the why and the where
A Letter From J.D. Holiday
words by J.D. Holiday
illustration by Carlin Bennett
A Letter From J.D. Holiday
words by J.D. Holiday
illustration by Carlin Bennett
On the other side of the gate, things quickly descended into chaos.
Personal space issues vary wildly across this planet. Where in Taiwan people wait in precise, silent rows to retrieve their baggage, Ecuadorians approach it like a Motorhead mosh pit.
Caught up in the moment, I spotted my huge olivine bag not far up the belt. What the hell, I thought as I wedged and waded my way through the tangle of bodies pressed against the conveyor. I watched another fellow attempt to grab his bag, get forced over in the crush, and actually hop on the moving belt with his luggage, surfing for clearer waters. With a Machiavellian boldness, I managed to hoist free my worldly possessions and make for the exit. Customs, however, have a way of catching you off guard.
As I lugged my effects toward the x-ray machine that marks the final threshold, a small brown guard with a convincing mustache stopped me with a series of confusing gestures. Revealing my documentation, I showed him my weathered boarding pass. With pride I displayed my inky passport, but these items meant nothing to him. “No! No!” He pointed to my bag, moving his hands like he were dealing cards.
“Baggage ticket?” I asked, now mimicking his gestures and nodding like an idiot.
He nodded back, his eyebrows saying, “Yes, you idiot.”
I didn’t have one. For a moment, sweaty recollections of customs past played their horrid symphonies over my nerves. I reeled in terror, knowing that my frantic searching was in vain. I pleaded with the mustache man. “I don’t have it,” I said, offering an I’m-just-an-idiot expression. In that moment, we both realized the absurdity of the suggestion that anyone would smuggle anything from Hawaii to Ecuador, or that I would steal this particularly battered rucksack. He sniffed his mustache in disgust, and fanned me away like a bad smell. Piling my bags on the x-ray, I laughed to see that no one was even watching the monitor.
Far more difficult and potentially deadly than customs was my attendance of a local soccer game, accompanied by some local friends and their fathers, along with 53,000 other passionate Ecuadorians. Brief introductions were made after we parked the cars along a steep road that ran down to the stadium. I met Cesar junior, and his father, Cesar the first, a graying, though sprightly little chap of about sixty, well dressed and well built at 5´4´´. We walked briskly to the stadium, bartered for our tickets, and stepped through a gate into an orderly line.
This isn’t so bad, I thought. But by the time we got to the end of the line our group had reached some sort of crisis. Although I didn’t understand much of what was being said, it became clear that this line was not a line for us, and I followed the sterling but surprisingly spry Cesar senior over a small fence. Now we were in some sort of bull run, teeming with frenzied soccer fans and a row of police on horseback, their mounts lined up along another fence, this one about six feet high. Before I realized what was happening, Cesar had again deeked through the crowd, between the nervous horses, and was half way over the fence before a cop caught him by the belt. Half folded over the fence, restrained thusly by his pants, he and the cop had a short but impassioned discussion, which resulted in him being released to hop over the barrier and scamper on through the crowd like some fantastic Narnian dwarf.
Frozen for a moment in utter amazement, I missed the sight of my friends also booting it over the fence. “Why did I buy a ticket?” I thought, as I defied my rural upbringing to dash behind a panicked horse, its wide eyes white with terror. I spun, I dodged, I weaved, and I leapt over the fence, landing inches from a uniformed cop restraining a huge, slathering dog. Cop and dog both voiced their displeasure. Muttering a “lo siento” I retreated, and again with my idiot eyes, made good my escape.
The final entrance to the Stadium, where my ticket was indeed required, proved uneventful, but for the sight of a large, stooped black man, perhaps seventy or more, selling flags with the team logo on them. His resonant, molasses voice was rhythmic, chanting “Marijuan-ea… Marijuan-ea...hay, hay aqui... marijuan-ea...” What could it all mean? There were children, parents, grandparents and police milling everywhere, so even though I’d been jonesing since Oahu, I didn’t attempt to find out.
