Weird Trips

Weird Trips

Travel Adventures Gone Wrong

Mike B. Good

Copyright © 2017 by Mike B. Good

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Mike B. Good/Señor Bueno Publishing

1916 Pike Place Ste. 12

Seattle, Wa., 98101

www.mikebegood.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of outlandish fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout © 2016 BookDesignTemplates.com

Weird Trips/ Mike B. Good. -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-0-0000000-0-0

CONTENTS

Fun At The Beach

Shipwrecked

Lizardo Goes Yachting

Lake Toba

Sexy Suzie

Felony Flats

Happy Jose’s Disaster Tour

Good Sailor

Sailing To Malaysia

I’ve Got More Books For You!

Preview of Breaking Good

Preview of High In The Andes

Preview of The Machu Picchu Blues

Preview of Kona Gold

Did You Like Weird Trips?

Meet The Author

A Note From The Author

Weird Trips is a collection of travel adventures gone wrong. Like any experienced traveler with a love for life and no common sense, I've had my share of bizarre and scary vacations. I've picked nine of them with a common theme: A typically weird trip somehow involving a boat. Also, wacky people, strange customs, and unexpected turns of events. 

As a nature lover who hates getting cold, most of my travels were to the tropics. Well, that’s where the rainforests and coral reefs are. But then, so are all those pesky coups d’ etats, earthquakes, landslides, tsunamis, hurricanes, tidal waves. . . well, you get the idea.

It's amazing how much fun a free-spirited guy can have while his vacations try to kill him. You have to admit, a barrage of near-death experiences turns a vacation into a thrilling adventure. Take my word for it, running for your life from a cannibal on a narrow jungle trail, getting shipwrecked, or swimming with tiger sharks is a much greater thrill than a trip to a museum. As are encounters with anacondas, headhunters, rumbling volcanoes, enraged mobs of villagers, brutal cartel thugs, and arrests by corrupt Third World police.

Been dying to check out wild places, experience nature gone wild. . .without actually dying? In that case, read Weird Trips and you'll be glad you weren't there!

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Fun At The Beach

(Ecuador 1972)

Quito is okay as far as Ecuadorean capitals go, said Shelly through chattering teeth, but I didn’t come to South America to be cold. Let’s get out of the Andes and down to the beach.

Shivering inside my poncho, I said, T-t-hat’s a great idea.

"Check out the Crowded Planet, Mikey. See what our options are."

A map in the guidebook showed a road leading to the west coast, ending at a city called Esmeraldas.

What’s that mean in English? asked Shelly.

Emeralds.

With a name like that, I pictured an area of opulent beach resorts catering to snooty jewelry aficionados. An Ecuadorean Palm Beach.

Judging by the smile on her face, so did Shelly. "Emeralds? I think I’ll like it there. Bring your checkbook."

I didn’t care about the stones, but a beach on the equator? It wouldn’t be cold there. It would be hot and humid and impossibly sultry. Not to mention bug-ridden. Still, it’d be tropical, lush, and best of all, romantic. And I was in the mood for romance.

I’d met Shelly a week earlier in Popayan, Colombia, while staying at her brother Ross’s rented ranch. We were currently in the infatuation stage. I knew from experience this was the best stage. The one before Shelly got to know me better. She’d just arrived from California and I’d been in South America about a year. The more experienced traveler, I was determined to show her a great time.

I’d learned the hard way: checking out your destination before you went there had distinct benefits. Could save your life. And so, as Team Travel Expert, I looked up Esmeraldas, saw that it was a port city, not an affluent coastal community, and frowned. As cities went, ports were among the worst. They were dirty and dangerous, and I’d had some bizarre experiences in them. I mentioned a few incidents to Shelly. They involved the words: muggers, cannibals, stabbings, bombs, dead bodies, and the intriguing phrase chop-chop houses.

That’s because you weren’t with me.

Ah, to be so innocent.

Don’t worry, Mikey, I have a strong feeling Esmeraldas will be different.

