September 25, 1978

Pacific Southwest Airlines Flight 182

San Diego, CA

Fatalities: 144 (7 on ground)

Pre-Mortem One-Liner: “Tower, we’re going down. This is PSA. Mom, I love you.”

Ruthless Reminders: Oblivious Cessna pilot tunes out and crashes his small plane into an airliner. Just three years earlier, Airport 1975 predicted this exact scenario. Stubbornly, PSA refused to hire Charlton Heston as a pilot, leading to what at the time was the worst air disaster in American history. To date, no crash has produced so chilling a photograph. Sure, except for that 9/11 thing.

March 23, 1994

Aeroflot Airlines Flight 593

Mezhdurechensk, Russia

Fatalities: 75

Pre-Mortem One-Liner: “Boy, take over. Is okay. Da, da. Nyet! Ny…”

Ruthless Reminders: In behavior so typically Russian as to be a parody of their scoundrel race, the pilot allowed his 15-year-old son to take the controls of a fucking airliner, presumably while he got drunk, took a nap, and ogled flight attendants. It’s still unclear. Predictably, the kid unknowingly activated the autopilot, which led to a series of oh-so-Russian blunders. Apparently, it was not just like his black market Nintendo simulator. Fortunately, the disaster was swiftly replaced in the public’s imagination by the following week’s Aeroflot mishap.

December 7, 1987

Pacific Southwest Airlines Flight 1771

Cayucos, California

Fatalities: 43

Pre-Mortem One-Liner: Gunman – “We have a problem.” Pilot – “What kind of problem?” Gunman – “I’m the problem.” (shots fired)

Ruthless Reminders: David Burke, a disgruntled ex-employee recently fired for stealing 69 lousy, goddamn dollars, burst into the cockpit, shot the crew, and crashed the plane at over 700 mph. Though cowardly and despicable, Mr. Burke is one of the few real-life madmen who ever died like an 80s Action villain.

October 31, 1999

Egypt Air Flight 990

Atlantic Ocean

Fatalities: 217

Pre-Mortem One-Liner: “I rely on God…I rely on God…I rely on God.”

Ruthless Reminders: Gameel Al-Batouti, a suicidal first officer, deliberately crashed the plane into the sea because, according to investigators, he had been reprimanded for “inappropriate behavior” at a NYC hotel. Chalk up another 200+ victims to the Muslim male’s inability to deal with an erect penis.

November 1, 1955

United Airlines Flight 629

Longmont, CO

Fatalities: 44

Pre-Mortem One-Liner: “No, ma, this suitcase.”

Ruthless Reminders: John Gilbert Graham, unhappy since childhood, blew up the plane to collect insurance money on his mother, who was safely tucked aboard the aircraft. Unfortunately, so were 43 others. Pretty routine Freudianism, made hilarious by Graham’s words regarding the innocent passengers who also died: “Everybody pays their way and takes their chances. That’s just the way it goes.”

Without the guiding myth of an extraterrestrial encounter, the town of Roswell, N.M., would rapidly dissolve into the desert. Tucked away in a particularly hellish corner of the state, it is a town clinging to the past, both in terms of the infamous “incident” from 1947, and in its approach to the tedium of daily living. As it is impossible to arrive in this groaning, lifeless burg unless through sheer idiotic intent, there isn’t a person to be encountered who isn’t obsessed with aliens, UFOs, science fiction, and space travel. The town itself fully understands this one-trick-pony appeal, and as such has decorated street lights, signs, restaurants, and other buildings with the expected little green men. Still, despite the utter devotion to its only claim to fame, Roswell surprises the first-timer by mixing a healthy dose of New Age flower power and evangelical Christianity into the mix, peppering the otherwise lonely streets with biblical passages, Jesus-themed restaurants, and loony gurus in flowing robes. Oddly enough, these three seemingly disparate elements often commingle with effortless glee, as when the occasional passerby sports both an alien mask and a massive crucifix necklace. Sure, such people could be bowing to the inevitable pressure of inhabiting an otherwise worthless shithole that lives or dies by the dollars of ridiculous tourists, but after a bagel sandwich lunch in the Not of This World Café, I began to wonder. Perhaps the Christian factions had already learned how to live with the aliens by re-imagining them as angels, who will continue to visit earthlings in whatever manner they choose. “Watch the skies,” then, becomes a mantra that can be embraced by more than those who surrender their sanity in the face of abductions, autopsies, and military conspiracies.

It seems absurd on its face to visit Roswell while holding a deep skepticism about that mysterious event 60 summers ago, but how else to appreciate the lunacy of a true pop culture phenomenon? Regardless of the truth or fiction of the alleged crash and cover-up, the very name “Roswell” is known throughout the world, and is arguably one of the few about which nearly everyone holds an opinion. Even those who take great pains to distance themselves from the true believers might accept a conspiracy in this case, largely because it seems so reasonable. Of course the military would hide all evidence of an alien crash, and it is a narrative that appeals to those who love a good villain and have a deep need to believe we are not alone in the universe. Mention the town even briefly, and within seconds, the conversation is likely to turn in the direction of hangars, tight-lipped generals, bribed farmers, and deathbed confessions. Even a committed debunker like myself takes such flights of fancy, and as I neared the town’s outskirts, I was overwhelmed with the standard imagery of the event. And yet, after a brief driving tour of Main Street and its arteries, the standard clichés were quickly replaced by a startling disillusionment. Yes, this is a tourist trap; it knows its place, after all. But the dusty, lonely poverty belies the image outsiders may hold, and through the window of my car, the expected kitsch seemed secondary to the shocking blight. Despite all of the money that has poured into the area because of “the crash” and its subsequent exploitation, none of it seems to have been spent on basic upkeep, repair, or overall improvement. A few modern conveniences aside, this could still be 1947; a wasteland forever locked in time and unwilling to move forward.

No greater evidence of this “entertainment on the cheap” approach is to be found than with the International UFO Museum and Research Center on Main Street. Acting as the central hub for the entire festival, it is a serious-minded, “academic” hotspot that just happens to resemble a sixth-grader’s science fair project writ large. Along the side of the great hall, shabby displays chronicle the crash evidence and cover-up, apparently assuming that people drive hundreds of miles to stand slack-jawed in front of cheap particle board and crooked signs. Perhaps I was wrong to expect bright lights, interactive displays, and crisp photography, but who knew that the public face of the world’s most famous close encounter would resort to crappy discs wrapped in foil and pushpin maps? There’s also a “library” section with a few tattered tomes, as well as the skull of some Star Child, which was apparently a big deal, but failed to generate anything other than an indifferent shrug. If it’s not important enough to feature in one of the main rooms, after all, how important can it really be? The tour of the facility might take 10 minutes if you’re being kind and generous, but at a normal, brisk pace, a person could get the hell out of there in under three. The only place that takes any amount of time at all is the final stop, a “recreation” of the infamous alien autopsy. It’s fake and silly and cheesy all at the same time, but there’s something endearing about it, as there’s no doubt that at least a few members of the chattering crowd pressing against the thick glass confused it for the real thing. Seems impossible, but later events would bear out my initial hunch.

The museum, in addition to housing a depleted and chaotic gift shop, featured the expected photo booth, whereby assorted rubes could plunk down 10 to 20 dollars to be Photoshopped into scenes of abduction and “witnessing” the crash. During the festival, however, its main purpose was to house numerous lectures and video programs, including such luminaries as Ann Robinson from the original War of the Worlds, who stood behind a makeshift booth selling autographed lobby cards and yammering away about the Bible. For the few minutes I observed the red-headed kook, she debated a bearded titan about the Gospel of Judas, while never being forced to pause for the non-existent admirers who failed to line up for her wares. If the woman has done anything since that classic film of over 50 years ago, no one seemed to care, least of all Ms. Robinson herself, who strolled through the hall in a flowing red dress as if in a trance. If I had to guess, I’d say this was her first public appearance in decades. Outside of this overpowering star power, the hall was packed to the gills with self-published authors and documentary filmmakers thrust from obscurity, thanks to the ever-present iMac. They had books on other crashes, harrowing tales of abduction, government plots, hybrids, planetary war, and the usual supermarket aisle fiction. Anything and everything was for sale, and the trade show atmosphere seemed altogether unseemly in a holy shrine devoted to scholarly research. Curiously, just about every author on the floor offered to sign their books, as if all any red-blooded American’s autograph collection lacked was some obsessive shut-in’s anonymous scrawl. Though I wasn’t present throughout the days when these people manned the floor, I don’t remember the massive piles of books getting any smaller. In defense of the crowds, though, I imagine they already blew their wads on t-shirts, bumper stickers, and fake driver’s licenses from the planet Voltran.

The first lecture I attended, entitled “Mutual UFO Network,” was presented by the gushing Mark Easter. Packed into the so-called “Video Room” (a large closet with AV hookups), it was a mess from the word go, as the PowerPoint presentation stopped, started, stopped again, and did everything but blow up. According to a quick briefing prior to the presentation, I learned that MUFON was a group founded in 1969, whereby patriotic American citizens could report sightings, document evidence, and chat about the aliens among us. Thinking, therefore, that the chat would feature testimony, photographs, and dramatic anecdotes of contact, I settled in for the excitement ahead. Instead, amid the error-prone computer, Mr. Easter, my personal selection as the worst public speaker I have ever heard, quickly adopted the persona of an army recruiter and instead of evidence or personal stories, harassed us repeatedly with pleas to join the MUFON team. Alternating between boyish and orgasmic, Easter hammered home the group’s non-profit status, while failing to mention that the membership dues were likely the equivalent of the average yearly mortgage. In a truly silly turn, Easter acted as if the ability to access an evidence archive on the internet was as mind-blowing as interplanetary travel itself, and he used this occasion to once again remind listeners that the archive was accessible only through an exclusive password. About the time he got around to actual documentation (a terrible picture that could have been anything from sun glare to overexposure), I was drained. Nodding off, I was quickly grabbed by my wife and we ran from the video room as if our lives depended on a hasty exit.

What of the other lectures that first night? “Crop Circles and Fractal Alien Geometry” was featured in the library, “Alien Implants: The Fact, the Mistaken, & the Fiction” charmed audiences upstairs, and “The Alien Hauntings at Roswell” later packed ‘em in the Video Room. That night, much to my dismay, I also missed the parking lot dance with the Route 66 Cruisers, who had the misfortune of playing in back of the museum, unlike War and The Alan Parsons Project, who tore down the house in Roswell’s Wool Bowl Complex. In all fairness, though, I spent my Friday night with author Nick Redfern, who was peddling his book, “Body Snatchers in the Desert: The Horrible Truth of the Roswell Incident.” Unlike the museum talks, this gathering cost $10 apiece, which seemed reasonable, given that I expected to hear about alien orgies and hybrids in our midst. Instead, and much to my surprise, I was treated to the one genuinely eye-opening experience of the festival, and am now armed with a theory that makes more sense than any previously offered. Redfern, a bald British lad with charisma to burn, spoke for about 90 minutes, not about “body snatchers” in the expected sense, but rather an explanation for Roswell that would shake the conspiracy community to its foundations if it had any desire to move beyond the standard “answers.” In a nutshell, Redfern believes that a craft did in fact crash in the New Mexico desert, but rather than otherworldly, it had its origins on our very own planet, though with more insidious connotations.

