A Fecal Farewell

Twenty four hours had passed since Shrimp and I had adhered ourselves to each other's company. Not a long time by any means, but I'd already begun to question her motives. Did I have reason for this suspicion? I wasn't sure. I couldn't pinpoint what was awry, but our conversations weren't quite... fluid. Something was missing. Our day-to-day banter, while upbeat and excited, was... forced? Lacking? Whatever -  I didn't want to spend any time figuring it out - I had a country to see! If problems would manifest, they would do it of their own accord. I wasn't ruining my trip by being over-analytical.

Well, not yet, at least - but history likes to repeat itself.

Maybe it wasn't Shrimp - maybe the excitement of our journey was being diluted by the fact that I was looking forward to detoxing from a six month heroin binge. I'd just eaten the last of my kratom (a wonderful herb from southeast Asia) that was easing my would-be withdrawals, ate my last ativan (my anxiety medication prescribed by the ol' Doc which I didn't want to fly with since my name had worn off my med bottle) and was ready to face the music.

We spent our last night in Canada at Shrimp's sister's house with her and her brother. Their family was reunited. I felt like an outcast, listening to them share gossip of people I'd never heard of before and laugh in the tight-knit way that only a comfortable family can do. The only thing tight-knit about me were my intertwined. The floor didn't even pay any attention to me, so I serenaded the room with some soothing guitar in a malicious attempt to send them all to sleep.

Alcohol needs no excuses.

It didn't work, but something strange happened that night. Be it the alcohol, the deceptive intent behind my music scheme, or a fucking perverse poltergeist, I found myself rudely awakened after we'd gone to bed. I wasn't woken up in the couch where I'd passed out though, nay - I was awoken to Shrimp's brother and sister, shouting at me through half-opened eyes and pulling me by the wrist through a door I didn't recognize.

I was so baffled and haggard that I couldn't even get a word in edgewise. Turns out the door they were pulling me was the neighbour's. Turns out they were yelling at me for something I'd later find hilarious.

I didn't remember any of this though. I woke up the next morning early with a sense of disorientation, discomfort, and a rampant desire to take a shit (this is necessary for the furthering of this story.) I shat. Turns out, Shrimp's sister's toilet was clogged. I didn't know this until post-shit. I fiddled around with the bulb in the back (and fiddled might be an overstatement - my hangover was aggressively inhibiting my ability to function) to no avail until I heard Shrimp awaken. I sidled out of the bathroom.

"We've gotta go." She didn't seem happy with me.

"The toilet's clogged." I noted an undertone in her voice. "You okay?"

"Am I okay? You broke into our neighbour's house to try and take a shit last night!"

My gaze flatlined. My brain hesitated before bursting out into the only response I could consider - laughter. "Really?"

My laugh bounced off her and landed in the toilet with my shit. She didn't smile. "Yes."

"Well, damn. On top of that, I just clogged your sister's toilet. She's really not going to like me."

"That doesn't matter. Let's go."

So, we went. Thanks, Sister of Shrimp, for your hospitality. I'm sorry I left such a shitty memory.

At least the adrenaline rush of our fecal escapades left me nearly oblivious to one hindrance: I was supposed to be going through withdrawals. Oh well.

Time to catch our fight..

BLACK & UNLICENSED - EP. 2

Drinking hard, or hardly working? Wait..

I always say that a true friend is one you can reunite with after eons and feel like no time has passed, and that's certainly how I felt when I rejoined forces with my old friend: spontaneity. Working full-time had left us unacquainted; my only chances to unite with spontaneity had been on belligerent

(albeit routine) jaunts on weekends. Our drunken relationshipwas entertaining, but somewhat lacking. 

This changed quickly.

At the first mention of the word 'backpacking,' I backflipped out the back window of the kitchen I worked at whilst tossing my two-week notice (deftly folded into a paper airplane) at my boss,  thus sacrificing my bond to the dish pit for
at least a month.

I was eager to link arms with spontaneity and plunge off society's diving board - back into the ocean of freedom.

Shrimp, my soon-to-be travel partner, had conversed with me a total of three times in the past. One of those times ended up in us - gasp - sleeping together. Another of those times had resulted in us deciding to tether ourselves together for a month as we climbed and cavorted and crawled across vast and unfamiliar central American landscapes. The latter was, obviously, the most recent discourse.

Any travelling veteran can spot the idiocy of this decision. Travel partners should be meticulously chosen, if at all. Many prefer to travel in solitude and rely on the beauty and unfamiliarity of those they meet on the road to keep them socially satiated. In hindsight, I'm pretty sure I did realize the folly. The looming call of adventure, however, was working to convince me that Shrimp and I got along much better than we actually did.

Whatever - I had itchy fucking feet and I didn't care who I went traveling with or to where.

Today was our fourth time conversing. We met under the romantic overhang of my landlord's dripping garage and babbled relentlessly about a much more pleasant overhang of palm leaves and sombreros. We checked off our prerequisites, making sure to re-test our sexual compatibility. We rocked my van back and forth for a while as a farewell salutation, much to the displeasure of any innocent viewers who could be reading any travel journals I might write one daywrite about this evening. Alright. Compatible, to some degree. This wasn't a jackhammer splitting wet asphalt (jesus christ, sorry for the graphic metaphor. I told you that any readers would be displeased)but it wasn't like trying to screw in lag bolts with a Philips head either - we could have fun.