What are you? Psychic?

"No, but with a cool name like that? It has to be a groovy scene."

I can’t argue with logic like that.

Not funny. What’s the guidebook say?

They start with a history lesson.

I paraphrased the Crowded Planet: Esmeraldas was the first place in Ecuador that curious visitors from Spain landed. Upon noticing the surprised locals lined up on the shore like ducks, the new white gods shot them for sport. Souvenir-seekers, the tourists couldn’t help but be attracted to the shiny green stones the natives wore around their necks. Problems arose when a few surviving Indians objected to the visitors’ attempts to remove their necklaces. The Conquistadors deftly removed the heads of the selfish Indians, explaining, This way there’ll be no bothersome discussions over oppressive property rights.

Seems a little harsh, said Shelly.

No kidding. It’s guys like that who give tourists a bad rap.

Then again, said open-minded Shelly, giving the Conquistadors a break, "emeralds are irresistible. Anything else?"

"It goes on to say: This ancient custom is still practiced; only now by fun-loving Esmeraldas locals greeting visitors. Then it jokes: So visitors, try to keep your head about you!"

Shelly fingered her love beads and rubbed her tender neck, giving it some thought. Maybe there’s another beach town? One without a port.

Shelly needed reassurance. I’m sure your head is safe. More or less. Although, who really knows?

Still. . .why take a chance?

Shelly was such a chicken. Typical girl. I totally agreed with her, but in a manly way. After more research, we saw that a train ran from the city of Ibarra (just north of Quito) down to the Pacific, terminating in a place called San Vicente.

How about San Vicente? asked Shelly. Looks like it might be a quaint oceanside village.

On the map, San Vicente appeared in minute letters, so we didn’t expect much.

"Well, let’s see. The guidebook says: San Vicente, a squalid fly speck on the coast, isn’t much of a place. There is no tourist infrastructure, but it is surrounded by beautiful beaches and insane jungle filled with man-eating plants and animals. The ocean waters are full of sea turtles and other things."

Sounds great for a nature lover like you..

I know. Although I wonder about the ‘other things.’

Anything about lopping off our heads?

"Nope. It just says: For some travelers, San Vicente is safer than Esmeraldas."

"Some? That seems ambiguous."

Doesn’t it? Whatever that means. Anyway, I’m sure we’ll be fine.

Really?

Definitely. Unless I’m wrong and something horrible happens.

The long ride from Ibarra passed through all sorts of climate and ecological zones, dropping from cool green mountainsides down through vast rainforest to the coast. The Crowded Planet hinted at a picturesque journey: You’ll see all kinds of weird nature stuff, if you like that sort of thing. Just be careful; it will try to kill you. So be sure to kill it first.

Who wrote this stuff? asked Shelly.

I checked on the author. Someone from Exxon.

The views did not let us down. As we descended the western slopes of the Andes, enormous trees decorated with bromeliads, bird’s-nest ferns, and blooming orchids lined the route. The ride, with no oncoming trains hurtling at us, felt so much safer than the bus trips. Ah, finally a journey where I could relax and enjoy myself. Used to the routine life and death adventures along the Pan American Highway, I found safety boring and fell asleep.

Getting to the coast took most of the day; the train often stopping along the way to pick up and drop off passengers. And I don’t mean in a town. Someone would just be standing there in the middle of the jungle, waiting for a ride.

Where did they come from? we wondered.

Other times people would hop off, and melt into the thick foliage. Where are you going? we’d ask.

To a place called mind your own business, they’d answer.

By late afternoon, we were standing on a sandy beach at the edge of the Pacific.

Where’d the town go? we wondered.

San Vicente was on the map, but barely, and pushed way to the side, like a kid forced to play right field. No posh resorts, no fancy jewelry stores, no Conquistadors. . .just ramshackle wooden huts along the shore. Though one of the closest beaches to Quito, it hadn’t been developed. No tiki bars, no Club Meds, no cheap bungalows, no jet skis. The usual shady characters abounded, but none hawked hookers and drugs. Fortunately, I always traveled with my own (pot, anyway), but it seemed like a waste of shadiness. Tourism had yet to discover desolate but funky San Vicente. Then again, poverty had.