With a reasonable, well-mannered delivery, Redfern explained the history of the area, putting us directly in the context of 1947. Think about it, he said: Nearby, we not only had the Roswell Air Force base, but White Sands and Los Alamos, where numerous nuclear tests were conducted. As subsequent documentation has demonstrated, the United States military was heavily involved in radiation experiments and propulsion technology, and in a similar fashion to Operation Paperclip, where the U.S. secured the knowledge and participation of ex-Nazi scientists, our government also worked with scientists from Japan (who themselves participated in the infamous Unit 731, a group that helped torture Chinese prisoners). Based on documents and eyewitness testimony, Redfern describes using Japanese Progeria victims in high-altitude experiments, up to and including bizarre aircraft that would have looked much like the stereotypical flying saucers of old. The same type of research was taking place at an Oak Ridge, Tenn., facility, which also has the distinction of being a hotbed of UFO sightings. Based on the Japanese Fugo bombing balloons used during World War II, American scientists wanted to couple that technology with more radical designs that could be used against the Soviet Union. They key here, of course, is the use of the Progeria patients, as they not only would have looked like “little green men” to the untrained eye, but would not have been missed, and as such were the perfect guinea pigs. And let’s also remember that nearby Fort Stanton was a Japanese internment camp, which also housed the mentally retarded and the diseased. Could not the unwitting “pilots” also have been plucked from this source?

Of course, the talk was teeming with paranoia, wild accusations, and criminal cover-ups, but given that it’s all but a certainty that something crashed in the New Mexico desert, which is more likely: a benign weather balloon, a disc from another world, or an experimental craft that housed former prisoners of war? Surely the desire to distort the facts would be as great with the latter version, and it could be argued that of all the stories, it alone is the most damaging if revealed to be true. Sure, the discovery of aliens might cause a panic in some neighborhoods, but in light of Tuskegee and other abhorrent government projects, how might the public react to the deliberate killing of human beings for scientific research? Given the reaction to the Nazi’s very own Dr. Mengele and his house of horrors, would Uncle Sam ever recover his credibility in light of such brutal abuses of power? Redfern also scored points by stating that he refuses to accuse anyone of lying, even the recently departed Walter Haut, who stated in a sworn affidavit that he saw “the bodies” from a distance. Redfern agrees that he saw bodies, but could they not have been the very sort he described in his own chat? Again, it’s all about how one interprets the facts as they see them. Had this mysterious craft crashed in Ohio, the case might lean in the alien direction. But within shouting distance of the military industrial complex and the very warehouses of key nuclear age research? What is more likely? It’s not the final story, of course, but to date, it’s the most satisfying case to stand toe to toe with the conspiracy buffs who dominate so much of the conversation.

Feeling liberated from the oft-told tale that so defines Roswell as a whole, I did the next logical thing and went to the Alien Encounter Haunted House, located in a building that, from the front, appeared to be condemned. The back wasn’t much better, but it was only $5 and a short line to boot, so why not? Besides, the bloodcurdling screams from up ahead and down below promised a bit of excitement with which to wrap up the day. Entering a shabby, Hefty-bag-laden warehouse, we were given hospital wristbands (this was sponsored by the Eastern New Mexico Medical Center, after all) and told to wait our turn in the “Star Wars-inspired cantina,” which pushes the very definition of the word “inspired” to new levels. Let me explain “told,” as well. We didn’t really want to walk down a dark staircase to some nasty hole, but upon turning around, we were once again instructed to get down to the cantina with a tone that was unmistakably threatening. So down we went, and much to our horror, it was an actual basement with even more garbage bags lining the walls. The Empire Strikes Back was playing on the far wall, though the sound was drowned out by loud, unintelligible music. In each corner, behind some sagging beams, stood the “bartenders,” who, rather then being dressed as actual Star Wars characters, wore generic costumes that included antennas. In addition to some liquid that might have passed for flat Cherry 7-Up, these people were selling glow wristbands to the faithful. After a few minutes, our turn came and we were escorted back up the stairs, thankful to have escaped the moldy smell and chirping teenagers.

The haunted house itself was the usual collection of strobe lights, rubber insects, and ominous howls. Many of the rooms were nothing more than severed arms and nitwits grabbing you from behind curtains, but it was all worth it to watch my normally tough-minded wife reduced to a screaming banshee. Disoriented and pushed along like a pinball, she was poked, prodded, tripped, and bullied, and I loved every minute if it. But I charged ahead, leading a small pack of three chicks, proud to be the only one present willing to confront alien autopsies and chainsaw-wielding kids being paid minimum wage, if at all. Water bottles squirted us from odd angles, raw meat slammed against glass panels, and random voices cried out for mercy from the din. In all, it was sorely lacking in alien encounters, even if the birth scene produced the most convincing performances by the resident talent. Giant cockroaches are good for the wee ones, but are they really in the spirit of the festival? And was that really a guy wearing a hockey mask? You gets what you pays for, of course, but after a time, these bargain-basement productions may prove to be Roswell’s downfall, especially if the proposed amusement park takes longer than expected. In a time where video games can simulate sex and snuffing the life out of the homeless, surely the ante has been upped, even in the boredom killing business of a UFO festival.

The next morning, we dropped $25 apiece and boarded the bus from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest for a 45-minute drive to the “official crash site.” Located on a private farm outside of town, the trip was promoted by a group who had a professional-looking booth in the convention center. And hell, it was in the town’s program, so why not? And with the extra boost that “all buses are air conditioned,” well, how could we refuse? The packed bus made its way to the site and after an especially bumpy ride over a winding dirt road, we were dropped off by a small canopy. Just ahead, a long path led to a ridge, where the alien bodies were said to have been found 60 years ago. At the end of the trail, there was a rock with an inscription dedicated to the mysterious creatures who came for reasons unknown. The area is so remote as to be literally off the map, and despite the presence of other tourists, the air was eerily quiet, save the insects that plagued the area. Here’s the holy grail, I thought, and though no one fell to their knees or pulled crystals from a leather pouch, it felt disturbingly reverent, like a trek to the eternal flame at Arlington. It meant nothing to me, but as I now felt certain that poor little Japanese freaks died here, it took on a solemnity I hadn’t expected. Here’s hoping the little fellas helped bring us the Concorde or something. Walking back to the area where a new bus would pick us up, I hunted for a water among the coolers that were present, only to discover two large snakes. I screamed like a girl, of course, and wondered if they were there to scare people like me away from stealing the merchandise. Only as our bus was ready to pull away did I learn the truth: The tattooed biker man who ran the little water stand was also loaning the snakes to tourists for pictures and the like. As if the whole UFO thing didn’t have enough of a credibility problem.

Later that evening, at a panel discussion featuring Stanton Friedman, Donald Schmitt, Tom Carey, and Jesse Marcel Jr., the whole crushing truth came to bear, and I sat humiliated like a sucker having sold my cow for magic beans. With vehemence, rage, and flushed fury, the men told the crowd how the tour being conducted was a sham, and that the actual crash site was miles away. Turns out these sinister bastards were stealing money from gullible saps, driving them out to a random farm they knew was a fraud, and selling the story that this, in fact, was the place that started it all. Playing on the fact that isolated desert land all looks the same to, well, just about everyone, they were profiting from a lie, and I for one felt idiotic. Not that I should have felt like a brain surgeon for plunking down $50 for two tickets to a piece of dirt in the first place, but at least I had thought that I was standing on hallowed ground. Even if you buy the weather balloon explanation, the land is still important in that it became a cultural signpost, and helped create a cottage industry. And now, during the very weekend where people were reading Tarot cards for cash, instructing others how to find and interpret alien implants, and buying every stuffed green alien that wasn’t nailed down, I was being told that I had spent most of the afternoon staring at bullshit. I was initially outraged, but within minutes, I realized that it was fitting to have been deceived in such a manner. What else would I expect from a town that is holding its collective breath and betting that no evidence from any angle is ever produced? It’s the mystery that sells, and proof of any kind would reduce the whole thing to the dull matter-of-fact within a few hours.

But the lecture, initially about the experts and their experience in the matter, soon became a bitch session, and numerous folks stood up and expressed disgust with the whole rotten enterprise. One man from Toronto relayed his rage with having driven all the way to Roswell to be treated like an idiot, when it’s likely he needn’t leave his front yard for such an honor. At one point, a museum representative grabbed a microphone and assured the patrons that they had nothing to do with the charlatans, and that they were a rogue business that was hurting the town’s good name. She ended with a plea to complain personally to the town’s paper and city officials. It was, at least in this room, the scandal of the festival, although it appeared that everyone of importance knew this had been going on for quite some time. But capitalism being what it is, there didn’t seem to be anything anyone could do. And then again, how do we know it’s the wrong site? If there’s a “correct” site, why aren’t there tours? Would anyone really turn down that kind of money? And if so much of this case is shrouded in mystery, is anything related to the alleged crash site even known? Isn’t it all speculation and guesswork? Perish the thought, as the panel experts quickly revealed that having studied the case more than anyone else, they knew best, and so respected private-property rights that they weren’t revealing a goddamn thing. The righteous indignation soon became applause, and all was well again in the House of Roswell.

Before that final lecture, however, I sat through 90 mind-boggling minutes of Yvonne Smith’s “Chosen Revelations of UFO Abductions through Hypnosis,” a cheap, shoddy presentation that proved if anyone could challenge Mr. Easter for World’s Worst Speaker, it would be this dynamo in a white pantsuit. In another of the museum’s unoccupied closets, complete with torture devices that passed as folding chairs, I sat in rapt attention as Ms. Smith, a 17-year veteran of hypnotherapy (specializing in post-traumatic stress disorders), detailed — or should I say, “vaguely described” — cases of abduction that were revealed through regression. Hell, she’d been schooled at the Hypnotherapy Institute, so who was I to argue? Apparently, after much study and hundreds of cases, she can state with absolute authority that abduction usually begins in childhood. They are typified by the “strange creature in the window” experience, as well as the “missing time” phenomenon. I had always defined these things as “Molester Uncle” and “Alcohol-fueled basement orgy,” respectively, but clearly this woman knew best. These abductions produce blocked memories and “shields,” which Ms. Smith graciously breaks through. But as she stated, “It takes time to bring these memories to the surface,” which is almost always the philosophy of anyone who charges by the hour. At no time did she mention her yearly take, but as this is her full-time occupation, I’m imagining it beats her prior waitressing gig.

