enjoy ourselves over the next few hours-reading, napping, people-watching, swimming, splashing around and generally living the dream. It was fantastic.

Then we made friends, and our day became much more interesting.

Fabiola and Walter were splashing around on the other end of the pool, and when I eventually made my way down there,  Fabiola began speaking to me in Spanish, asking me what I thought of Nicaragua, where was I from, and what was I doing in her country? We all began chatting back and forth, racing each other to the center of the pool, telling jokes, and just generally having a grand ole' time. Walter hadn't said much up until then, but I just assumed he was the quiet one in the relationship. At one point Fabiola announced she was famoso, (famous) glanced at Walter,  and then laughed a deep belly laugh and we couldn't help but join her. But when she mentioned it again, we began to wonder...."hmm...is she?" So we asked. Fabiola laughed again and told us to ask Walter. Walter confirmed, telling us that he was her "guadespalda."

Bodyguard.

Say whaaaaaaat?

This day at the pool just got way more intriguing.

Apparently, Fabiola is a cousin to the chief of police in Nicaragua. Due to people having vendettas against him, corruption issues, and lord knows what else, all family members are under 24 hour police protection.

I didn't know whether to feel extremely safe, or like the bullseye on a target.

It was right about then that we noticed it was getting dark and because of a recent spate of robberies a few of our  fellow volunteers had unfortunately experienced, we decided to do the smart thing and head home.

But why? questioned Fabiola. We will take you where you need to go!

Well of COURSE we can get a ride home with police!

And do you like pizza? came the next question.

Well of COURSE we want to eat pizza with her and the police! 

So that is what we decided to do. How to get there though? Well, as it turns out, Fabiola and Walter had arrived by motorcycle, which will transport only only two at a time. Time to call in reinforcements. A quick phone call later, Fabiola informed us that one of her other bodyguards was on his way.

Well of COURSE he is!

She began divvying up drivers to riders, placing me with the new bodyguard and Anneriet with Walter. She would stay behind and wait for one of them to return for her. Wouldn't that mean she was left alone? Wait a minute. I thought she needed a bodyguard at all times?  And that is when a stab of fear invaded my heart. Isn't that how they do it in the movies? They separate the friends, take them to a wooded area, and that is the last anyone ever sees of the friends? Oh dear me. What have I gotten myself into now? Surely this violates one of the rules my mother charged me with before I left. And I don't even have to wonder what my husband would be saying right now.  I glance at Anneriet to see if I can detect any fear. Nope, not a shred. Just me then. Great. I run through escape scenarios in my head, ranging from announcing that "ummm... no thanks, you're very nice, but I actually hate pizza and it's against my religion to eat it" to conveniently falling off the motorbike en route to the woods.  Siiigh. How do I get myself into these situations?

 Giddy with a touch of terror

Oh, and of COURSE there is a pistol (somewhat, but not really, discreetly) tucked into the other bodyguard's waistband. The one with whom I will be riding to the Last Supper dinner. No holster, nothing official looking. Just a pistol tucked into his nice plaid shorts. Here goes nothin.'

On the way out of the hotel, we pass by a piano and Fabiola decides we need a concert. First Anneriet plays a little tune for us. Then it's my turn and I play an old church hymn, one that was sang at my wedding. Then it's Fabiola's turn.

She plays the same exact hymn, but with all the scale and finesse of a concerto masterpiece. I mean, the woman is practically Beethoven. Seriously. She finishes with all the flair of an encore and then tells us she used to be a church pianist.   I am instantly relieved. She can't possibly be in cahoots with murderers if she can play "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" on a moments notice, right?

I feel better after the impromptu concert, but I will feel much better when we are all happily eating pizza.

Which we all were, in short order, post-concert. Fabiola, one uniformed bodyguard, one plainclothes, and the two of us. And everybody in Telepizza seemed to know her and want to talk to her and spend a minute with her. Fabiola really was famoso.  With that infectious laugh, deep smile, and a generous heart, how could she be anything but famous? That episode is one of my best memories of the whole trip. New friends, a random encounter , a good story, and a shared meal. We never ran into Fabiola again, but I wish we had. I consider her a friend. 

What about you? Ever find yourself in a potentially questionable situation that ends up being a favorite memory?