Giving San Vicente a quick look, all it took, Shelly seemed impressed. Just not in a good way. Nice place you brought me to.

The village will look better after dark when we can’t see it.

Let’s hope so. Where’s our resort?

An eternal optimist, as well as kick ass travel expert, I winged it. I don’t see a resort, but there’s gotta be a cool little place around here somewhere.

You think?

Sure. If not a hotel, we’ll find a villager with rooms to rent.

As we reached the northern end of the village without luck, it looked liked we’d be camping on the beach. A hundred or so yards beyond the village, we saw one last hovel. With nothing to lose, we checked it out. As we got close, I saw a board nailed to a coconut tree. It said: Bienvenidos a San Vicente Reetz.

The Ritz? Perfect. See that, Shelly? First class, baby!

Hmm. . .what else does the sign say?

I wiped away some mud. Dirty rooms done dirt cheap.

Says Deluxe Accommodations.

And to think my brother was worried about me running off with you.

I could have been wrong, but I sensed sarcasm. I pointed the deluxe accommodations. For some reason, the hotel owner had disguised them as derelict shacks.

I guess they could use some new paint. And some windows. And some new roofing and walls. Perhaps a less misleading name. Don’t worry, they’re probably nicer from the inside.

They couldn’t possibly be worse.

Let’s check-in and find out.

We walked around front to the beach side and stopped short. Sprawled in a hammock next to a mound of festering garbage, snored a drunken woman with a face full of moles.

Shelly gagged. "Gross. What is that smell?"

The concierge must be French.

Well, wake Madame up. I’m ready for a dip in the pool, then a nice Jacuzzi and massage before cocktails.

Queen Shelly wanted to enjoy the ambiance of the resort after all the traveling.

I greeted the hostess with charm. Also, trepidation. "Buenas tardes, Señora. Señora? Nothing. She’s not responding."

Give her a little shake.

"You give her a little shake."

Come on, be a man.

I did not want to touch the sweaty hotelier. I settled for shaking her hammock. She didn’t awaken but the startled moles jumped off her face and ran into the undergrowth.

Jesus, Shel, I don’t think she’s breathing.

Then revive her; we need a room.

I shook the hammock again. Still nothing. I pushed that hammock hard enough to simulate an earthquake. She remained dead to the world.

It’s not working.

Time for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, suggested fearless Nurse Shelly.

Impressed by her courage, I was thinking: Better her than me.

Okay, go ahead.

Not me, you nut, said Shelly, obviously thinking the same thing.

Aw man. . . I looked down at the target mouth. What few teeth remained had rotted. I would, but I don’t wanna make you jealous.

I’ll try to control myself.

Maybe she’s faking death.

Why would she do that?

I don’t know. . .maybe she’s too lazy to breathe

Quit stalling.

No way I was going near that gaping mouth. Instead, I poured bottled water into it, disturbing a crowd of flies. The resultant snort would have done a hippo proud, but she didn’t wake up. At least I had her breathing again. I pictured headlines: Hero Performs Jungle Miracle. Villagers would regale me with free lodging, tropical fruits, voluptuous maidens. . .

"Mikey? Mikey? Earth to Mikey. . .where’d you go?"

Huh?

Never mind. What about the concierge? How can we check-in?

Emergency action was called for or nosy Shelly would never stop with the questions. I’d had a similar encounter with a drunken nature tour operator in the Amazon and knew that stronger measures were required. Like a psychotic paramedic, I shook the hammock, poured the rest of the water over the hotelier’s face, and screamed, Tsunami!

My skillful doctoring revived the sleeping beauty. She woke up choking and sputtering, half-drowned and mad as a wet hen. I know; where was the gratitude?