Citing “actual patient testimony,” she also tells how head procedures are common, as are “praying mantis” figures. When patients are asked to draw what they have seen during these abductions, the usual wide-eyed, big-headed grays appear, though while on board ships, more senior aliens (wearing capes) take over. There are even examples of hybrids being responsible for experiments on the ship, and these beings most resemble Nordic supermen, only with tights and giant “V’s” on their chests. Her most prized patient, a Tennessee man named John, has an implant behind his ear, only he refuses to have it taken out and examined because it feeds him the necessary knowledge to create new and improved sources of energy. According to Yvonne, he’s filed several successful patents, while others remain pending. He even says that the government has spoken to him about his inventions. That he’s an uneducated hillbilly leads not to the conclusion that he’s delusional and insane, but rather a “special project” hand-selected by alien agents to save the world. Conveniently, Yvonne couldn’t provide details of the inventions, because they were so sensitive, but rest assured, they will revolutionize science. She even admits that he’s an idiot (in a more benign way, of course), so how else could he have acquired this gift? I thought I might inform Yvonne that commercials for the Invention Exchange, a program for frustrated inventors, always appear during 2 a.m. showings of “Jerry Springer,” and that perhaps she wasn’t the most qualified person to evaluate scribblings a mountain man claimed contained physics and advanced engineering, but I erred on the side of polite silence. This was her presentation, and what could I really say in the face of a man who claimed to have seen 9/11 before it happened?

As Occam’s Razor tends to sweep away the alien component of the Roswell “crash,” it also reduces all so-called “abductions” to the level of repressed sexual abuse. Only someone hopelessly immersed in bizarre cults and fiendish plots could ever escape the striking obviousness of these cases. Kids have been wooed, raped, molested, inappropriately touched, or whatever, and they’ve buried the memories in order to remain sane. Then, having been coached by a lunatic with a more desirable explanation, they dispense with the pain of having to confront friends and family with the stinging truth of abuse and can feel important at the same time. Rather than having to face the reality of a wasted life of pain, poverty, and poor decisions, these “abductees” can insert themselves into twisted plots and wild adventure stories that always have them at the center of the action. Now, daddy can stop being a brutal rapist who stole your innocence, and the drug abuse and promiscuity can be explained away as orchestrated components of a larger truth. No longer victims, they are active participants in their own sci-fi comic books, and the boxes of notes in the basement not proof of mental illness, but dangerous, highly coveted formulas the government will stop at nothing to secure. We’ve heard Jim’s story a thousand times, and it always has the same tragic denouement, but in Roswell, it’s allowed a happy ending; a more suitable final act that will leave the audience on the edge of their seats.

The aforementioned panel discussion, though heated, also provided the general tone of the experts in attendance. Dismissing all dissenting opinions as mere bile from the “noisy, nasty negativists,” Dr. Friedman was especially arrogant, assuming that those who doubt the wisdom of the giant conspiracy are either part of the plot, or ignorant slobs who can’t possibly be taken seriously. Here’s a man who, despite the dismissive tone, could easily be pegged as someone who hated the circus Roswell had become, and would rather be left with his tape recorder, pen, and file cabinets full of documents. The whole panel, in fact, were reasonable men in suits, and it’s a good bet you wouldn’t find them clutching any alien dolls in their hotel rooms. And that’s another fascinating thread to this town: Not only have Christians and outer-space enthusiasts managed to live in harmony, but the snake oil salesmen, those who would plaster an alien image on their ass cheek if it would make them money, have decided to declare a truce with the men and women who want Roswell to be associated with science and evidence, not shot glasses and t-shirts. Clearly, the town needs them all. For as serious as some want it to be (and the dreadfully humorless museum is a testament to this fact), if you lose the fun, you lose the crowds. And then the restaurants start boarding up and soon, the tumbleweeds clog up a once-vibrant Main Street.

And as if there were any other way, the weekend ended with a parade down that very Main Street, proving once again that in lieu of genuine commemoration, driving a few floats through town is enough to keep most people occupied and obedient. And so they came: motorcycle gangs with engines blaring, classic cars beeping their horns, kids dressed as aliens, and yes, even a long float with shabbily dressed Star Wars characters aboard. There were musicians, cops, kids throwing candy, and even an escaped alien who inspired a gang of Mexicans to scream, “Get the fucker!” The crowds went from lining the sidewalk to filling the street, and soon the mass was so thick that no one could pass at all. It was too dark, too loud, and painfully dull, but every poorly constructed costume received a healthy cheer, and no one seemed to care that C-3PO was wearing jeans. Even the Shriners made an appearance, reminding us all once again that as familiar as they are, no one seems to know what the fuck they do. But do we really care? They’re as American as the parade itself, and just as delightfully nonsensical.

So what of it, this UFO Festival in the middle of an unforgiving desert? Strangely enough, despite the fraud, overpriced food, insipid convention exhibits (the New Mexico Lottery battled tooth and nail with some leathery whore from “Deep Space Nine”), arrogance, disinformation, and almost surreal physical unattractiveness on display, I couldn’t help but think that it’s America itself in microcosm, bursting with energy, a sense of play, and rampant idiocy disguised as scholarship. Maybe aliens did crash on a remote farm near Roswell, maybe not. Whether part of the Cold War or simply a minor affair blown out of proportion by local hucksters, it doesn’t really matter in one important respect: The celebration of the event has replaced the event itself in our collective memory, and as such, has become the only history we’ll ever hold dear. Roswell is no longer a location, but a way of life: a way to make a buck, a way to feel important, a way to be part of a group, or even a way to escape an otherwise dull reality for a day or two. In some way, I’d like to know what really happened that day in 1947, if only to satisfy my historical curiosity, but as that initial impulse passes, I reconsider, preferring instead that the ruse rule the day. And while the world keeps spinning, we’ll debate long into the night, citing pet authors and indispensable videos, and by the end, hoarse from excitement and passion, we’ll be no closer to the truth than before. Then we’ll be back again next year, and the year after that, and we’ll puff out our chests, peruse the latest breaking news, and wrap it all up with a parade. Because that’s what we do. In America.

Due to some kind of computer error in which a friend of mine was designated as a high roller, I’ve spent plenty of time in the Venetian’s nicer suites. They are comfortable and well appointed, greatly exceeding what any legitimate visitor to Vegas requires. The tasteful decor makes for a pleasant enough blur as you list toward beds that make for comfortable crash landings. You can take a moment to appreciate the fact that your room has two plasma screens as you rub two and a half hours of sleep from your eyes, put your other shoe back on and dash back to the tables. It’s surprising how few Vegas hotel rooms are designed to completely block the radiation of the enemy sun, but at the Venetian, the a.m./p.m. display on the alarm clock serves an informative purpose. One gripe: Why do Vegas hotels stock their rooms with everything but some fucking aspirin? As stoked as I was to have two sewing kits, I think you’re slightly more likely to wake up in Vegas with a hangover than with urgent trouser mending.

The poker room at the Venetian is excellent. It’s still pretty new, which means a new staff, which means several dealers who have difficulty changing a $5 chip. But the promotions are not even in the general vicinity of a hook or chain. Play at least 50 hours for three consecutive months, and get into a $500,000 free roll. There’s also a bad beat jackpot. I hate jackpots, because the casino filches half of the money that customers put into them, then if you win, the government steals half of what is left. At the Venetian, however, there is no jackpot collection. The house is putting up its own money, which is refreshing. The bad news is that the losing hand must be quad tens or better. So we’ll have a black atheist lesbian president before you ever hit it. Still, it’s another free roll, so how can you complain? Pretty much broke, I played in the smaller no-limit game, which is beautifully structured with $1 and $2 blinds and a $100-$200 buy-in. Skill is rewarded, as you can easily be patient with the small blinds, or take cheap flops against poor opponents. On my last visit, I ran good, but not obscenely so and made a grand in a couple of days. There is also a 2/5 no-limit game and limit from $4/$8 up to $40/$80 with games going at every limit pretty much 24/7. We’ll see how long that lasts once the promotions are dialed down.The games all seemed typical of Vegas; a mix of retired rocks, capable locals and tourist chum. The guy before me in line one night asked if $40/$80 was limit or no limit and how much money he should buy in with before swan diving into the shark tank.

The crowning jewels of the room are some awesome cocktail waitresses.The nearly flawless Latoya spent her entire shift laboring under my shameless, Jeffersonian leer. I was not very disappointed when Latoya was replaced by Tiffany, the ebullient pixie of brimming glasses who would make music by suggesting that she sneak me a beer to go with my “double” gin and bottle of water. We conspired to the bilk the house out of well over a $100 worth of extra booze during her shift. I’ve never been so close to proposing marriage.

So, if you win big, of course you should head straight to Emeril’s high-end steakhouse, Delmonico, right? No. First of all, if you spend $100 on a steak dinner when you could have more sophisticated fare, you are a heaving troglodyte, and fuck off. Yeah, the chops at Delmonico are very nice, but, basically, you could cook the shit yourself if you landed the same cuts. Why pay out the ass for a steak that, while fantastic, is like 21% better than what you could make at home when, for the same price, you could sample the culinary wizardry of a superior French or Japanese chef, who cooks up delights that you could never even imagine? Anyway, here’s what I ate at …

Delmonico

Baguettes with really good butter: Unreasonably good, considering that it was just bread and butter. The butter must have been sprinkled with stem cells or something.

New Orleans BBQ shrimp: This astonishingly mediocre appetizer could easily be the third- or fourth-best thing on the menu at Outback Steakhouse.With some sprousing up.

Caesar salad: Although I wasn’t wild about Delmonico, I’ll concede that this was the fucking shit. I’ll never understand how making a salad at your table is supposed to make it taste better, but this Caesar had a unique and robust flavor that almost made up for the shrimp.

Bone-in strip steak: Yeah, it was a good steak. You could get the same thing at any other expensive steakhouse. It tasted very good, but at the end of the day, it’s still a slab of flesh on a plate. The Chinamen consider such dishes to be primitive and barbaric, with some justification.

Kobe beef flanks with potatoes au gratin and some other shit: I chose this dish because it actually involved some sauces. It seemed like you’d have to attend culinary school to make it. Was it good? Sure. But for $54, you could experience orgasm of the tounge at any good French, continental, California or Japanese restaurant in LA.

Peanut butter mousse with brownie: Woops, we’re at TGI Friday’s. Will this desert find a place among other Friday’s elites like the Birthday Brownie Ball, or the Jack Daniels Grill Blizzard of Berries ‘n Turds?