Fabiola and her fans

This Is What Panic Looks Like

Last week, the husband I broke our five year streak of never having been to the beach together. 'Bout time too, because we had some serious "we are 14 years old again" fun. And we packed all that fun into a mere 48+ hours. We had big plans for those hours though. Our Virginia Beach itinerary looked like this:

1) Find and consume crab cakes (I might eat crab cakes every day if I could)
2) Find and consume copious amounts of crab legs (due to the fact that we spent more on one dinner than I did in one week in Nicaragua, I am trying to pretend this never happened)
3) Find and ride go-karts (I am a fairly agressive driver with what my father describes as a "lead foot." But apparently not in a go-kart. There were small children taking each and every opportunity to cut me off and/or lap me)
4) Find and walk the boardwalk (good people watching)
5) Find  miniature golf course and beat my husband  (accomplished for the first time ever!)
5) Find sun and increase deep golden bronze skin tone so as to enhance youthful glow (not actually his plan, just mine)

And then I got a curious little text message from a  friend who just happened to be headed to the same beach on the same dates. The message inquired as to whether I would be interested in parasailing with her.

Para what? 

Yes please. Sign me up.

Now remember, I don't like activities that scare me shameless or that raise the question of whether I will live, die, or get seriously injured.  After all, it did take me approximately 30 minutes to inch my way down a volcano.

Apparently, that experience quickly became a distant memory because I almost immediately began planning on partaking in this para whatever thing. My knowledge of the activity was minimal:  I knew that it involved floating above the ocean while suspended from a giant parachute or something. How one actually ascended into the air though?  That remained a mystery.

I would soon find out though.  Making our way to the dock that morning, I started to feel the first prick of nerves. I needed to keep them at bay though,  because I had managed to convince Adam, who hates heights, that this would be woohoo! fun.  Although he appeared not to believe that this would turn out to be true, he begrudgingly agreed that he would go. Such a good man.

I am all smiles until the moment we get on the boat and the captain and his buddy inform the three of us that we will be going first.

I don't do "first."

I do "wait and see if/how other people meet an untimely demise and then decide a course of action."

But seeing as how as the nice young man was at that very moment cocooning me into some sort of harness, attaching me to very scary looking cables and stuff, while simultaneously telling me that everything was going to be fine, there was very little to do but await my fate. 

That is when the panic set in. How exactly would  we ascend into the air? Would we be shot off the back of the boat like human cannonballs? Would a gust of wind blow us into the air? Would there be some sort of jet propulsion involved? Would our method of ascent involve me getting bloody and/or breaking something?

But why waste time describing my state of mind, when you can see it for yourself?

Because all of that was documented on film. And if you are in need of cheering up today, then really, look no further than this little series of photos. When finished, please believe this is one of the coolest things I have ever done, despite what my face is telling you.

My 7 Links: I'm One of the Cool Kids Now

Thanks to Shivya over at  The Shooting Star, I can stop wondering if I am cool enough to avoid being the last pick in dodgeball during gym. Woohoo! She nominated me to participate in the ongoing 7 Links project, an online blogging initiative sponsored by Tripbase.   To sum up directly from their blog,  "The idea is simple: bloggers publish 7 links from their blog to share lessons learned and create a bank of long but not forgotten blog posts that deserve to see the light of day again."


Enjoy!

1) My Most Beautiful Post 
This short and sweet entry shares the anticipation I feel before I go on a big trip. I hope I never lose this excitement and wonder.
                                                            On the Move Again

2) My Most Controversial Post 
As I like to keep things light around here, "controversy" is a foreign topic on this blog.  I want you to laugh at my stories, not leave four letter words and evil comments. I have succeeded almost entirely, until I wrote this post. There was one person who did not care for my lighthearted hatred of the euro and essentially told me so in their comment. So read the post, and then read the comments. Mr./Miss CrankyPants is not hard to miss. As this is only comment (ever) that has even  come close to being "controversial," I consider my "keeping things light/making people laugh" mission accomplished. Now, this is not to say that you can't disagree with me on here, because you totally can. It just seemed that this person was unnecessarily grumpy about my status as Eurovirgin!
                                              I'm A Virgin....."Euro"peanly Speaking

3) The Post I am Most Proud Of 
I did a little bit of growing up in this one. So I suppose I am pretty proud of that. 
                                                                       Bandwagon Jumper 

4) A Post I Feel Didn't get the Attention it Deserved
Come on people. Everybody loves a good bathroom in a foreign country story!
                                    The Most Disgusting Bathroom in the Whole Entire World

5) A Post Whose Success Surprised Me
As if there aren't ongoing wars, famines, and natural disasters occurring in every corner of the globe, I chose to focus on a less pressing matter: myself and the funk that I was in. Your exciting travel updates did nothing to raise my spirits and this post is what happens when I have too much time on my hands. Thankfully, things took a turn for the better by the time I finished writing it and I pulled myself together. Geeeez!
                                       My Love/Hate Relationship With Your Travel Blog

