tysontrips

4 October, 2005

Another Shitty Night In Brazil

Barra Grande, Brazil – Call it what you will; say that I have been 'out of touch' or 'avoiding the Internet' or 'living freely in a small surf town in Brazil.' Outside of the fact that there is hardly Internet access here, the truth is that I don't even want to waste my time typing in front of a computer screen (I have plenty of opportunities to do this in the US) when I could be playing. As the band Cake fervently, if morbidly pleads "As soon as your born you start dying, so you might as well have a good time." So I am. My writing initiative has finally been re-kindled, however, as my time in Itacaré concluded in dramatic and embarrassing fashion. I feel that by sharing this experience, we both can benefit in our own ways: me by opening up to you, the reader, about a sensitive topic, which may help me express myself more honestly in the future; and you, by having a laugh at my expense about my misfortune or the joy you will feel - pointing and whispering - when you see me in the street in the future.

Warning: What you are about to read may shock and entertain you. Humans strongly cautioned.

Before I get into the heart of shartness, as it were, let me relive some of the pertinent history which has led me to where I am mentally and physically at this exact moment. I don't remember exactly when, but at some young age I learned that it is not 'civilized' to piss where you sleep. I remember my dad coming into my room to wake me up one morning when I couldn't have been more than six years old, and him noticing that my bedsheets were a little damp. He didn't even have to say two words. He knew that I knew I had messed up, and the disappointed look on his face, which clearly read 'you're too old for that' made me never want to allow that type of incident to occur again. And from that moment on I have tried to be conscientious of bladder-related hazards. Save for a few 'mistakes' here and there – such as a little league baseball game in which I was pitching where I slammed so much Gatorade between innings that I had to fake an injury on the mound in order to get some 'relief' – from the early years on I have done a pretty good job of not super-soaking my sheets. But, as I said, mistakes have been made. Moreover, I contend that controlling the bladder is not nearly the easiest thing in the world to do. Although it's usually a sub-conscious effort, it is still not a completely involuntary bodily function, like the beating of the heart, am I right? I liken the process of bladder control to the care-giving of an infant – one who needs unscheduled un-feedings several times a day and perhaps once at night, seven days a week, 365 days a year for the entirety of one's life. And if one forgets to unfeed one's bladder or if one is forced to unfeed it at an inappropriate time or place, humiliating but hilarious outcomes can occur. That all said, ultimately and unfortunately I am not writing in reference to unfortunate incidences in bladder control, but something even less acceptable in our society.

Last weekend the town of Itacaré celebrated their yearly Festa de São Miguel, which is the second largest party of the year, after Carnaval. This year the live music stage in the center of town featured several unoriginal musical performances - by way of a pair of repetitive, annoying, simplistic, beat-driven, Brazilian musical styles - called axé and arrocha, along with some fairly decent Brazilian raggae. Friday night was the second night of music lasting until around 4am, and I was ready to go! I met my friends - a Brazilian English teacher and a Portuguese couple - down at the port in front of the stage. There were lined up a score of stands selling capetas – a local drink made with an odd combination of ingredients, including cacao powder (from the locally grown cacaú fruit), acaí powder (a potent, uplifting berry from the amazon), lo-grade vodka, powdered milk, and blended with ice until it looks like a chocolate milkshake...with a kick. I only mention this drink as a possible excuse for future events. Maybe it was the capeta. Or maybe it was my favorite Bahian food, acarajé, which is a super spicy shrimp-stuffed pastry filled with and unnerving mix of various local sauces containing even more shrimp, a thick native palm oil called dendê, and lord only knows what else. Maybe it was the acarajé. Or maybe my moment had just arrived for no reason at all. Whatever the case, as I watched the show I suddenly had a strong urge to pee. So, following the lead of the locals, I hopped the seawall onto the city beach to find some privacy away from the stage and the quickly gathering masses of Itacareans and Brazilian tourists. As I let the juice loose on the dark beach I suddenly realized that there existed a much more urgent request hailing from the other side (read: the back side). "Sem problema," I thought. No problem. My pousada (hotel) is less than a half a click down the road. I will go and take care of business in a civilized, sanitary, and non-embarrassing manner.

Halfway home, walking merrily along, I realized my pace was going to need to quicken – but still, no problem. I am a grown man. One with control; the kind of control which has enabled me to prevent this variety of back-door catastrophe since before I could read – since before I can even remember – until my current age of 27. A streak of more than two decades was on the line! Sem problema. As I turned the key in the lock of the to my room I felt some relief. I had made it! But I was sadly mistaken. The 'relief' I felt was not emotional but physical; the relief had arrived in a more tangible, if stank-nastier form. What?! I was shocked…and humbled...and now running to the toilet with my jeans around my ankles. How did this shit go down without my permission?!

[Graphic scenes omitted]

Well, I thought, there is absolutely no sense in prolonging (or remembering, for that matter) this lamentable moment. I will just toss the jeans out (one less thing to carry in my pack), take a shower, head back to the party veiled in the same look of congeniality I wore when I left to pee and never think of or mention this crappy incident again (except on the front page of my website which is accessible to anyone in the world anywhere at any time). And so I did. The end.

What? What else do you want? That's everything that happened. Do you want a moral or something? Okay then, to recycle a quote from my favorite Alabamian, Forrest Gump, I learned that sometimes, despite anyone's best intentions, shit happens. As it turns out, the more people with whom I have been honest about 'the incident', the more who have responded with a pat on the back and a smile, "Aw, man, don't worry, (sh)it happens to everybody." Everybody? Well, either I am the last one or that is just not the truth. Maybe they are just trying to make me feel better or make me think that I fit in. But somehow I feel that this type of incident is more common than is addressed in our society. Or at least I hope so. I have friends to whom this type of thing has happened. Without revealing particular names (in order to not embarrass the other less-fortunate), but still to provide enough anecdotal evidence that it would be simple to elucidate the identity of my friend should you care to, one of my buddies had a nearly identical situation occur in another foreign country after a series of tough days, long nights and spicy foods. So are me and my friend in the minority? Or are we just normal humans experiencing interesting and jeans-darkening moments during the fantastic anomaly we call life? I don't know the answer but I just felt that writing the truth would set me free. So by putting this incident down on virtual paper, I am just, as they quip here in Bahia, Brazil, selling my fish the way I bought it.

Above: It’s hard to feel too crappy in this tropical paradise