One particular annoyance: While the service was wonderful, it irritated me that the servers, obviously acting on the decree of management, constantly trumpeted the fact that the bernaise and other sauces and dressings were “homemade,” as though it were some wild novelty for a restaurant to prepare food on the premisies. I guess that the idea is to impress some fucking rube from Nebraska who hit a Caribbean-stud jackpot. But if you’re charging $45 for a steak sans fixins, I’m already assuming that the sauces are prepared in the kitchen rather than squeezed from a tube that was shipped in from a processing plant. If I learned that any part of my meal could have been purchased at Ralphs, I would not be satiated until the maitre d’ drank a glass of my urine.

Zeffirino Ristorante

The head chef has all kinds of pictures of himself with people like the pope. I’m guessing he established that kind of claut when he founded The Olive Garden. “Oh, Giuseppe, you do such-a good job to a-bring-a our Italian cuisine to the Town Oaks Center in Aimes! Let me give to you a medal!” Don’t eat at this place.

It is at once humorlessly reverential and supremely trivial. By turns a direct link to a finely tuned spirituality and a transfer of theme park values to the most sacred of relations, it is, depending on one’s ideological tilt, either the most valuable experience of one’s life on earth, or a near-endless slog through the most cartoonish aspects of an already discredited faith. Fortunately, having no inclination whatsoever toward the metaphysical, as well as a keen appreciation of kitsch and irony, my visit to Eureka Springs, Ark. — a town of such stereotypical quaintness that had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would have doubted its very existence — was arguably the most hilariously rewarding of my life so far. I’ve been to both coasts and big cities in between, and never before have I left a community with such a warm feeling toward my fellow man. For all of their bigotry, small-minded provincialism, idiocy, pettiness, greed, and propensity for violence, they are, above all traits and attributes, an almost surreally entertaining species. Sure, reaching the moon, or developing vaccines, or the wonder of indoor plumbing all testify to man’s greatness when left to his own devices of imagination, but until you’ve seen an outdoor Passion Play tucked into a hillside of the Ozarks, you really have no idea of how insanely brilliant we can be. From top to bottom, stem to stern, my hours spent in this little slice of heaven will never be duplicated. Everything following this grin-filled evening will pale by comparison, and now surveying the shape and direction of my life so far, I can say in all honesty that it had, against the odds, been building up to this point. Yes, this place had to be seen. To quote the man so conspicuously on display this glorious night, “It is finished.” How could I ever vacation again?

To start, Eureka Springs is assured of receiving only the hopelessly devoted, for it is reached only after driving mile after mile of winding, terror-filled roads. Once the journey is begun, there is literally no turning back. After what seemed like hours of braking, turning, pausing, and darting, it was a relief to reach a small backwoods convenience store mere minutes from the holy destination. Smelling as if soaked floor to ceiling in cheap tobacco, the shop prepped my mind for the journey ahead, as the shocking display of decency nearly caused a fatal stroke. They all but embraced me as I left with my beverages and pamphlets. Fortunately, the much-anticipated Great Passion Play was featured on Saturday nights (we were still in the off-season), so our endless trip had not been in vain, but the New Holy Land Tour would not be available by the time we arrived. It was a blow to morale (for fuck’s sake, an interactive journey through the Bible, complete with a manger and Jesus walking on water?), but we still had the Museum of Earth History to visit, as well as the largest Christ statue in all of North America. It wouldn’t be a perfect trip, but we’d have enough to quench our near-feverish thirst. Still, the drive from the store held even more miles of hell, as rainbow’s end seemed hopelessly out of reach. The town of Eureka Springs itself, at least that not drenched in the Holy Spirit, was a typical mountain town in many ways, complete with aging tourists, bikers, and row after row of chain motels and tacky souvenir shops. Indeed, it was all too fitting.

Finally, we reached the entrance to the Holy Grail, and entered with slight trepidation, but hearts full of joy. The decaying fossil at the front gate pointed us in the right direction, told us where to buy tickets, where to park, and how long we’d have to wait for both the Passion Play and dinner. At first blush, everything seemed half-assed, as if grand designs had slammed head first into economic reality, and a few cheap buildings were all that could be erected. Of course, we had yet to see the mammoth tri-level stage for the play itself, but first impressions were not kind. Still, like eager kids at Disneyland, we drove a short distance to the Christ of the Ozarks, a 67-foot tall memorial to Jesus Christ, but only after purchasing suitable attire for the occasion. Frantically rushing to the gift shop, I managed to find a 2XL black t-shirt with the phrase “Jesus Rules” on the front. My better half purchased something from the “young miss” collection, which means it was several sizes too small and as tight as if it were painted on. This was deliberate, of course, for how else to enhance the message of Christ’s love than with tits that promised to spring forth into the Ozark air? With a face over 15 feet long and constructed of 24 layers of white mortar on a steel frame, the statue is believed to weigh over 2 million pounds. This seemed a slight exaggeration, but what the hell do I know? With arms outstretched as if waiting to take in all believers, it is an impressive achievement to be sure, but after walking down a short path to view it from the front, it is strangely pagan, and its stature such that sacrifices in its shadow would not seem out of place.

On this day, the sky was achingly blue and the temperature near perfect, and with the sun setting just so, it could be mistaken for a scene straight from those testimonials where the unbelieving suddenly and miraculously give up the drink and turn to God evermore. The stage was undoubtedly set yet again, but in the face of this bloated ode, how on earth could humility be possible? Sure, the bastard is domineering and inescapable, but is it really necessary? What else but an insecure faith would insist on the biggest possible representation of its central symbol? And why the fuck is a piece of the Berlin Wall a few hundred feet away? I’m hardly an impartial observer given my hostility to religion in all of its forms, but I simply could not understand how anyone in any state of crisis could look to inert stone as a source of comfort. Interestingly, fellow travelers seemed to feel likewise, as not a single person dropped to their knees or scanned the heavens for a sign of salvation. Hell, the patrons weren’t even that reverential, and as they stopped, looked for a time, and returned to their cars, they mumbled, grumbled, and took dutiful pictures as if at the Lincoln Memorial or the world’s oldest tree. Was it just a statue after all?

Disappointed at not having witnessed flailing arms and shouts of amen, we drove the short distance back to the entrance, where we could park for both the Museum of Earth History and dinner hall. Having quite a few hours before the start of the play, we eagerly walked in the direction of the “museum,” so named despite having absolutely nothing to do the common use of the term. I suppose a museum could be erected out of a closet or even a cluttered garage, but usually when employed in the context of paying customers ($8.50 per person, no less), some effort is expected, even when converting an old church into what is promised to be a “fascinating” journey through the origins of life. Three miniscule rooms later — yes, three fucking rooms – earth’s history had not only been studiously avoided, but so distorted and manipulated that it would be just as reasonable to leave thinking that Adam and Eve existed on Mars as opposed to the Eden of legend. Armed only with a wand and the world’s most laborious audio tour, visitors are encouraged to be “interactive,” which is their way of asking you to listen to what feels like hours of near fanatical ravings, all without the benefit of changing, or even clever, visual cues. The cheap walls and shoddy displays are dotted with a staggering 47 options, which are to be selected on the audio wand, but as they are heavily weighted towards the final room, this means that even with only a semi-large group, it becomes impossible to maneuver or even breathe while you fight to remain conscious. This final gathering place, conveniently lacking any real space in which to sit, was so crowded that it could have been mistaken for the stateroom in A Night at the Opera. There we were, all three dozen of us, packed like sardines into a dark cavern of plastic skull fragments and displays bearing an almost eerie similarity to third-grade dioramas. What we saw, however, was nowhere near as grotesque as what we heard, though to believe the nods and pleasing looks, everything made perfect sense.

Among the most insipid of lies to pass as truth in this den of deception (funded by a group called the Creation Truth Foundation) was the “fact” that Noah’s Ark could have held each and every species of animal — including dinosaurs — because God had the foresight to take only “the babies” on board. Of course! What’s more, dinosaurs were never as large as science has told us, and at best, these creatures of girth and stature were in fact no more than glorified lizards. As such, all fossils are either fabrications or distortions. Certainly, the process by which they are dated is so flawed as to be worthless. Throughout these ramblings, the narrator also informed us that science is simply guesswork, and as mere “opinion,” holds no more validity than the formulations of you or me. No wonder so many among us seemed so agreeable: How comforting that neither education nor books are necessary to be on par with snooty professors who do little more than make silly little stabs in the dark. The fools! Even more infuriating, these liars and scoundrels spend billions of our tax dollars perpetrating a great fraud on the American people. The fist of self-righteous fury shook with even more hellacious wrath when faced with man’s origins. According to our dear narrator, each and every discovery throughout the years is a falsehood, and through guilt by association, everything from Lucy to Java Man is equated with Piltdown Man, the one hoax we do know about. But don’t you see, if them fancy book-learners could do that, what other crimes could they commit in the name of godless reason? With an air of smug superiority, the audio tour rested quite comfortably with the belief that no one of an educated bent has ever proven a thing, and if such nonsense could pass as truth, why not the biblical account of creation? Still, it is not equal time these people seek, but rather the replacement of science with religious parable, which in their minds has a concreteness found only in the most rigorously tested geometric proof. That is, if geometry weren’t a tool of the devil.

Having been battered by a motley crew of obese Arkansans and their obsequious adherence to the most obscene level of bullshit, we walked next door to the dining room, which looks to have been last decorated during the Eisenhower administration. Taking their cue from the designers of the Jonestown cafeteria, those responsible for this humorless hall have seen fit to place everyone in neat little rows, where eye contact and laughter are as discouraged as actual flavor for the food itself. As a rule, buffet dining is always a miserable experience, but this spread was shockingly bad even by those less-than-stellar standards, managing to be worse than any meal I have ever encountered. And yes, I have dined at Furr’s. For the princely sum of $10.75 per person, the buffet assumes that nourishing the body is not on the same plane as nourishing the soul, so why bother to ship in edible food to such a remote locale? The roast beef, which resembled oven-roasted fat topped by a dash of gristle, failed to contain any actual beef, which was just as well, as I couldn’t have eaten another bite, what with those watery, colorless mashed potatoes and waxlike green beans getting ready to come back up my esophagus. There was chicken, allegedly barbecued, that was deemed too risky to eat, as well as enchiladas, which sat in a pan so full of liquid that it was more aptly labeled a cheesy, reddish soup. Desserts were also present, although a whipped, tasteless pink paste was better left in a category all its own. Alongside this unimaginable mess was an assortment of cake, none of which fulfilled the obligation of a dessert in that they were neither sweet nor desirable. Even the Coke was flat.