6) My Most Helpful Post
I do not normally tout causes or organizations on this blog, but this is one group that I can personally endorse. Having visited the school, met the girls, hung out in the home of the director, corresponded with its board members, and even done some editing for their website, I can vouch for Nurturing Minds. If you have some extra cash you are looking to spend on a worthy cause, I urge you to consider sponsoring a student.
                                                          Sega School for Girls

7) My Most Popular Post
According to the Blogspot counter, my most popular post is the one you see at the top left of your screen. However, I don't actually believe this. I think Blogspot is playing with my emotions and/or subject to some sort of erroneous counting practices. You see, I don't get tons of traffic pouring in to Travel Funny Travel Light each and every day. I'm doing pretty well if I get 500 pageviews in a month. However, in the span of only two hours on the day I published that post, I somehow, miraculously, defying all odds, got over 500 views on that post alone. Now, I will say that I did submit that post to Suzy Guese and her weekly Stumble segment, which I have done with other posts without getting these astronomical (for my humble blog) results. So I simply chose not to believe the numbers. I am going with this post instead, which I just so happen to like better anyway.

                                                             A Traveler's Regret


To continue in the spirit of the project, I want to nominate Reese at Rambles with Reese,  Miss Footloose of Life in the ExPat Lane, and Matthew at Expert Vagabond.

Misery and Illness Love Company

In anticipation of a mini-family vacation ("mini" as in, it's just the two of us, and we will only be gone three days) that Adam and I will be taking this week, I thought I would repost this gem from 2009.  While I love this story, it did need to be taken down a peg from its original version. People don't want to read a novel when they have only subscribed to read a few paragraphs.

Monday, September 14, 2009

It is June of 2002 and I have just graduated college. My parents want to relive their young married days and take another cross country trip, similar to the one they took shortly after they became a family. I had the option to go or not, but I felt that as a big college graduate I should of course, grace them with my presence one last time on vacation.  (By the end of the trip, "grace" will have turned out to be a very misleading description of what I contributed to the family dynamics).

It was an industrious itinerary, one that was intended to be accomplished over two weeks. First stop: Ohio to visit the grandparents. After that, we would then venture from there into Michigan, through the Upper Peninsula, Canada through Manitoba, and back into the states by way of the Dakotas.

All starts out well and good, if a little on the boring side. The cute little family of black bears on the side of the road was probably the highlight of this portion of the trip.

It all went downhill from there.

Somewhere in the Upper Peninsula, I began to feel ill, with what I hoped was not strep throat. However, college dorm life guaranteed not only that I contracted it every year, but that I was fairly well-versed in its symptoms. After a full day of a suspiciously sore throat and aching body, I knew the game was up. I informed the family that I had strep throat,  to which my father responded "Nonsense, it's just a cold."

The man can be heartless sometimes.

And his remedy? Over the counter Tylenol and sleep. Anybody who has ever had strep knows this only prolongs the feeling of imminent death.   For the next few days, while the family explored without me, I stayed in whatever frumpy motel room we had landed in, attempting to nurse myself back to health without the aid of an antibiotic. After two days of this, I started to turn evil. No amount of reasoning would convince him that I needed a doctor, so this went on for a few more days.  So did my grouchiness. Grouchiness and illness do not a happy traveler make.  No fun, no sightseeing, no happiness.

Finally, hours outside of Winnipeg, headed southbound, I could stand it no more. Dear Dad got out to gas up, and I took the opportunity to  inform my mother that my personal next stop would either be a hospital or an airport. My misery had reached the end of its rope.  Surprisingly, she took me seriously, and  announced (rather cheerfully) the ultimatum to my dad. Even more surprisingly, he grudgingly (and this is a kind description of his acquiescence) agreed to stop at the first doctor we found.

As we were in the prarielands of Saskatchewan, Canada at the time, this anticipated visit to a medical facility did not occur until an eternity later when we finally crossed back into the great US of A. First town we came to?  "Murder free for as long as anyone can remember" Crosby, North Dakota. I am not kidding.  There may have been absolutely nothing going on in this bucolic village, but we were certainly safe from any thugs trying to murder us. (Check out Crosby here, to begin planning your next vacation.