With a glare in her one working eye, she focused on the bottle in my hand. Did you just pour that on my face?

Ah, there it was.

You’re welcome.

She shook her fist. The one with a machete in it. I wasn’t thanking you.

Actually, I said, nodding toward my companion, I was answering for Shelly here. She doesn’t speak Spanish.

It's not that I was a coward, but I didn’t want to leave Shelly out of the conversation. After all, that would be rude.

Waving her machete, the concierge let Shelly know what she thought of her life-saving technique. Shelly’s elbow to my ribs, let me know what she thought of the resort.

Why are you bothering me? snarled the concierge.

I pointed at the little sign. We need a room.

With a resigned grunt, she rolled out of the hammock and thumped to the ground. Getting up, she gave Shelly a dirty look. Like it was Shelly’s fault her leg had fallen asleep. Motivated by our hostess, Shelly gave me a shove.

"What? I asked, arms out, hands palm up, innocence personified. I smiled at the concierge. Lead us to your honeymoon suite, Madame. Only the best for my sophisticated lady friend here."

Madame shuffled away, her pet flies staying close.

Let’s go somewhere else, pleaded Shelly.

"Did you see anywhere else?"

Sure, the proprietress sucked, but did the room? Yes. Yes, it did. The honeymoon suite smelled of rot and decay. . .and other things far worse. Putrid things better left undiscovered. Furtive critters scattered into cobwebbed corners as we entered. Others attacked. On the bright side, the sweltering suite had a light and ceiling fan. They didn’t work because there was no electricity. There were no windows either, but there were two large holes in the wall.

Look, Shelly, a room with a view. Of the other shack.

The bed was a damp, lumpy mattress stuffed with what smelled like compost. At least it sat on saggy springs to keep us off the floor where the predators lurked at night. Also, during the day.

This bed will never do, complained Shelly.

Because it’ll wreck our backs?

That. . .and other things.

You mean the bedbugs?

For starters.

Don’t worry; we can throw the mattress on the floor.

With the rest of the bugs?

"Go to a fancy hotel in New York City, you still get bugs. She gave me a look. All right, maybe not in this volume or variety or quite so deadly, but, hey, there's no extra charge."

Shelly didn’t seem appeased. There’s no furniture.

With the ambiance so nice and natural, the owner didn’t want to spoil things with comfort. The good thing, Shelly. . .

She cut me off. There’s a good thing about this room?

It’ll guarantee we’re never in it.

"Where is the baño? I want to take a shower and freshen up."

Lemme check.

"Baño? We don’t got no stinkin’ baño."

That’s good to know, because we want a clean one.

After a nasty-sounding chortle, the lady pointed around. Just tell Queenie there to go wherever she feels like it, same as us common folk.

Why is she giving me such bad vibes? asked Shelly.

Probably due to the rude awakening.

She gave me a look of. . .understanding? No way I could tell someone as cultured as Shelly there was no restroom. Not after that look.

"At least there’s good news. This whole place is the baño."

Outside, fronting the beach, I saw a little palapa with two plastic tables, but no chairs. Twenty feet away sat four chairs with no table. Obviously, the Reetz’s acclaimed restaurant.

Come on, Shel, let’s see what’s for dinner.

We walked over to the hostess, who happened to be the grouchy owner. Also, the chef. "Buenas tardes, Señora. . ."

You again? she growled, picking up the machete.

Tell me, what gourmet feast will you be serving for dinner?

She cackled at that one, then showed off a bait bucket. It was full of tripe and fish heads. They were marinating in a fly and garbage sauce.

You’re in luck, Shelly, they’ve got surf ‘n turf tonight.

Didn’t I tell you I’m fasting?

Smart move.

This place will never do.

She kept saying that. There was just no pleasing some people.

I turned to our hostess. "No offense, Señora, but my lady here is a world-renowned snob. Aren’t there any less disgusting places to stay around here?"