It bears mentioning that the buffet experience was enhanced by the aforementioned attire my wife and I chose to wear throughout our religious parade. My wife’s decision to wear her somewhat tattered second skin, for example, ensured a host of open-mouthed stares, as I doubt a single one of them had ever imagined that Jesus and enormous breasts were synonymous. As we walked to our table in the dining hall, I paid close attention to the patrons, and nearly all the females took a peek and looked as if they might fall to the ground in utter shock. My wife even added a “God bless you” when the occasion called. My shirt also produced a few inspired moments, as when I was accosted at the drink bar by a French-sounding lunatic with an expensive looking camera, who asked if I would pose for a photo or two. I agreed, but the single shot soon turned into 10 minutes of madness, as he snapped away as if I were a bikini-clad model strolling along a beach. The psychopath even asked if I would pose with my drinks in hand, which then turned into a shot by the Coke machine itself. As I turned back, I noticed a massive image of Jesus, which clearly inspired the budding photographer, though I fail to see how the product placement sent any godly message to the faithful. As I posed, I noticed numerous stares, though unlike the usual looks of pity I receive in the city, these faces were kind, almost fawning. Creeped out beyond belief, I returned to my table and finished what was left of the hockey puck passing as a roll.

With little over an hour before the start of the show, we decided to hit the “Parables of the Potter,” a one-man lecture by some dude with the head of Yanni and the voice of Bill Clinton. During this brief show, the Potter worked on a clay pot before our eyes, pumping the wheel with all the rigor of a man possessed. Using the pottery-to-be as a metaphor, the Potter breathlessly described Christ’s love and how noble was his sacrifice on that mighty, rugged cross. The line delivery was so melodramatic, in fact, that I half expected the guy to burst into tears. No one in the audience seemed moved, but the presence of a few people in wheelchairs led me to believe that there might be an attempted healing by monologue’s end. Alas, the cripples sought only a handshake and a picture, and once again a good laugh was sacrificed in the name of a cheap tourist’s ploy. As with the Christ of the Ozarks, the audience was unexpectedly subdued, though I might have been a bit rash in expecting half-naked maniacs running to and fro, proclaiming the word of God. Still, I was thoroughly entertained, as there is nary a downside to trivializing Christianity out of existence. If it can be reduced to a bizarre, comical ritual preserved on fading Polaroids, then it is but one short step to being marginalized altogether. But surely my wife and I were the only people in attendance who observed everything with a cackling, superior eye? Would anyone else dare travel hundreds of miles to witness the crass commercialization of the messiah? So why the dutiful moping, as if in a trancelike state? Were hearts being changed? Were minds being cleansed; sanitized and purified for the fight ahead? Most assuredly, but in far more subtle a fashion than I had ever thought possible.

At last, the final program was about to begin. Unfortunately, all photography was forbidden during the duration of the show, which made me wonder if at one time there had been a problem with pirating. Perhaps, since DVDs were available in the gift shop (along with books on abstinence and “making money the Jesus way”). Securing a blanket for one dollar, we made our way to our seats and waited with bated breath for a decidedly less bloody version of the Mel Gibson epic. The setting was far too spectacular for the content, what with a glorious moon and clear sky above, but once the booming score enveloped the stage, we were hooked. Built into the hills and consisting of three distinct levels, the stage was a masterpiece of art direction, proving conclusively that those responsible for the creation museum were not allowed anywhere near this set. Within seconds, however, the good cheer turned sour, as it became apparent that the actors were lip-synching to a prerecorded script. Such a decision ensured a near-fatal level of gesticulating and overacting, I’m guessing to distract viewers from the ridiculous line delivery. With all the conviction of 14-year-olds reciting King Lear, the actors “spoke” as if reading cue cards at gunpoint. Some tried to fake an emotional arc — such as the hapless Judas — but such efforts quickly yielded to full-throttle regurgitation, as when Christ’s betrayer yelped, “Noooooo!!!!” as if witnessing the death of his buddy in an ’80s action movie. Alas, this Passion Play failed to include his own death, and we can assume that the humiliated young man kept running about with wild abandon. But as bad as he was, he was still no competition for the midget lady who always stood behind the roaring crowds; out of sync, out of step, yet always, always pointing at some far away object. She was obviously the Waldo of the event, as she strangely appeared in nearly every scene.

Still, as expected, this was Jesus’ story after all, and as played by the Yanni Clinton guy, he was so rugged and masculine as to be pornographic. Muscular, tall, and sporting a killer jaw line, Jesus spoke with all the phony conviction of a defeated Amway salesman, though he looked damn good in doing so. Still, because this was a decidedly family-friendly version of the crucifixion, he was not asked to endure a savage beating, though the pulled punches and girly kicks he did receive were met with violent convulsions and deafening howls of pain. The story, of course, is too familiar (and dull) to repeat, but let it be said that it has never meant so much as it did on this particular Saturday night in May. Nursing a soda and shivering from the unexpected temperature drop, I realized with a start that for all of mankind’s storytelling gifts, it is a depressing reality that they chose one of the least compelling tales on which to found a movement. No wonder so many went Jedi in the late ’70s. Even the David Copperfield-inspired climax, where Jesus descends to hell and steals a set of keys or something, was so inherently underwhelming that it necessitated smoke and lights to give it a boost. It’s obvious these people don’t trust their own tales to do the job anymore. Sure, in the days before electricity, books, television, and porno booths, man was easily amused by the Christ myth. What else had they? Now, when diversions are cheap, plentiful, and often expensively staged, who on earth could give a shit about some guy who got nailed to a board? After all, if this religion is trying to seduce the young people, you’ve got to do better than a Jesus “ascending” to heaven with visible wires, do you not? Even the doves wouldn’t comply, as one insisted on remaining in flight, circling the stage as if intoxicated by the madness, unwilling to return to its cage for a full three minutes.

As the evening faded away, and the play ran into what felt like its fifth hour (in fact, it was only two hours long), I couldn’t help but wonder if authenticity is even possible in these United States. Say what you will about visiting historical sites, theme parks, and assorted roadside Americana, they are most revealing about our fellow countrymen not because they tell the truth, but rather because they best reflect who we imagine ourselves to be. Such attractions are the public face of the American spirit; the scrubbed clean, well-crafted fantasy that keeps reality at bay. Every corner of Eureka Springs upholds this grand tradition, for at no point is the religion on display anything other than a half-baked, oversimplified greeting card version of faith. Because faith is the absence of reason and decidedly idiotic, that’s all it could ever be, but given that so many of our millions live their lives by its precepts, it stands as a subject worth investigating again and again. Needless to say, I’m deathly afraid of the true believers, but at least they’ve altered their brains to fit the tone of their creed. Everyone else — especially those who find it rewarding to travel untold miles to a site with all the inspiration of a velvet painting – is imbibing a Christianity that does little but explain away a few unpleasant realities and provide something to do during the holidays. It is a cheap, tawdry faith; a waxwork amid flesh-and-blood reality that has no essence, no core, and no genuine feeling. It is ritual and clockwork repetition; the very opposite of reflection and examination. And yet, it is so American as to bleed red, white, and blue. We believe as we do for no more compelling reason than tradition, and the rage we express at its challenge is little more than the displeasure of finally hearing our beliefs read aloud for the first time. So why not put behind glass the very one-dimensional nonsense by which we set our watches? It’s what America’s come to be, after all; where our saviors are so disillusioned that they too can’t remember their lines.

Rural Kenya in winter is colder than one would expect, even when
you are from Wisconsin. There is no snowfall, but the high humidity and
the cool air after sunset seeps away any warmth that has not been
instilled by alcohol. There are no streetlights, so after 5pm, when the
sun slips behind the tea plantation-pocked hills, it is impenetrably
dark. The hospital where I am working is effectively isolated from the
rest of the world. The phone works rarely, and the internet connection
exists only in theory. Deep within the countryside, there are no stray
noises apart from the occasional cow wandering through hospital
grounds. The dim silence is unnerving enough to make me wonder why I
wanted to volunteer here.

The town of Maua is a crowded and dirty place in the Meru district,
about 130 miles from Nairobi. It is a wide spot in the road flanked by
a dense concentration of shacks containing businesses, barbers,
groceries, restaurants, and junk shops, with piles of burning
garbage scattered throughout. The most numerous of these are bottle
stores, known to westerners as pubs. Men fill the bottle stores, and
their bingeing spills out into the muddy streets. Drunken
arguments in Swahili sound pretty much the same as their English
equivalents, veering rapidly between love and belligerence. During the
day people sell random items from blankets by the road. Some are
useful, like cheap radios, clothing, and machetes; some useless, like
used batteries charged with a single volt for resale to the unaware.
The machetes are made from the leaf springs of larger cars, so they are heavy and easily able to divide skin and bone. For the hefty price
of US$2, you can have your very own, stamped with the words
“Specially Made for Children”. My hospital specializes in tendon repair
and internal fixation for near-amputations. We average six of these per
day in a town of perhaps ten thousand. Usually the victim, often a child, has been caught
trespassing in a miraa field.

Miraa is the primary industry. It’s an amphetamine in the form of
a
green stalk that has been denuded of its drug free leaves. A clump of
fifty can be
yours for 500 kenyan shillings, enough to do a week’s shopping for a
family of four. All the men in this town chew miraa, their eyes a blank
slate of suppressed anger. The women do not chew miraa, nor drink.
Women do the cleaning, the farming, and child rearing. The men tend the
cattle by tradition, although there have been no cattle in Maua for
decades. All day and night, giant trucks speed through the town,
hauling miraa and occasionally flattening a child or errant goat.

Maua is a small cauldron of discontent and dreams unrealized, much
like small towns in the United States. HIV made its slow burn through
here long ago, leaving an infection rate of about one in ten. Commerce
is slow, progress nonexistent in a place where inertia has trumped the
flow of history. The people of this area do not appear to mind the
gradual decline of rural Kenya over the past two decades. Optimism and
skepticism are irrelevant when it is one’s appointed task to simply
endure. At least, this is the way it seems to a tourist like me.

I am working at a mission hospital, which is better in quality than
the government funded Meru District Hospital. We have some laboratory
test and X-ray capability, which is uncommon in this area. The
hospital’s resources are stretched thin, wards perpetually stuffed,
every bed filled with two people and mats on the floor for the more
stable patients. At night, the ill and destitute
sleep in almost complete silence, stirring to swat the occasional
mosquito. The overworked physicians are getting some much needed sleep,
as medical students like me are around to staff the casualty during the
night. I am here to learn medicine as my trade, with idealism as my
ballast.

Some nights I am bored to the tits, reading Swahili vocabulary and
trying to sleep. This night, however, starts off with a mother bringing
in her child, perhaps two years old, and obviously dead. The body is
stiff, eyes staring sightlessly, pupils dilated to the diameter of the
iris. No heartbeat, no spontaneous respirations. Its belly is swollen
with kwashiorkor, a protein deficiency of malnutrition. There is money
in this town, but it does not go to food.