Crosby was my personal utopia, regardless of its murder status. Why? Crosby is where the healing began. Since there are approximately only five people that live in Crosby, finding the hospital was relatively easy. The sign tells us that we have arrived in the emergency room, but it was as silent as a cemetery. There was certainly no emergency except my throat and the fire burning inside it. The lights weren't even on.  Our shouts of "Hello? Hello?" went unanswered until we finally stumbled upon the nurse station. After explaining my problem, they then told us we would need to wait a little bit for the doctor to arrive. As in, he had only been in the US about a week, fresh from Pakistan, and today was not one of his days to work.

 Shouldn't there be a doctor at a hospital at all times? And possibly more than one?

*Insert pause here for slight consternation*

Only a slight pause though, because I didn't care; I was not leaving there without drugs. I would have waited if he was still on the plane from Pakistan because that is how miserable I felt. Fortunately, the wait was much shorter than that and when he arrived,  he was quite nice and cheery, ran a strep test, and set me up with an antibiotic. I felt this should have proved to my dad that I did indeed have strep, but to this day, he insists that it was just a cold, and that I was overly dramatic. Seven years later, I have conceded (not to him though!) that I may have been a tad bit overzealous in my demands, but I will never believe that the strep test lied.

Post-doctor visit, my condition vastly improved, but my attitude did not.  Within two days, I was able to regale the family with my snarky comments and demands once again. I was quite miffed over being left in motel rooms, lying in a pool of sweat, yearning for antibiotics. I took each and every opportunity, then and now, to remind him of his cold heart.

I should mention that I love my dear old Dad, and that our personalities are two peas in a pod.

Life lesson learned at age 30: Appreciate it when your parents want to take you on vacation!


 What are your family vacation horrors stories? 

Fine Wines and Blogs Get Better With Age

*This post has absolutely nothing to do with wine.*

I Packed My Sense of Humor and Not Much Else just turned three. I meant to write a dramatic post on its birthday that celebrated the day this blog was born, that detailed how I have persevered through the peaks and valleys of online writing, and that expressed to all 29 readers how much I treasure your input.

Bleeecch. None of that happened, although I DO in fact, treasure your input. (No really, I do. I get so excited when I see I have new comments. It's like a little party in my inbox once or twice every hour week).

Really, the reason that post never happened because I was much too busy surviving things, climbing things, and being horrified at things. I'm sure you understand.

And since I am horrible at being mushy, I figured that I should just skip all of that and just repost my very first entry instead. Some of my early stuff is actually quite entertaining, so you may be seeing more of it over the next few weeks. Side note: As I have been reading through the first year or so, I realize that apparently I thought it was acceptable to fling words out to the world without spell checking or proofreading. I have fixed those mistakes in the reprint, but everything else is the same. Oh, and I added  pictures. Not sure why I wouldn't have just done that the first time around.   No wonder it's taken me three years to find 29 people who willingly and faithfully wade through each post.

I trust that things have improved since 2008. Enjoy.

 

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Fun at the Dhaka Airport

It's my first time in Asia and I have chosen a "doozy" of a country in which to start my journey. I have arrived in the chaotic capital of Bangladesh, Dhaka. Isn't that where all the glossy travel magazines are headquartered? On the top 10 list of honeymoon destinations? NO? Right, well anyway, I am here now and ready to start getting adventurous.


I really had to look no further than the customs line at the airport though. (And by "line" here, I mean that everyone seems to think that pressing closer together and pushing will magically make them next ). I happen to be in front of the only other two white English-speakers in the room and I cannot help but overhear their conversation, as they are discussing the most recent detonated bombs and bouts of violence. I think that they cannot possibly be discussing Bangladesh, the country I just arrived in only twenty minutes ago. My curiosity overwhelms me and I turn and ask them where said bombs are being planted? They assured me that it was taking place right there in Dhaka! Wonderful! I will leave that part out when I call home.
When I finally push my way to the front, the customs officer decides is it not my day to enter Bangladesh. Why? I do not have an address at which I will be staying. He refuses to take pity on me, to feel sorry for the clueless American girl who has clearly not yet become familiarized in the art of bullying a Bangladeshi customs officer.


I am definitely going to start crying in the airport.


This is my where my fellow English speaker friends swoop in, proceed to curse the officer in Bengali (I do not speak Bengali, but I am pretty sure that is what was going on) and before I know it, the nice man shrugs his shoulder, stamps my passport and waves me through. I decided not to stick around in case he changes his mind (he seemed a bit fickle).
When I finally get out of the airport, the scene that awaits me assures me that the little airport drama will only be the beginning of my other side of the world adventure.