Personal space issues vary wildly across this planet. Where in Taiwan people wait in precise, silent rows to retrieve their baggage, Ecuadorians approach it like a Motorhead mosh pit.
Caught up in the moment, I spotted my huge olivine bag not far up the belt. What the hell, I thought as I wedged and waded my way through the tangle of bodies pressed against the conveyor. I watched another fellow attempt to grab his bag, get forced over in the crush, and actually hop on the moving belt with his luggage, surfing for clearer waters. With a Machiavellian boldness, I managed to hoist free my worldly possessions and make for the exit. Customs, however, have a way of catching you off guard.
As I lugged my effects toward the x-ray machine that marks the final threshold, a small brown guard with a convincing mustache stopped me with a series of confusing gestures. Revealing my documentation, I showed him my weathered boarding pass. With pride I displayed my inky passport, but these items meant nothing to him. “No! No!” He pointed to my bag, moving his hands like he were dealing cards.
“Baggage ticket?” I asked, now mimicking his gestures and nodding like an idiot.
He nodded back, his eyebrows saying, “Yes, you idiot.”
I didn’t have one. For a moment, sweaty recollections of customs past played their horrid symphonies over my nerves. I reeled in terror, knowing that my frantic searching was in vain. I pleaded with the mustache man. “I don’t have it,” I said, offering an I’m-just-an-idiot expression. In that moment, we both realized the absurdity of the suggestion that anyone would smuggle anything from Hawaii to Ecuador, or that I would steal this particularly battered rucksack. He sniffed his mustache in disgust, and fanned me away like a bad smell. Piling my bags on the x-ray, I laughed to see that no one was even watching the monitor.
Far more difficult and potentially deadly than customs was my attendance of a local soccer game, accompanied by some local friends and their fathers, along with 53,000 other passionate Ecuadorians. Brief introductions were made after we parked the cars along a steep road that ran down to the stadium. I met Cesar junior, and his father, Cesar the first, a graying, though sprightly little chap of about sixty, well dressed and well built at 5´4´´. We walked briskly to the stadium, bartered for our tickets, and stepped through a gate into an orderly line.
This isn’t so bad, I thought. But by the time we got to the end of the line our group had reached some sort of crisis. Although I didn’t understand much of what was being said, it became clear that this line was not a line for us, and I followed the sterling but surprisingly spry Cesar senior over a small fence. Now we were in some sort of bull run, teeming with frenzied soccer fans and a row of police on horseback, their mounts lined up along another fence, this one about six feet high. Before I realized what was happening, Cesar had again deeked through the crowd, between the nervous horses, and was half way over the fence before a cop caught him by the belt. Half folded over the fence, restrained thusly by his pants, he and the cop had a short but impassioned discussion, which resulted in him being released to hop over the barrier and scamper on through the crowd like some fantastic Narnian dwarf.
Frozen for a moment in utter amazement, I missed the sight of my friends also booting it over the fence. “Why did I buy a ticket?” I thought, as I defied my rural upbringing to dash behind a panicked horse, its wide eyes white with terror. I spun, I dodged, I weaved, and I leapt over the fence, landing inches from a uniformed cop restraining a huge, slathering dog. Cop and dog both voiced their displeasure. Muttering a “lo siento” I retreated, and again with my idiot eyes, made good my escape.
The final entrance to the Stadium, where my ticket was indeed required, proved uneventful, but for the sight of a large, stooped black man, perhaps seventy or more, selling flags with the team logo on them. His resonant, molasses voice was rhythmic, chanting “Marijuan-ea… Marijuan-ea...hay, hay aqui... marijuan-ea...” What could it all mean? There were children, parents, grandparents and police milling everywhere, so even though I’d been jonesing since Oahu, I didn’t attempt to find out.