I inform the mother through a translator that the child is quite
dead. They take her to another room to grieve, and summon the priest on
call. The priests generally don’t sleep very well. An urgent phone call
comes in – a child is dying in the pediatric ward. I sprint over to the
ward to see if my inexperienced presence will be helpful. This child
has severe malaria and, as a result, only one fifth of his blood supply.
Malaria can be an aggressive disease in those least able to fight back,
and this child just made it to the hospital too late for the treatment
to help. His agonized breathing stops and his heartbeat soon follows.
The children in the other beds look in my general direction, faces a
mixture of fear and curiosity. I avoid their searching glances, as I
know some of them will die before sunrise.

Several patients are waiting for me in casualty. The first two have
minor complaints, and are quickly sent on their way. The third is a
woman sitting quietly, and not complaining of anything beyond abdominal
pain. A pregnancy test is sent. I return to her room to inform her
she is pregnant and find her nearly unconscious on the floor,
whimpering. A needle plunged into her abdomen yields blood suggesting a
large hemorrhage from a misplaced pregnancy that has ruptured her
reproductive organs. The OB-Gyn surgeon is summoned, and the patient is wheeled
to surgery with a bag of malaria-infested blood for transfusion. It is
disconcerting when someone looks perfectly fine one moment
and the next are on the edge of the mortal plane. For some reason,
African patients have this in common, showing few signs of illness
until on the verge of death. There is no explanation for this, other
than perhaps a lifetime of pain and abuse tempering individuals to
withstand almost anything. Materials so tempered become hard, but brittle.

It is only 1am and I am beyond tired. The previous morning was
spent scrubbed in for several hours of surgery to debride a leg wound a
farmer gave to himself with the dirty end of a farm implement. He had
walked to the hospital from several miles away with a large abscess
that proceeded to blow open during his hike. People here will walk for
miles to reach a hospital. A week prior I helped fix a leg fracture
that a woman walked upon for at least two miles, dragging herself
the last several hundred feet.

Next up is a perhaps three year old child who has malnutrition and
looks dead. He isn’t moving. Upon a closer look, he is just
avoiding movement or making sounds, his eyes wide with fear, mouth
agape. Trying to move his neck elicits a weak cry. Meningitis looks
like this, and kills in a matter of hours. After I put in an IV and
start the antibiotics, it is off to the pediatric ward with him. His
chances of survival are about half, with a good chance of residual
brain damage. The next five hours are utter torture, with dead
children, surgical emergencies, and women in labor. The patients
waiting to be seen in casualty pile up endlessly.

The last child brought in sometime before sunrise had some sort of
pneumonia, but my thoughts end there when she stops breathing in front
of me. Standard therapy is to intubate the child and ventilate her
after a few attempts at rescue breaths. The rescue breaths are
unsuccessful, and so I reach for the intubation equipment. The power fails, leaving me to flail about in the
dark. Power outages and surges are common here, but the timing of this one could
not be worse. I retrieve the tube and a headlamp and turn to find the
child vomiting – her airway would now be compromised.

I call for “Suction!” in a dramatic manner. The nurse retrieves a
medieval looking machine out of a cabinet that provides suction via
foot pump, and promptly leaves me alone with the child. The process of
intubation is fairly difficult, particularly for a medical student with
little experience. It’s made much more difficult by trying to operate
a foot pump, suctioning vomit out of a child’s throat by the dim light
of a headlamp and looking for the vocal cord target whilst a mother is
looking on expectantly. After what seems an entire football half, and
four failed attempts, the child is intubated, and ventilated. She
is also dead at this point. There are times you can look a family
member in the eye and inform them that their child is dead, but this is
not one of them. I give the bad news to the floor while the nurse
(now back in the room) translates. I return to the casualty room with
what is left of my confidence to find yet another apparently dead body
waiting for
me.

A family of five struggles to hoist this forty year old man onto
the examination bed, and he is unresponsive. At first, I am resigned to
going through the motions to confirm death, but he has a faint heart
beat, and shallow breathing. They could tell me little about him except
he is taking a medication of some sort. He is quite fat, which is
unusual for this area. I inject him with sugar on a whim, and within
two seconds, he is off the bed and thrashing violently. After the next
shot he is merely confused. The unknown medication he was taking must
have been for diabetes, and his prescribing doctor must have overdone the dose. I
take some comfort in knowing that Lazarus would recover after a few
days. A success story ends my evening. Now, it is time to begin the work
day proper.

The morning sun does little to invigorate me as I trudge to the
pediatric ward to begin my rounds. My mind swims with the faces of
those left behind in the night. Real or imagined accusations seem to be
in every pair of eyes I meet in the hallway. I would later learn to
avoid reflecting immediately on disastrous shifts like this. As it
turns out, regret has a very long half life, and is more than willing
to wait until you have had a decent amount of sleep.

The hospital begins its daily hum, the theatre is beginning its
daily surgical schedule, and the casualty fills with its usual endless
line of illness. Outside the hospital grounds, Maua begins its day just
as it always has. The petrol station already has miraa trucks queuing
up for the road ahead. The bottle stores and businesses open their
doors, and blankets are spread by the roadside to hawk miscellaneous
wares. The town is saddled with more than its share of misery, yet
balanced by an inexplicable fortitude that seems to be uniquely
African. Unique, at least, to someone who has a great deal to learn
about the vast regions of the world in which survival is a daily
struggle.

Looking back with the benefit of a few years experience, I am not
convinced that my work in Kenya made the slightest difference. In an
area of intensive poverty, not much can. Perhaps a rare correct
diagnosis, maybe even a few saved lives, possibilities that grant me a
great deal of undeserved credit. Local life expectancy is 49, and
likely any victory I can claim has since been swallowed whole by the HIV
epidemic, starvation, and environmental disasters. The idea of
improving community health is a feeble one compared to unfair,
international trade agreements and the corrupt rulers who pocket
international aid. My good deeds give these systems that much
more latitude.

From the outside, Africa does not stand a chance. The only
continent to fail to progress in the last century, its people seem
destined to a long slog through history. Western Africa has been
wracked by unrest fomented by outsiders. Central Africa is home to the
world’s longest running and bloodiest war. Southern Africa remains the
epicenter of the greatest plague ever. Even wealthy South Africa, with
the world’s most liberal constitution, is overrun with bizarre and
violent crime, and rape is the unofficial national pastime. Yet, there was a
time I believed in saving Africa.

Having shed the catharsis of volunteer work, I later return to
Africa with an entirely different perspective. Africa requires no
sympathy, and certainly no white knight savior. The continent as a
whole would enter a new economic renaissance if it were left
alone, without foreign interference. The way I see it, I am simply
trying to return the area where I work back to a normal state of
affairs.

Credit for any victory here is due only to those surviving on the
edge of existence, powered by faith. I use this word with no
religious overtones, as it means simply belief without evidence. There
is no other word for how a child can watch its parents die of AIDS, and
yet retain the ability to smile, looking forward to sunnier days.

It’s difficult to convey exactly how fanatical Brazilians are about futebol. One measure is the fact that when you ask someone which club they support, they will say “I am Sao Paulo” or “I am Corinthians.” When I told my new, but temporary friend Andre about how a family friend had showered me with Chicago Bears merchandise as a kid in Alabama, where we had no local NFL team, he said, “and so you became a Bear.” Although Andre was a Dolphin, he was pleased to learn that “we are both Sao Paulinos.” I met a college kid named Kyle. One of the funnest things about Brazil is that someone might be named Wladisney and they might be named Kyle. I told Kyle that I supported Sao Paulo he reacted as though I had confided about experimenting with crack. He became very serious and tried to explain to me that I had chosen poorly, as Sao Paulo was founded and supported by a bunch of apathetic rich folk, while Corinthians was a team of the people. Kyle seemed to feel that with his reasonable guidance, I might understand that I had made a terrible error and get my life back on the right track

The language used in these conversations was evidence of just how accommodating Brazilians can be. After learning that I was American, they began referring to futebol as ‘soccer.’ Most Europeans would sooner get a tatoo of John Wayne fisting their monarch than to allow the s-word to pass their lips.

When the world cup began, club loyalties appeared to subside. It seemed as though all of the people of Sao Paulo were in love with SPFC’s goal keeper, Rogerio Ceni who was (controversially) the back up on the Brazilian national team. Ceni’s not only an outstanding keeper, but a fucking terrorist on free kicks and penalties, which I think explains his popularity. There’s also the fact that he was one of only three players on the national team who played for a Brazilian club. The others had gone to Europe to make bigger money. There were also two Argentinian internationals who played club ball in Brazil, but they both played for Corinthians. From the perspective of a Brazilian Sao Paulino, this combination is like a member of NAMBLA registering with the Nazi party. In any case, one of the chants that would rise in the bars during the World Cup games was in support of the back up goal keeper. There were no specific chants in support of say, Ronaldo, who became the all time leading scorer in the world cup, but Ceni was loved without reservation.

Brazilians share common ground with the English in this respect. They are very hard on their stars, and embrace their more underrated players. As a waiter passed my burger to me during the first game of the world cup, a fan said, “Careful If Ronaldo sees your sandwich he might jump off the TV and eat it ” It was just a joke, but it was predicated on the real belief that Ronaldo, the most prolific scorer in world cup history and three time world player of the year, is overrated and overweight. When Ronaldo was yanked in favor of Robinho during the first game, Andre led an ecstatic Robinho chant. Even “The Easter Bunny,” the lovable Ronaldinho, who had just lead Barcelona to victory in the Champions League was not safe from criticism. Many felt that he should not have been on the field for Brazil’s final game.

During World Cup, futebol fanaticism becomes fevered.. Storefronts almost invariably have some sort of patriotic decoration. Fast food restaurants have strings of Brazilian flags. My hotel had huge green and gold banners. The gas station attendants have special uniforms made to resemble Brazilian jerseys. Even the trendiest of nightclubs and the hipsters within are displaying Brazilian colors. These things are not exceptional at all. It would be very unusual to go into a store and not see some kind of flag or streamer. It’s said that world cup is the only time that Brazilians are patriotic, which is true if you associate patriotism with flag waiving. But Brazilians are very proud of their country, even independently of soccer, and very concerned with foreign perceptions.