We'll get 'er started... I promise

We passed out together that night in my camper van, having packed our bags and readied everything for the morning. Well, we didn't sleep together, per se, but slept close to each other. Sort of. We weren't cuddling, but we weren't in different beds. I think we shared a blanket. Even if we had been in different beds, though, we wouldn't have been much further apart.

I quickly began overanalyzing sleeping postures and calculated our impending travel relationship. Her right shin grazed my thigh; she'd be affectionate but not too clingy. My back pressed up againsther shoulder and she rolled onto her back, bicep thudding ontomy side - there would be discrepancies, oh yes - many discrepancies. A snore - arguments. Two snores - fights. Three snores - uh oh. 

One of us would be dead by the first week.

Despite impending death, six AM rolled around and wereadied to ;eave. Blaring alarm clock shrieks rolled around the van. Me and Shimp rolled out of bed; jumbled thoughts rolled around my brain. We climbed into the front seats, my thoughts steadying themselves enough for me to realize how excited I was. Shrimp was up and at 'em; yammering excitedly about the prospects of the journey. My eyes were glazed and I felt like I was watching the world through a broken set of binoculars. 

Mornings were not my fortè, and this morning acknowledged that and chose to mock me. The van wouldn't start. I tried the ignition a good half dozen times in the stupid semi conscious state that everyone seems to fall into when their vehicle won't start. A million thoughts coursed through my 

mind. 

It's too good to be true. 

I'm dreaming. 

This trip's not happening.

Another episode of BLACK AND UNLICENSED: DESTROYING THE ASSROADS OF NANAIMO.

Shrimp's going to hate me. This is my fault. She's going without me.

I wish I was stuffing my face with boobs.

I'm an idiot. Why hadn't we checked the batteries?

Fortunately, Shrimp's morning amiability (or other such optimistic synonyms for excessive blathering) was inherited from her father who was more than eager to come jumpstart my van. He was there by quarter after - before the glaze on my eyes had even settled - we were at Shrimp's house by six thirty where I left my van parked, and her mom had dropped us off at the ferry terminal by eight. The sun had hardly risen. I mocked its slow pace and sauntered onto the boat, carried by an adventurous ego and lighthearted Shrimpy yapping.

The island waved to me as it always did when I embarked on another journey. I was awake enough now to grin a bit as Shrimp and I leaned against the ferry's upper railing, watching Vancouver Island shrink in size while forever retaining its majesty.

Goodbye, home. I'll see you in a couple months!

...so I thought.

An Old Crutch for my Spirit's Broken Legs

It had only been half a year since I'd returned from my last cross-country hike. Half of a damn slow, mundane, and self-deprecating year. Six months, and I was already completely sick of Nanaimo.. I needed to be free. Free from my solitude, free from societal chains, free from the pallid life I'd built for myself.


Nanaimo had been great when I'd first returned; it always was. One with enough patience to dig through the crusty exterior of Nanaimo's scene will find a endless wealth of love - and a reunion with that kind of love is impossible not to enjoy. A reunion fades quickly though, and while the love never faded, my connection with it did.

The Sweet, Sweet Home Harbour 

I tripped over my own life. I stumbled and fell for months, deep into the dankest of pits populated with the masochistic musings of my own psyche. I became stuck in the stagnant and painful grip of addiction, I was tossed into a destructive whirlwind of abusive friendships.

The sun was shining, but down here at rock bottom I could barely see the rays.

So, needless to say, I was eager to jump free at the first opportunity that presented itself. I didn't care with whom - and this was a bad decision. Any seasoned traveler will attest to this - if you're embarking on a closeknit journey with any one individual, make sure you know them damn well.. Even the tightest of kin will discover dark parts about their other half when they're stuck on the highway, stressed and thirsty, being flogged by sunlight and mocked by the laughing engines of passing cars,
So distraught was I that I didn't care. I wanted out, wanderlust had me gripped by the balls. So, when Shrimp and I were halfway through a bottle of Jagermeister, a conversation stumbled between our half-slacked lips and changed our lives forever.

"Guess what - I'm going to Central America soon!"

"Yeah? Cool. Hah - I'll come with you." A brief stumble.

"Hell yeah! Do it!"

Consciousness soon eluded me. I'm sure we spoke more of the idea that night, but I'll never remember. Drunken promises are made to be broken. Regardless, I woke up the next morning fortified by the prospect of travel and messaged Shrimp over Facebook to see if she still remembered the plan. It seemed that she, too, was just as curious.

Turns out, we were both a hundred percent into it.

I quit my job the next day, sent half my paycheck to Shrimp and watched her turn it into a plane ticket. I had $300 left in my pocket, a heart full of promises, and a week and a half to kick an addiction I'd been struggling with for five months and to say goodbye to the only ones I loved enough to help me do that - to set out across five different countries with a stranger I'd only met twice (albeit very drunken and intimately.)

Things were finally getting interesting.