Signaling with her gnarled finger, she led us to the other shack. In another lifetime, it had been a storage shed. There were no holes in the walls, but at least the roof was caved in. The smell of death, slightly reduced, perfumed the air.

I pointed out the bright side. Looks like we'll be able to watch the stars from our reeking mattress. Pretty romantic, huh, Shel?

That doesn’t begin to cover it.

Well, all right. Unless I was mistaken, she was coming around, dropping the whole prima donna bit. And so, with Shelly’s endorsement, it was time to close the deal.

I began the negotiations. "We’re bigshot hotel reviewers for Travel and Leisure Magazine. Also, High Times."

"High Times?"

Here’s my press card, I said, holding out a fat joint. In addition to the free room and gourmet meals, how much will you bribe us for a good mention?

She made an offer: one dollar for the stinky room, but twice that for the nasty storage hut.

Is that all you can afford to pay?

In her confusion, she insisted I pay her.

Let me ask you something. Why is the decrepit hut more than the lousy room?

The venomous insects, poisonous snakes, and toxic birds have a harder time getting at you.

I relayed the good news to Shelly.

Even the birds here are toxic? she asked, excited to hear it. Or was that fear?

I pointed at something hanging upside down in a tree. I think she meant the vampire bats.

Why is there so much foam around its mouth?

The owner held out her hand and snapped her fingers impatiently. She had better things to do than rent us a room. The hammock awaited.

"All right, Señora, you drive a hard bargain. Should I pay in escudos or soap?"

"Soap?"

I held up an enticing bar of Irish Spring.

She wriggled her nose, intrigued by the overwhelming reek of the stuff. "So that's what soap looks like."

Not just any soap. This is industrial-strength Irish Spring with Brillo pads and caustic soda.

Considerate of others, I didn’t use nasty Irish Spring myself, but I’d learned it came in handy when bribing Customs Officials, soldiers, and corrupt policemen. Long story.

Snatching it out of my hand, she gave the Irish Spring a sniff. For the first time, she smiled. Or was that a grimace? Either way, it scared the two of us into stepping back.

You’d think she’s never seen soap before, whispered Shelly.

Watch this, I said.

When the lady gummed a chunk out of it, Shelly muttered, "Un-be-lievable."

The gourmet menu at the resort was tempting, but we opted for tropical fruit from a little stand. Provisions in hand, we cruised up the coast to watch the sunset in privacy. The town was behind us, and not a single footprint marred the sand. Along the shore, tall coconuts swayed in the breeze; inland, nothing but lush tropical growth. Up ahead, we saw a few beach cabins. They sat there empty and inviting. We figured city folks up in Quito used them for occasional vacations. Believe it or not, the cabins were even nicer than the San Vicente Reetz. But then, so were their outhouses.

We watched a killer sunset, then suffered through a sultry equatorial night in the storage hut. Big spender, I’d splurged on the more expensive hovel. We spent the night, not romantically entwined as I’d hoped, but as far apart as possible. To hug was to sweat like a maniac. For a nice change, I’d remembered to bring mosquito repellent. Okay, Shelly had, but at least there was some around. It was the poisonous snakes, toxic birds, and other assorted vermin that made it hard to sleep.

Before sunrise we were up and out of our luxurious quarters, drenched, exhausted, and short of blood. With no shower at the Reetz, we jumped in the ocean to rinse wounds and entice sharks. Out front, we saw our hostess, again passed out in her hammock, flies buzzing around her head, moles back in place, and a curious set of foamy bite marks on her neck.

Having nothing to do, and all day not to do it, we filled a string bag with drinking water and tropical fruit and cruised up the beach. When we saw a group of sea turtles playing off shore we swam out to them. With the surf flat and water clear as the air. I could barely tell the difference. . . Except for when I tried to breathe underwater.

Isn’t this something, Mikey, swimming with sea turtles?

I know. This is the life.

"I wonder what the other things the guidebook mentioned might be."

"I’m sure we’ll find out. Umm, the water’s nice. I could float