Monday, January 17, 2011

Aca-PUKAN Para-Sailing




In 1988, my cousin & I went to
 Acapulco on vacation.



 
It was a disaster
from the minute we landed in paradise.






This place was a dive.
And not the good, Acapulco kind.



The hotel was disgusting &
they put us on the

2,012th Floor.








This was so helpful,
to have a bird's-eye view

of the Earth below.












 

The first day, we got up and went right into
the blazing rays of the Mexican sun.






While I am darker than my cousin






(actually, half & half is darker),






I managed to leave 3 layers
of my epidermis at that pool,

as we wore out the pool-side cabana boy,
bringing us tropical breakfast concoctions,
on a regular basis.






Not a good choice,
when you pass out on a lounger &
 wake up baked like a tortilla.








At first, we thought that we got
SOME NICE COLOR...








...until we got to the room.




The heat from the flame-thrower
was starting to come out…






...along with the sweats and screams of pain.






This was DAY ONE.






The next day, I decided that I wanted to go parasailing.


Bad Choice, #2,
on Day #2.


There were quality operators available
 right on the beach;
apparently,



I couldn't find one of those.



 







Instead, I got three
joint-rolling teenagers,
who stole a boat,
 a rope and a sheet,
and went into business.


I paid them the rate for a half hour ride.








 

They hooked me into a
 safety harness and
explained to me the
 necessary procedure
for becoming airborne.






I would have to
 run toward the water,
as the boat accelerated,
with the fervent hope 
that I'm dangling...



long before I'm drowning.











As I recall,
this was a bit frustrating,
to catch the wind.




When I'm finally aloft,
 I'm enjoying the view
for about a good, solid minute,


 





before the part of
the harness that is,
um,
UNDER ME,
starts to cut into me.








Sort of like those
 leather piece swings
that we had
when we were younger?






Never understood that design.




Any-who,
as I'm being eviscerated
by this piece of canvas
 that I'm sitting on,






 the boat changes direction,
but apparently...




the tow rope did not.









It's now lying diagonally 
across my face & neck,
cutting into my windpipe.


The line is so taut,
that I can not get
my fingers under it,
to free my throat.










My beloved cousin
is standing
at the water's edge,
taking pictures of my
 high-flying adventure.
I'm flailing my arms out,
desperate for oxygen &
she's f’ing waving
back at me,










like a parent continuously
 waves to their kid
on the merry go round,
regardless of how many times
they actually go around.










She FINALLY
 gets my sky-high message and
tells the guy on the beach,
who's holding the other end of the rope.




If she had a good camera,
with a powerful zoom lens...




 




 she could have clearly
made out my middle finger,
that I was pointing toward her &
 the driver of the boat.








Without the slightest
hint of fear that
I'll be filing a complaint with the
Mexican Better Business Bureau,


 



he gives the guy
 on the boat
the signal of a hand
 moving laterally
 from left to right,
across his throat.


 




This is the
Spanish translation for
'CUT THE ENGINE,
we're choking the Gringa.'






I feel the sudden

slack in the noose &
 like the

Coyote suspended in air,
off the cliff...










 I look down
 to the water,
 just before
 I drop like a rock,
into it.









That night,
we went to dinner at
an upscale place
 on the beach.




 



All of the
local children
wander the beach,
trying to score
 a wallet or two.





They sell Chiclets
to tourists and
 as I gave a little girl
a five dollar bill
for a pack of gum,
she attempted to remove
my watch from my wrist.



 




She couldn't have
 been more than
 4 or 5 years old.




 
We ordered dinner &
 when my grouper arrived,
it had

the head,
 the tail &
the whole f’ing nine yards.


 





 
His little blue eye
stared intently at me,




trying to guilt me
 out of eating him
(I thought his timing was a little silly, to be honest.)




I burst into tears and
cried my fish
right off of our table
(his plan actually worked!)


The waiter thought
I was loca en la cabeza,

 



but we'd already had enough.


I took out my
expensive gum and
called it a meal.









The next night,
 the cracker-jack concierge
screwed up
our reservations
 at a nice place and
our only shot at actually eating
was to opt for the local
booze cruise.











