The Devil´s Mouth

I seem to be emerging from a haze of sorts, as my last two weeks have been nothing close to breathtaking in their absurdity. I have long sought to articulate my thoughts and emotions, and now that I am nestled in the humid confines of the Brazil/Argentina/Paraguay tri fecta border town of Puerto Iguazu, the need to share my adventures has returned.

As it happens, last week I found myself invited to the village of Cruz Alta by Argentinian named Gennaro--a John Lennon circa 1972 living in New York look-a-like who drunkenly sings "All we are SAYYYINNGGG is GIVVVVEEE PEEACCCEE A CHHHAANNCCEEE" at every chance possible, while spouting the grand wisdom of the martyered Che Guevara (Who, might I add, is actually named Ernesto, as the term "Che" in Argentinian is most closely translated as "Dude").

"Phil, will you come make a documentary when I make da revolution?" He asks me. I can only nod and smile and return.
Yet, the accomodating nature of the Argentinians is profound, as well as their ability to keep you overly stuffed with beer, potatoes, red meat and cakes--or better known as heart disease.

Gennaro, in his haste to reduce me to a more simpler man to his eager-to-cook mother introduced me as "Phil, who Eats Like An Animal." As a result of this surname, I was regarded as a malnourished child, force fed cakes, brownies, pastas, chickens, and any available substances Gennaro´s mother had available to try on the "skinny American boy."

By the day, the rural village life consists of pointless moto riding, where the common social practice is drinking mate by the water, and driving in endless circles around the short city span. The local pool is drained and emptied until summer, scrappy farmers race emaciated greyhounds to make extra cash, and just like all young men from around the world, practicing guitar players trade off off key renditions of Pink Floyd´s "Wish You Were Here" until the sun sets. These guys just sing it by rolling their r´s.

But by evening, the taste for pleasure is insatiable, and as the dialect is rapid fire and varied in every region, I often found myself distracted by the vividness of the Big Dipper, or the journey of the stray puppy on the corner, desperately seeking to extract a scrap from the ruptured trash heap next to the bar. So when we embarked to another bar near sunrise to avoid the seizure inducing strobe of the salsa bar, I simply jumped along for the ride.

I should not have been so naive.

"Hola chico!" Two women in waist high skirts yelled in my direction. Their eyes a blurred and slanted red. "Me pareces un Barbie!"

"We just go here a while," Gennaro reassured me. "But you can try if you want? Cause you have money."

Thinking he meant beer, I enthusiastically accepted his offer, walked straight through the dank hallway, under the red lights, past the heavy set bouncer, and entered into . . . a brothel.

A faint blaring of ranchero music played from the jukebox, as a rather heavyset woman wearing only lingerie adjusted the track listing. Without notice I was handed a beer as two women, as if on cue, began rubbing my scalp, asking me to teach them English.

"You are a Barbie!" another one of them repeated, grabbing for my pants. Behind here a row of women sat on stools, their posture crooked and downtrodden, their skirts high and ruffled. A few bald men took coffees from the bar, the tops of their heads sweating in the early morning heat. For a moment the music stopped, and no one spoke--only the sound of clicking heels on the concrete walkways outside.

"I think you mean Ken!" I blurted out, backing into a corner. Silence. Blank stares. "It doesn´t matter." Anything to get myself out of this situation. In the corner one of Gennaro´s friends was dissapearing into the shadows with another faceless, doped up woman. His hands were up her thigh.

"I have to go to the bathroom!"

The sun was coming up now, and I sought out the brick wall with the word "Baño" painted onto it. A drunken biker stared me down from across the urinal, his breath stinking of hops and coke. I tapped my foot nervously, then leaned my head into the bricks, faking drunk to put the stranger at ease.

From outside, the building was merely a bunker. A square prison for those that entered for short term pleasure, and those who found themselves trapped within those same walls, living a life of sexual slavery.

I fled. I demanded to go home immediately. All thoughts of cultural politeness left my body.

"Phil, I know dat was not cool man," Gennaro confessed. "I have only gone there like once, and only for beer. I am sorry if I scare you."

Three days later, and I am now occupying a Club Med style hostel. A converted casino near some of the largest waterfalls in the world, I have reentered the sphere of the Tourist, the camera ready traveler who spends evenings researching weather patterns and bus ride prices, eating dinner with chain smoking Italians, Belgian lawyers and MExican businesswomen on hiatus. It is fascinating how quickly the atmosphere can change when one is a nomad, when life has no center, no gravitational pull except onward, upward, and to the next destination.

My back is charred--my skin having been hidden from the sun in office environments for months. But today I swam down the river in the jungle, saw a crocodile, drove a boat under a waterfall, and discovered that not all Italians are sleazy.

My thoughts still resonate with images of that night, many of which I have left out for the sake of tact and politeness. Such a level of human suffering is never easy to digest, nor is it the common fodder to share in travel blogs. The only elemental truth. I can extract from the experience is that we cannot run from suffering. It may frighten us, it may give us nightmares or make us disgusted with our own, but no matter what, we grow from it. For one cannot see such darkness without wishing to seek out light, if not for themselves, but for those still living in the shadows.

I am a nomad. I am lost, but I am alive. The sun is shining and my heart is beating. My gratitude is infinite.

Peace and Wellness,

Phil

P.S. In case you are wondering, the largest section of the falls are called "The Devils Mouth". So I have not become an evangelical Christian.

"Migraine? What is that? English for 'needing to drink beer'?"

Such are my Israeli roomates, fresh from their required service in the national military, and eager to let loose upon the unsuspecting bar scene of South America. And even more eager to encourage me to paint the town red with them. Havi, the pot-bellied social ringleader, sports a Last of the Mohicans ponytail, has a penchant for wearing only Speedos, and recently received a stipend from his previous occupation of eight years at Israel's top fast food joint "Best Burger."

Oh yes, and he also happens to be the hot dog eating champion of Israel.

Just last night he sat me down to discuss his methods of consumption (weenie first, then bun, as the weenie--in his own words--contains "juice to suck up the bun"). It was a mixture of broken English and unconscious slips into Hebrew, and I find that I am now even speaking my own language in a more fractured style to accomodate my roommates.

The knowledge of American culture is rather astounding to me--even more so the obsession with the song "Hotel California"--and our room emits an ambience of Arabic techno (think incomprehensible wailing sung from the throat with a throbbing trance beat most likely created under the influence of an amphetamine), and John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Road."

I have fallen in with some local folk and an assorted mixture of expats that never fail to inspire. Yesterday we took a boat ride across the Rio Parana, where on the opposing island shirtless yokels wave from tin roofed shanties, and cattle graze freely along the waterfront. The water is a mucky brown, and regional lore is that swimming in the water causes genetic mutation, or at least transmit some sort of unknown, long since dormant STD.

"Do you know what is Funkytown?" I was asked by my friend Evangeline, a sort of social center of Rosario who manages to find all the expats around and take them on tours of local monuments and tourist magnets. "I have American friend from Florida, and all he talk about is Funkytown.

"Well, it's really more a state of mind," I said, pausing to ensure my answer was sufficient. "It's also halfway between Los Angeles and San Francisco."

And still, the yacht rock/dental office waiting room tunes of Kenny Loggins, Michael McDonald and sounds that bring to mind going to a dinner party at an an oceanside taupe colored apartment that only has glass furniture and wine coolers, follow me to this day. Just this morning I saw a vintage T-shirt through the storefront window, the God rays of the sun sending only one beam of light through the clouds as if to point my eyes in its self consciously retro direction: "Choose Life."

"There is no party without the pork," Havi says to me. I have no idea what that means.

Peace and Wellness,

Phil