Mexican Jail

I was in Tijuana, Mexico. I was dancing at University of Texas, El Paso and went for an evening visit to Tijuana. On the way back someone in my group did not have a drivers license and because of that we could not get back to the US side. We were thrown in jail. separated... I was ALONE!!! My friend had to bribe people to get us out. It was pretty scary. I was in a mexican prison for 3 hrs. 1am - 4am. YIKES!

-MC

Peanut Butter Balls

The trip starts with a bus crash.  The driver gets out, shrugs, and we’re on our way for an overnight through the Negev desert, techno music blasting the whole way.  Joanna and Joshua are out like a light.  I am not. 

We arrive at Aqaba at 4am…but the border doesn’t open at 4am.  So, we wander around, delirious for a few hours, dodging late-late night partygoers and killing time at an all-hours internet café.  At the border, the Jordanian official who searches our bags is puzzled to find that we have gallons of a drink called Squincher-a Gatorade-type electrolyte drink—don’t we know they have juice in Jordan?  Our first taste of true Jordanian hospitality.  It continues at the car rental place, where the manager serves us tea and chats us up about the fabulous King Abdullah and presents us with the keys to a watermelon-colored Pinto with no air, who we name Melanie. 

A singalong, Riceroni, and a sleepover under the stars with the Wadi Rum Beduins later, and we’re on our way to Jerash, driving through the desert.  The hot, mountainous desert.  There’s no one around for miles, so Joanna and I strip down to our tank tops and take off our sandals so we can hang our feet out the window.  And then we hit a rockslide.  Or rather, construction. They stop traffic, bulldoze the mountain down onto the road, and then they’re supposed to clear the road and let you go. But the thing is, we’re wearing tank tops, so for them, we’re basically dressed like…Porn Stars.  And it’s not until they start running toward us that we realize what’s going on and start frantically tearing on our overshirts, rolling up the windows, and locking the doors.  …Just as they start pulling up on the doorhandles.  

Joshua’s asleep in the back seat….so we wake him up and, well, tell him to look casual.  Like it’s completely normal for a man to be asleep in the backseat of the car of two porn stars.  We are surrounded by 20 men.  They’re knocking on the windows.  The car is literally rocking back and forth. 

The conversation in the car:

“ohshitohshitohshitohshit.”

“Maybe they’ll think Joshua’s a prince, and we’re members of his harem.  Joshua, act regal.”

“Are we going to die in this car?”

“At least we have Joshua’s peanut butter balls—if we’re stuck in this car for days, we can subsist on them.”

A few minutes of terrified giggling later, and the construction is finished—we can go on our way.  We don’t see another car for miles and miles and miles and miles.  But we leave our sandals on.  

-KD

Cultural sensitivity

Excavating in the north of Israel in 1992 or 1993, I was running a trench in the hills out in the middle of nowhere. For the life of me I can’t now remember what we were excavating! A Roman road?

Anyway, we were visited several mornings in a row by a rather old and very small Bedouin man who would herd his cows past us on the way to pasture. He would stop and stand on the side of the trench a while, passing the time, smoking a cigarette, and occasionally opining on the sunrise or the beauty of the morning, or what have you. To tell the truth, we had no idea what he was saying because none of us spoke a lick of Arabic. But he was a pleasant fellow and seemed to enjoy our company.

One day he came by as usual stood on the balk and was a little chattier than usual. I kept hearing the word “qahwah,” which I eventually (and somewhat vaguely) remembered was the word for coffee. Observing his questioning look and gestures off into the distance I surmised that he was inviting us for coffee somewhere. So I gathered my team and we followed him into the woods. Sure enough, he led us to a neatly set up tent, cozy and warm inside, and treated us to real Bedouin hospitality of hot coffee, labnah with olive oil, and pita. We even managed to have a conversation of a sort, between his six words of English and my five words of Hebrew and two words of Arabic. (My team, unfortunately, could only bemusedly observe this entirely pidgin conversation.) After several minutes our mutual words had run out, although that bothered our host not in the least. He enjoyed talking anyway. But I had noticed a teenage girl sitting quietly in the corner, occasionally helping to serve, but saying nothing. I turned to her and asked her something (now I can’t remember what). She replied in perfect English! Of course she had studied English in school since a very young age, and what a relief it was to be able to speak and be instantly understood, and to understand her! But after a few minutes of animated conversation, I turned back to our host. He appeared to have lost interest in us, and I realized my faux pas. He was the host, and he was the father, and it was up to him to invite her to be part of the conversation! I should have asked him about her first, rather than speaking directly to her. I must have offended him, because the magic was gone and we couldn’t regain our former easiness. We finished our meal in relative silence.

I left feeling I had ruined something special. And I don’t think he visited us again, or at least I don’t remember him doing so.

Even so, I enjoy the memory of our visit to his tent and the warm hospitality he showed us.

And I keep hoping I’ll have the chance to benefit by the lesson I learned in someone else’s tent!

KSB

Chicken Bus in Guatemala

So, for my 30th b-day I had this big extravaganza planned in New York.  It failed.  For reasons that are too much to go into, everything began to fall apart.  I finally got fed up and canceled it all.  Part of the reasons I did so was because I saw an ad online for $150 round trip tickets to Guatemala.  I decided to go and asked my parents if they wanted to go as well.  My mother declined, but told me I should take my dad.  He is an archaeologist and had never seen Tikal.  PERFECT!

Well, there were many entertaining points along the way, but what stands out most was the final Chicken Bus we took from Santiago Atitlan to Guatemala City.  On our way to the lake region, the most eventful thing was a minister who got on, preached in the aisle, and then touched every single head in that bus as he prayed.  It was actually very touching.  Let's get back to the harrowing story, though, shall we?

This chicken bus DOES have actual chickens.  They are loud and smelly.  It is also PACKED.  As we drive down (mountains) it begins to rain.  Okey Dokey.  Except our bus has no windshield wipers.  None.  And its not some sort of piddlin' little rain, it's a DOWNPOUR.  On switchback roads.  In a full bus.  With no windshield wipers.  Instead, some guy is hanging out the OPEN door of this redone school bus and is, I guess, navigating.  The driver is driving blind.  At night.  On switchback roads.  With no wipers.  As an avid an frequent traveler, not much fazes me.  Lost in Italy?  Check.  Penniless in Spain?  Check.  Alone in Ireland with signs in Gaelic?  Check?  Nervous, nope.  Nervous NOW?  YES! 
I am white knuckling the back of the seat.  My dad and I are crammed together like sardines and I look over, and he has his eyes closed and is HUMMING.  THE MAN IS HUMMING.  He is not scared, nervous, or concerned.  He is humming.

Yeah.  Humming.

Said bus is below:

My insides are still in Guatemala.  I think they fell out.

-JS