At the Day 3 marker,





my Mexican enthusiasm
was getting
a little shaky and
in dressing for
 our night out,
I put on my best pair
 of denim shorts,
grabbed my cousin and
 hailed a taxi.









We climbed into
 the back of the cab.





When we see
 that the driver has
sweat rushing out of his hair,






we roll down the windows.









After Pedro
asks for our destination,







he goes from 0 to 130,

 instantly.




The smell of
burning rubber,
in addition to the naturally
 fragrant aroma
 of Aca-Puko, itself, 








has me weighing
 the difference
 between gagging or
 having my hair plastered
to my head
for the rest of the evening.








The mood in the cab was
 dark and dreary.






We both instantly
 light our cigarettes &
drag on them deeply,


 




 as the Mexican wind
whipped across our faces.








Pedro Andretti
is driving
 soooo fast,
that every word
Francie and I
said to each other,
had an echo effect.






I can't make out
 what Francie was saying,
but by the
pained look on her face,











I could string together
 the concept
that something was amiss.



"Ouch,"

came out of MY mouth,




 



as I turned to
my loving cousin and
told her that
her cigarette ash had flown
into my skin and burned me.


"No, it's your
cigarette ash that hit me!"



"Ouch, Ouch, Ouch,"
said we, in familial solidarity.




After we simultaneously
flicked our butts
out of the cab,
the ouching continued.



We were
both being attacked,
as if a pack of
Killer Mexican bees
 had been
sucked into the vent.







I looked down and
 was stunned
to see a multitude of
multi-colored thumbtacks
 on my lap.


 

As I stared incoherently
 at them,
I felt the same
 confused look
 on my face that the
female pedestrian
 in the crosswalk had,
when he clocked her, 
after barreling through the 
traffic light (the red one). 







She didn't remain
 there for long,
as her next move
 was to bounce off
the side of the cab.




 




It was mind-boggling
 that Fran and I
were the only two characters
in this asinine story
 that were horrified...






and screaming.



Neither our killer chaffeur,
nor the pedestrian-victim 
batted an eye.



She simply made
 violent contact with
 the front of the cab,
bounced off the side, 
bounced a little more,
 and landed nicely upright.









She gave a little jiggle
 to her entire body,
as if to shake off
 the internal bleeding and
her broken extremities: 


And then SHE KEPT WALKING!
She didn't look back.
She didn't scream and curse,
although I tried
offering her expletives
 in my broken
 High School Spanish. 






She didn't jump through
 the driver's window and
choke the crap out of him,
although I lunged for his throat.

SHE JUST KEPT WALKING!


I returned my attention
 to the thumbtacks. 


When he was finished
mowing people down,
he reaccelerated,
reigniting the
stinging sensations.



When I thought
a bee was in my hair,
I looked up and 
suddenly thought that
someone had
 thrown a hood over my head.




 



Just as we arrived
at the dock for
 The Love Boat,



 




the fabric from
the roof of the cab
was sitting on my head, 
since the thumbtacks
 that were holding it in place
 now completely littered
 the floor at our feet.

He looked very confused

as I screamed some of that
High School Spanish at him.








I think I erroneously
 called him
a horse's goat,
 instead of an ass.



He was not paid
for the fare, but I
 generously tipped him.....



....in colored thumbtacks.



As we boarded the boat,
I dragged a waiter with us



 


and gave him strict,
New York orders
that he was not
to attend to anyone
else's needs or
he'd be fish-food.









When the emcee
 for the evening
announced that
 he needed a volunteer
 to do tequila shots with him,




I was his girl.










They took pictures,
as we drained
 the boat of alcohol and
dreamed of being air-lifted to
St. Thomas.









On the escape-flight
back to New York,

 






we had a
 honeymooning couple
sitting next to us.





The wife had
 been permanently scarred by
the authenticity
of Mexican life:



She looked dead in her seat,
while snoring out of control.


 




The husband and I
struck up a
conversation and
over multiple rounds
 of alcoholic beverages, 










decided that Mexico
was so f’ing awful,



 




that when we passed through
Customs at JFK,
that we would
bow down
 in homage
 to our beloved





United States












& kiss the filthy ground.









~SusiElPukeyJ~