Forgive a moment of heavy handedness, but aspects of the Brazilian patriotic fervor got me thinking about American flag waiving. It struck me that Brazilian patriotism represents the country at its best, while American “patriotism” represents our country at its worst. The world cup mania is a joyful celebration of a wonderful country and of the most talented and accomplished team in all of sports. It’s also about unity. Brazilians are proud to point out that there is far less racial animosity in Brazil than in most other countries. There is certainly racism, and a racial/class hierarchy, but interracial marriage is frequent (with gorgeous results) and you are unlikely to encounter automatic hostility from someone who’s of a different race than you are. During my time in Brazil, I almost forgot what it was like to get an, “and what the fuck do you want?” look from a black person. The fact that the Brazilian team is significantly darker than the general population, but are the country’s greatest heros, is important. I think that Brazil is proud to unequivocally celebrate such chocolaty idols. Meanwhile, in the US people are generally waving flags because they want to see chocolaty people in another country killed and they want to silence their countrymen who disagree. The irony is that we have such a wonderful and rich culture that we could and should celebrate. Jazz, blues, rock, punk rock (fuck off limeys, the Ramones invented it) hip hop, Southern cooking, peanut butter and California cuisine, the First Amendment, bourbon and California wine; An endless list of names like Twain, Kubrick, Woody, Whitman, Magic, Dewy, Mingus, Edison and Hasselhoff. We have our own achievements in tolerance, like our acceptance of the Jews. Fuck the people who made our flag stand for napalm.

America has many points of superiority over Brazil and they are generally pretty obvious, so I’m not going to run through the entire list. But as bad as our ghettos can be, the buildings are actually made of bricks and cement and horses are toys for rich people, not coworkers. In the worst Brazilian favelas, Menace II Society would be an escapist fantasy that could be introduced by Robin Leech. But when people asked me what I thought the biggest difference between America and Brazil is, I had to say that the Brazilians are a much warmer and more gentle people, whereas, for all our good fortune, Americans are too often governed by anger, fear and hatred. Of course, I largely blame the low brow element of the right and their endless string of horned well poisoners du jour. But the difference runs deeper than that. In Brazil I ran across a crippled beggar who looked genuinely happy. When he was told that we didn’t have any money for him, he said “well, thank you for considering me. Have a good night.” That spirit, which I prefer to napalm, is what I now associate with the Brazilian flag.

Ok. The jubilance on game day is infectious. Early in the day cars decorated with Brazilian flags start exchanging honks and people wandering the streets start up with the noise makers. More than half of the population of people at any given spot are wearing Brazil shirts, pants, face paint and/or wigs. One boutique was displaying a Brazil wedding gown. About 1% of the population of dogs are decked out. Virtually anywhere where clothes are sold, you can pick up your own Brazil gear. The supermarket was selling Ronaldinho flip flops. The whole city of Sao Paulo felt like a gigantic tailgate party that lasted for about ten hours. The only environment I’ve ever encountered that was in the same ball park is the more bellicose insanity surrounding the Alabama/Auburn college football rivalry. Although I moved away from Alabama at age ten, I’m compelled to insert a “Roll Tide ” here. But even in Birmingham, you are not going to walk into a random grocery store on game day and see check out clerks with painted faces.

Then there are the games. Every bar is packed to the back with fans who have come to celebrate. When the Brazilian team took the field for the first game, fireworks were set off in the streets. There were more fireworks for each goal and victory throughout the tournament. During the group stage Brazilian success is a foregone conclusion. There was a possibility of Brazil not winning their group, the same way that there is a possibility of Hilary Clinton being elected president, but there was no danger of Brazil being knocked out. Still, many of the fans were gripped with anxiety, especially as Brazil gave a poor showing early in the tournament. They won every game of course, but they failed to really beat someone down until Ronaldo turned out Japan in the final game of the group. As Andre said before the first match, “everyone here knows Brazil is going to win, but we can’t help but be nervous.” He also admired our reverence for the founding fathers (I agree, but it was a pleasant thing to hear from a foreigner) and said, “‘The Simpsons’ proves to the entire world that the Americans are not assholes.”

I was a bit nervous too, as it is impossible not to be swept along. I’m normally a contrarian and a Scrooge but there is so much happiness and fun surrounding the team that only I couldn’t resist the pull even had I wanted to. Do you want to see hot chicks jumping up and down with joy or not? Do you want to see a semi-spontanious parade? Trucks of cheering fans following drum lines? Those things only happen if Brazil wins. More importantly, when you get to the knock out stage, a Brazil win means the chance to see another game.

I made to a club that was touted as strictly a mating ground. It was called “Show Bar” and it turned out to be hip hop night, which meant lots of black people. If you’ll allow me to jump into Jimmy the Greek mode for a moment, I really love the way that Brazilian blacks, and Brazilian black women in particular, look. There’s apparently an infusion of local Indian blood that gives them (as well as many meztizos) very soft facial features, but the booty remains intact. Glorious.

The music at Show Bar on hip-hop night, was pretty lame. It was more R&B than rap, which I think is lame. Beyonce, when you can only hear and not see her, is lame. I tired of the caterwauling of various Mirah clones because they are lame. The most interesting musical moments were instances of Brazilian hip hop. When one song came on I had the following exchange.

“Oh, this music is what we would call ‘crunk.’”
“Hmmmm. The lyrics are completely meaningless.”
“This music is what we would call ‘crunk’.”
Apparently the law that, the hotter the girl, the worse her taste in music will be holds in Brazil. The crappy hip hop at Show Bar does draw hot women, and provides polls for them to climb in order to shake what Jesus gave them. I accidentally zoomed in too close and wound up with a bunch of pictures of ass.

ACCIDENTS HAPPEN

My favorite spot, perhaps because it was the most different from what you’d find in the US was a samba bar called O do Borogodo. This place was jammed. It was one of the only clubs I had to wait in line for but was worth it. There was a fantastic live band and an audience around them but most people were milling about, talking or lining up next to me at the bar. I wish there was more to say, because I really enjoyed the place.

Being a grown up punk rock type, I felt most at home in Sao Paulo’s rock clubs. The first one I went to is called Fun House–in English. There are similar clubs elsewhere in the world, but I really liked the way things were laid out. There’s a bar area for socializing standing up and for buying alcoholic beverages. There’s an upstairs, meant to relax a bit more with couches and a juke box. I’m not wild about the juke box because you’re at the mercy of whatever latter day Fonz asshole wants to stand there feeding coins into the thing so he can his impose his tastes on you. The final room functions as a dance floor/stage depending on if there’s a live band or a DJ.

Fortunately I was there to catch a brilliant performance from a local band called The Post. I bought the singer and guitarist, Michel a beer after they finished up. I asked if it was fair to call them an emo band. He guessed so. I understood his reservations, because being emo now means getting your hair cut like The Monkeys and acting like a bitch. I told him The Post reminded me of the birth of emo, when Jawbreaker and Unwound combined the energy of punk rock with a new level of emotional power. He said that was pretty much his aim, but he had never heard of Jawbreaker or Unwound. Michel appeared to be at least half Asian, so I asked him about his ethnic background. 25% Chinaman, 50% Japanese, 25% some flavor of white. Had he ever felt like an outsider in Brazil? When he was younger he had, but he blamed that on the insularity of the Asian communities. As he grew older and circulated more freely, he said other Brazilians had rarely, if ever made him feel different. This was the first rock show I had been to in Brazil and I couldn’t help but notice how fucking lame the audience was. The concert room was jammed, and people seemed to be enjoying an explosive performance, but they stood like drunken muppets. I asked Michel if this was due to the pernicious influence of Monkey Emo. He didn’t really know because he had separated from “the scene” years ago. I didn’t like the scene either. Michel didn’t know where I could get some blow. The Post have a CD coming out and Michel was planning to hang it up and do some traveling after that. I encouraged him to give it one more year. He’s only 25 and it would be a shame for a band this rocking to fail to hit some kind of pay dirt. Here’s their myspace. I went back on a much slower night and saw a very solid surf-core band called Netunos.

I also went to Milo’s. Marina and I got there at 2:30am on a Saturday and had to wait in line for about half an hour to get in. I hate lines but if I must wait in one, it’s pretty sweet to do so a half hour after closing time back in Los Angeles. The DJ here actually mixed in some dance music, which doesn’t bother me. I’d sort of been hoping for some Descendants though, thinking that the club might be named after their singer. Maybe some Misfits or Black Flag as well. Instead it was Rage, Beastie Boys a ton of indy rock that I didn’t recognize because I am getting to old for this shit and the aforementioned smattering of dance music. If I had come a couple of nights earlier, I could have seen Igor Cavalera from Sepultura DJ. Yes, I appreciate how Martian that sentence was, but it’s also accurate. There’s an open air bar in the back which was a fun place to hang out, but I felt sympathy for the residents of the apartment building I was looking up at.

Marina warned me that A Loca was “very mixed,” meaning that a lot of gays went there. True enough. They might even have been in the majority, but the female patrons were above average, even by the lofty standards of Sao Paulo. I’d become used to Sao Paulo’s clubs being a bit over crowded by this time, but this was the first case where I was actually nervous. A Loca is shaped like a horseshoe at the entrance and exits, with long, narrow rooms leading back to the dance floor. The place was absolutely jammed, and the bar was in one of the narrow parts so people were packed in, with several patrons literally sitting on the bar for lack of room and I kept thinking that if there was a fire everyone would be dead. Fuck, if someone let out a really bad fart it could trigger a lethal stampede. There was absolutely no margin for error. All that was missing was Great White.

There is no Portugese word for “fire marshal.”

So, cons: 30% chance of being killed. But here are some pros. It was at A Loca that I heard the first guy I would actually describe as an excellent DJ in Sao Paulo. It was supposed to be rock night, but I hardly minded as he played really rocking, heavy techno of some variety. He was also active, skillfully manipulating the tracks rather than just playing records or playing and arbitrarily scratching records, as the hip hop DJ at Show Club had done. Also, I liked the atmosphere. There were stone walls, a weird statue with illuminated, red eyes and a “Super Friends” on an unfortunately unphotographable projection screen. I had a really nice shot of Wonder Woman surveying the debauchery.

Blending in with the locals

One thing I recommend if you go to Sao Paulo is to hook up with a girl who has a kindly and insanely rich aunt who invites you to use her enormous, three bedroom beach house with a live in maid/chef. If you can’t manage that, get a hotel. The beaches in Sao Paulo State are hyper Brazilian. It’s their equivalent to a American, dude ranch, the English pub or the Italian welfare office.. The natural beauty, and natural beauties are astonishing. The people are so laid back that I wonder how they maintain a heartbeat. Brazilian bikini exporters have to make special lines for America because the largest Brazilian models are too small for our tastes. You are never more than 100 steps from someone selling alcohol. And so forth.

Poor… I’ve never been less sympathetic.

