30 años detrás

We’re all laughing in this photo in 1989 because I went to three high schools, stayed back and somehow pulled Brown University out of the hat. Well, the last high school was an elite all-boys Prep School. Classes six days a week. No girls. Any fun aspects of high school were discouraged if not formally prohibited especially for me given my track record. You are not going for four high schools, Mister Berkeley. A hat trick is enough. I lost my first name in the process. I was officially Mister Berkeley. And Mister Berkeley was ruled with an iron fist. He was a prisoner. You tied that guy up with a rope with his cross country team. You are only as fast as your slowest man which is Mister Berkeley. I viewed my third high school as a Preppy Prison. It’s what Prep School in America would be like if really mean and backward thinking Protestant ministers, as in Witch Hunt, took over. I am about to ditch Prep School for Paraguay for the summer in this photo. I was a rural Public Health Leader in Paraguay in the summer of 1989. My neighbor was a Peace Corps worker to give you a reference. My fondest memory is reading Crime and Punishment by candlelight in the sticks of Paraguay. And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack. And you may find yourself in another part of the world…And you may ask yourself how did I get here? And thus began a decade of my life that would have me swimming in Iguazu Falls. I would bus across rural Mexico for twelve weeks. Mexican Nationals are astonished at that little ride to this day. Well, I had to hitch a little bit too. Plenty of Mexican fresh air on those flat bed trucks. Lots of hammock rides on desolate beaches. It was like the book On The Road. Only better. We did cities when we needed cold cheves and tacos. It wasn’t all roughing it. The strangest looks we got were from tourists in the museums. We were rural dirty. You know what I mean? River dirty. We looked like two old timey tramps from under the bridge. But we knew what we were talking about in the art museums because my first major at Brown was Art. Frieda Kahlo’s house was on the river radar. Mexico that summer was a twelve week art installation piece of sorts when I think about it. I ramped it up and took down Argentina next. For nine months. Did a few little jaunts around Brazil, Bolivia and Uruguay. I made two more Paraguayan pitstops. There is a lot of swimming to be done in Iguazu Falls. The Caribean became a natural after that. It began off the coast of Venezuela from my South America perspective. Then Europe started calling. I lived in rural France for six months in a farm house with limited utilities. Principally, to cook for lazy Frenchmen. Or so it seemed. The Jeep took a few missions across the United States. Plenty of National Parks needed to be backpacked. I might even mountaineer when it took my fancy. Then one fine New Year’s Day in New Hampshire. I was descending in knee deep snow from a peak that I had slept upon. And I was done. Too much wind. Time to hang up the shingle. Ten years of putting myself to bed in the woods of the world in all seasons, cold, wet and miserable, is more than enough. A/C and central heat: here I come. Fulltime. Not just part-time. The whole South America in 1989 thing has caused me to reflect because that’s really where it all began. 30 años detrás. It’s a curious thing for a boy from New England to land on. I’ve been able to identify certain personality defects that made me not only safe but incredibly good at traveling in rural, relatively dangerous and at a minimum non-tourist parts of South America and Mexico as a young person. I spent my entire youth in martial arts. I began Kung Fu about the time that I learned how to walk. By the time I was in middle school I had several black belts. Along with make me dangerous. It trained the fear right out of me. It also limited my range of emotions. I didn’t care about things in a normal way. Something that should be a big deal just wasn’t for me. I also had this you have to break the donkey attitude. I figured you had to make me do it. Whatever it is that you wanted? Well, that’s on you, pal. Make me do it. I think that came out of the final high school. It made things tough on the dating front. But crossing borders? I was golden. I couldn’t give a hoot what border patrol thought. It’s not my problem that my passport is a mess of entries and exits. I don’t control if there is nobody to stamp my American passport entering Bolivia or exiting Paraguay. Maybe they stamped the Irish passport. I cannot recall. Having dual citizenship was another feature. It just muddied up the waters beautifully. Again the indifference just came in. I could care less that one of my passports was expired. Not my problem. Stamp the other one. I’m supposed to be afraid or contrite. But I am not. One of the things that typically worked out for me was my local ID. I’d just show my University of Belgrano ID. Or my Paraguayan Ministry of Health badge from when I was a Public Health Worker in Paraguay. Oh, he’s an Argentinean douche bag. He looks like one. He talks like one. He’s got pitch perfect Porteño Spanish. He also speaks enough Guaraní and Portuguese to get what he wants. Test him. Ask him what a beer is in all those languages. Or breakfast. You can’t get that guy to fall into line. He’s an Argentinean douche bag. That’s what authorities would land on ultimately if they even stopped me. Another feature was my clothing. I’ve watched people try to blend in foreign countries. They wear traditional clothing. Or they try to pass themselves off as locals with a local hat or through some other ruse. I can always see through it because something looks off. It’s the same as people trying to be Preppies when they are not. I am forever associated with the 1980’s and being a Talking Heads Preppy. I know one when I see one. Because I am one. Possibly the one. I would just be me in South America. I wore my 1980’s Preppy clothing. That sort of answered the question too. Although my edit was my clothing was typically very dirty. And more conservative than what I am wearing in my high school graduation photo. I had this old country type modesty. I wore button down shirts and tucked them into my pants no matter the weather. I shaved every day. Take me to the river. Wash me in the water. I had been brainwashed by four years of Prep School. There were habits both good and bad from Prep School that could not be broken. I was a product of Protestant Prep School even though I am a lapsed Catholic. That combo is perfect for Latin America. There are Protestant religious communities in rural South America that are comprised of people of European descent that look and dress just like me. I just got bucketed in with them in the sticks. Yet another European settler weirdo. At least he doesn’t offend us and dress like a hippie. Although he does have that long hair. Sois un medio indio? That was another thing that was really funny. I have this tendency to tan mahogany. People would be rude to a point and ask me if I was a half breed. When I responded that I was, in fact, a half breed. Half Irish and half British. One side of the family collected the rent. The other paid it. I was scoffed at. Well, somebody in the family tree has some confessing to do. They weren’t just collecting the Irish rent. I would just shrug it off. It’s mostly dirt. Dirt and stink just attaches itself to my body. It’s a miracle that I have a girlfriend. She won’t last. My final edit was that I didn’t have a lot of luggage. Nothing really screams foreigner more than the metal frame backpack getting on the bus in rural South America and causing a huge disturbance. We have chickens and children on this bus, you animal! Piss off Lonely Planet. We don’t want you this far out here. Go back to the capital where you belong. I’d just do a rucksack on my missions. I have a shack to call my home. And they sell clothing in South America. The last time I checked. And I stink so bad that at some point I have to throw out my clothes. You could dump out the contents of my rucksack on a table and sweep it back into the rucksack on a border stop. Maybe some of my weapons might be objected to. It’s not like I can call you if somebody comes after me in my shack. You live next to Eric the Peace Corps worker. Yes, I do. You’re a lot different than he is. Yes, I am. He hates it here. I love it. Is that where you are going now? Back home? If a truck picks me up tonight. Otherwise I am out in the woods. Listening to the goddamn crickets. Ándale pues. Which means you can go. No te preocupes. Ya me voy. Don’t you worry. I am already gone. #TalkingHeads #FlashFiction #1989