Initially, I felt very slight pangs of leftist guilt about being served and doted upon. Neither Marina or I had done anything to deserve our Gatsby status. I had a vague fear of Michael Moore storming the beach house with a camera crew and asking how I could justify taking money from poor immigrants at the poker tables, using it to fly to Brazil and sleep till 3pm while another poor third worlder cleaned up my crumbs and empty liquor bottles. I felt like maybe I should buy the beach house maid, Maria Jose, a gift but I was pretty much broke myself by this point. I wondered if the security guards at the complex where we were staying gritted their teeth at working menial jobs at the behest of the rich and fortunate. It quickly became clear that this wasn’t the case, and I even considered applying for a security gig with 5% seriousness. The guards pulled one of two duties. One was to sit in a booth and sleep and watch TV until a resident came by and needed to be let in or out of the complex. One of these guys would bring his dog, who would lay at gate that was the entrance of the complex for pedestrians. I’ve never seen a less fearsome animal. When I say he was laying down, I mean he would actually lay completely on his side with his head flat against the ground so that as much of him as was possible was being supported by the sidewalk.. He was a cute mut, without a vicious bone in his body. The perfect Brazilian. The other duty for a guard was to sit in a chair on the beach, watching the ocean and the stuffed bikinis and make sure that no shady characters entered the property via beachfront, which probably happens like once every three years.

As for Maria Jose, she was an astonishing ninja maid. Whenever we left one part of the house, we would find that the next part of the house had been made to sparkle during our absence. Then we would go back to the first part and find that it was sparkling too. This vigorous cleaning was done constantly and with incredible stealth. The food was a feat of Ninja magic. Her Fejoida, which is the bean, rice and meat dish described in the restaurant review, is one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. Imagine the best elements of American, Southern cooking and Cuban food fused into one dish and you’re about there. She made Brigaderos, a World War II inspired sweet made from condensed milk and chocolate and on other nights, made fresh salmon and mixed sausages–all in portioned on the assumption that she was serving Howard Taft and that he was hosting a tapeworm. She worked hard and was good at her job, but it occurred to me that Maria Jose was a full time resident of a phat beach house. How many months per year did she have the place to herself? All in all, not such a bad life.

Bursting my large intestine

Even the poor who do not live in the resort community live in small towns with very, ugly buildings. But they are surrounded by gorgeous jungles, rivers and waterfalls and most of the houses have satellite dishes. I’m romanticizing things, of course. I’m sure that they guard with the Brazilian dog was bitten by a coral snake a week after I left. Still, it’s a pretty fortunate situation to find yourself in if it’s a given that you’re going to be poor. I wondered why people from the much harsher slums around Sao Paulo didn’t move to the beach and sweep streets or sell ice cream there instead. Of course I’ve thought the same thing about Americans. Why work in liquor store in Detroit when you could work in a liquor store in Portland or some other city that actually has positive qualities? Of course, I can’t understand why you would be a partner in a Detroit law firm when you could work in a Portland liquor store, but whatever.

The beach communities were where I saw the apex of casual disregard for human life in Brazil. I dig that Brazilians are a relaxed people, and I also understand that Americans have a reputation for being obsessed with safety, but holy God. On the way to the beach we drove through an astonishing string of tunnels and bridges. The bridges wove high above the jungle and looked like roller coasters. You can look seven hundred feet above you on a mountain and see a long highway curling around, elevated above pristine jungle so as to minimize the intrusion into nature. The tunnels are some of the longest in the world. In spite of the fact that the average Brazilian drives like someone with down syndrom and a meth addiction, workers in these tunnels would stand two, maybe three feet away from the whizzing, swerving traffic, with their backs turned to it. Sure, they had orange hats on, but I couldn’t believe someone would could be so comfortable with cars doing 70mph blowing past you with a twenty inch margin of error that he could turn his back on the whole thing.

The actual beaches in Sao Paulo State are not spectacular. The sand and water are exactly the same color as in California–yellowish white sand and brownish green water. Pretty, but not Grand Caman. I can’t say anymore without resorting to platitudes. I love the sound of the ocean and though you can often find me playing online poker, surfing the net, listening to music and bored, I can stare at the ocean for hours. I like walks on the beach. Ice cream tastes good. I’d totally have sex with Jessica Alba.

What makes the beaches of Sao Paulo state special is the surrounding landscape. Mountains, jungles and lazy, green rivers that move slowly enough for mosquitoes to breed in them. That last bit I was actually not so crazy about. Brazilian mosquitoes are tiny, but leave bites several times their body size. They have a taste for Yankee flesh, and have apparently learned that the scent of Off means that there must be a patch of unprotected skin somewhere. Something–maybe a mosquito, maybe a winged tarantula –bit the side of my hand one night. The itch was maddening and I felt that pretty soon I would run around town firing shot gun blasts, no longer able to distinguish mosquitoes from other organisms. I squeezed the bite like a pimple until it turned into a blood blister and popped. This stopped the itching and was well worth the pain. And while the scars from my other bites remain months later, and occasionally even itch, the popper is gone without a trace. Just a tip.

Marina and I went to a dinner party at the apartment of her friend Maira. It was to be an interesting night, because Maira worked as a journalist for the landless movement. She identified herself as a Communist and was a member of one of Brazil’s many Communist parties. Her Party is called PSOL and is based on the philosophy of a thinker called Gramsci. The other guests were to be Vera, who I had previously met at the University, and her boyfriend. Vera is a patricinha. The most efficient way to explain what a patricinha is, is to say that the Portugese title of Clueless is As Patricinhas de Beverly Hills. I was looking forward to eating pasta with a patricinha and a pinko, but Vera bailed at the last minute, so it was me, Marina, Maira and her equally commie boyfriend, Joao and her veterinarian roommate. I forgot the veterinarian’s name, but she was cute.

In some ways, Maira was what you might expect. She came from a financially comfortable family and had short hair. But she was not a bad looking girl at all, and was tolerant and fun. She busted up when I offered her a high five, after she pointed out that Brazil and the United States had been the two most efficient murderers of indigenous populations in the Americas. She was funny too. She didn’t agree with Brazil’s Trotskyist party and said, “after the revolution, the will be the first to die.” Although Vera flaked, I found it interesting that a staunch Communist and an equally zealous patricinha were friends.

Coming from the states and holding a degree in economics, I was a bit curious as to how anyone could be a Communist in this day and age. I understood that Brazil was a country with some major injustices, not much different in nature from those back home. We are both good at killing Indians and ignoring the suffering of poor children. But at the same time, we were both countries with rich cultures, accessible to most people. Neither country was Cuba under Batista. A bloody revolution that would probably fail, and even if successful could easily wind up as an oppressive, totalitarian state didn’t strike me as the most prudent course of action..Besides, in both the United States and Brazil, the majority of the poor have full stomachs and color TV. I just don’t think that you can have a revolution when Seinfeild is on and I have slight moral reservations about running around butchering other people when you could be at home eating well.

So I asked Maira why she was a Communist, instead of say, a Green. She said, and everyone agreed, that the Greens were one of the most corrupt parties in Brazil, which is like having the smallest dick at a gun show. Well, OK, but isn’t a revolution basically impossible? Even if you got some headway, the US would intervene and install some murderous dictator who might massacre tens of thousands of people. Maira said, “that is a risk.” But one reason that she and her boyfriend liked their Communist party was that it was focused more on making changes within the system than destroying it. My impression was that their party was basically a version of the Greens or Social Democrats, with the preamble, “Ideally the working people of the world would unite yadda yadda yadda, and something would happen involving chains, but…” I asked what they would they would choose if they could wave a magic wand and turn the Brazilian state into either one resembling Cuba or one resembling Sweden, or perhaps France. They agreed that it was a tough question, which seemed to be their way of saying, “obviously the answer is Sweden, but ideologically the answer is Cuba.” Freud is also still taken seriously in Brazil. Still, I must make my respect for Maira explicit, before I belittle Brazilian ideologies any further. She is actually working full time to help poor people, whereas the foundation of my life is avoiding honest work by exploiting people with gambling problems so that I can buy liquor and sleep until the afternoon. A world populated by Mairas would be a world of compassion and justice. A world populated by Erichs would have a thunder dome in every major city.

The irony, particularly with respect to Marx, is that middle and upper class youth can reside in an ideological fantasy land because of extreme privilege. The Brazilian notion of a middle class person is someone who owns a beach house. It’s normal to live at home until your mid to late twenties and virtually every person I met in that range who lived on their own, still took money. Part of the reason for this is that newly minted, middle class professionals make dick. But it is also a cultural norm. I met one guy, a Marxist, who had been in college for eleven years without obtaining a degree. Now, I think parents should financially support their children into adulthood if they can, but it is taken completely for granted and the culture of insular privilege seems to foster a certain disconcertion from reality, in which there can actually exist a large association of Freudian therapists. There’s kind of a big Woody Allen movie crossed with a Rage Against the Machine concert.

I also learned that many students celebrated 9/11, actually celebrated, by going out and drinking. They thought it was a blow against imperialism. I’m not much of a flag waver. The over hyped images of Palestinians celebrating 9/11 don’t even bother me that much. I can understand that someone who lives a life of suffering,, mis-education and impotence might rejoice in a tragedy in a wealthy, adversarial country. I am much larger than the average Brazilian. I have to say, if I ran across some wealthy bitch who claimed to be a Marxist, on his way back from Freudian therapy, cheering about the fact that right wing, religious extremists slaughtered thousands of civilians in my country I think the guy would be introduced to at least one aspect of reality. Hopefully there would be a domino of epiphanies beginning` with, “hey, being hurt really hurts ” Depending on the sequence of events, I would either visit him in the hospital or request that he visit me in jail. One of us would extend our stay, depending on how explained the belief that the belief that it is OK to murder someone because of where they live is contrary to the spirit of imperialism. Someone would certainly have an extended stay when I asked what Marx would think about celebrating the death of civilians at the hands of right wing religious fanatics by buying $60 in drinks with daddy’s money while people in your own country go hungry, because it would be difficult form him to answer with a collapsed trachea.

On to more the important matter of licit drugs. Maira had been to Cuba. The most surprising account of her trip was that Cubans didn’t generally realize how many problems the poor face in the US and Brazil. They thought it was impossible that societies with so much money could be so inhumane. I always figured that the press in Cuba was constantly running stories about the homeless and uninsured in America, but perhaps not. The least surprising thing about Mairas trip to Cuba was that she had loaded up on top shelf, Cuban rum and Cigars, which she was willing to share. Because her family had come from Czechoslovakia only a generation before, Maira was the one Brazilian I met who understood my gripe against Brazil’s terrible beer. I felt like a Kansas transsexual meeting others like myself on Oprah’s stage. Marina mentioned my gripe and Maira said, “yes, my family is Czech.” I said, “so… you… understand?” She nodded and cracked open a dark, but refreshing brew that I never saw again. I liked her.