The Thong Also Rises

by Jennifer L. Leo

  We snapped our anthill photos fast and hopped back into the car. Hundreds of flies came with us. After some frantic experimentation, involving swatting, speeding, swerving, and swearing, we discovered that the best way to get rid of flies was to open all the windows and drive slowly. Of course this rendered the air conditioner useless, and we were soon dripping with perspiration, which caused the red Outback dust to cake onto our bodies in a most unattractive way. When I had exterminated all the flies but three, I climbed into the back seat and smashed the last survivors with our A1 rental papers. They left dry, brown smears across the part where we had signed up for extra insurance. Then we rolled up the windows and drove in silence, waiting for the car to cool off. It was too hot to talk.

  As it turned out, there was, indeed, no official speed limit on the road to Katherine. Hundreds of miles of open road, dead straight, no Highway Patrol. The speed limit was whatever you could coax your car to do. I say “coax” because only a fool would take a high performance car on this road. When we stopped to get the camera, I discovered that the inside of the trunk was covered with fine red dust. The dust was also sucked into our luggage, and, inside that, into the plastic bag I use to protect the camera from dust. It gets into the engine, too, and the brakes. That was why the rental company had at first provided us with a beater for the trip. I began to feel guilty that we were ruining this A1 car for anything but Outback travel.

  There were “speed limit” signs on the road: white rectangles with a big black zero in the center, and a slanted red bar crossing the zero. (“What kin ya do?”) Jim took full advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and opened it up on the open road. When the speedometer hit 130 kilometers, I looked away. Mostly the trip was O.K., and even seemed fairly safe, because there were no other vehicles on the road. A couple of times we hit potholes and bounced hard. Once there was a really loud noise, and when I looked in the mirror I thought I saw something fall off the bottom of the car. But it was getting late, and we kept driving until we got to Katherine.

  The next morning, the car seemed fine, and we took a dirt road out to Glen Helen, which is an outpost in the middle of nowhere. It consists of one gasoline pump, two camels in a small corral, a permanent looking “No Vacancy” sign, and a small motel-and-bar combination called the All Seasons Glen Helen Homestead.

  There isn’t much to do in Glen Helen, except to take a hike up the gorge, which is a dramatic contrast to the rest of the Outback. It was fun at first: a small stream gurgled along the trail, there were a few hardy plants, and the steep canyon walls sheltered us from the sun. Here and there a gray lizard skittered out of our path, but other than that, it was dead quiet. After a while we were too hot even in the shade, and we were tired and hungry, so we walked back to the roadhouse.

  This is when we discovered I had locked the keys in the car. We had left our wallets safely in the glove compartment, since we wouldn’t need them on the hike. (No need to carry any more than was necessary.) When we returned, we needed money to buy a couple of cold beers and some tucker (food). So there we were, circling the car, tugging the handles, arguing, hot and tired and hungry.

  My clothes were sticking to my body. A fly landed on Jim’s face, and walked into his nose. Until you have witnessed it, you cannot imagine how intensely irritable it makes a person when a fly crawls into his nostril and refuses to be dislodged.

  It was at this point that we had the conversation about my driving.

  Several helpful folks wandered over to view the keys dangling from the ignition and offer advice. “Why donja jus use yir spair key, mate?” one asked.

  “This woonda happened if you’da left yir windars open,” another offered.

  The most practical of the lot suggested we simply throw a brick through the window, “She’ll be right, mate!” When you’re in the Outback, life seems fairly straightforward.

  But there were no bricks to be had in Glen Helen, so I went inside, bummed some change, and phoned A1. It turned out the only spare key was in their Alice Springs office, more than eight hundred miles away. They said they’d send someone right over, as soon as they could round up an airplane. “No worries.”

  Waiting for the car keys to be delivered, Jim chatted up the waitress at the All Seasons Glen Helen Homestead—as I recall, he was not speaking to me at that time—and expressed his disgust over the hundreds of flies crawling on the outside of the window.

  “Awwr that’s nothin’, mate!” she responded. “In the summa they completely cuvah ervery winda, so no light comes in uh’tall. Keeps the place coolah that way.”

  Hours passed. It was late afternoon, and I began to worry about where we would spend the night. There were no vacant rooms at the Homestead, and I was sure the Outback was at least as inhospitable at night as it was during the day. We couldn’t even sleep in the car. There was no one to hitch a ride back to Katherine with; the travelers who were not staying the night had long since left. It was beginning to look like Jim might spend the night with the waitress, but what about me? I tried to remember whether Bedouins or other desert people slept with their camels, but could only dredge up stories of mean-spirited animals that spit and kick at humans.

  I was in the middle of wondering whether lizards, which of course are cold-blooded, would be attracted to my body heat if I were sleeping in the desert, when a cheerful man in short shorts and an A1 shirt appeared and handed Jim the key, no worries. What did we owe him for this extravagant kindness? “Awwr, nothin’ mate.” He gave Jim a friendly slap on the back. “We’ll sen’ja the bill laytah.”

  They did, too. Five months later a charge for sixty-five dollars showed up on my credit card bill. Sixty-five dollars— not even enough to pay for the airplane fuel! The description said simply, “A1 key delivery.” Life is fairly straightforward in the Outback.

  Laurie McAndish King has studied medicinal plants in the rainforests of Brazil and Argentina, chased lemurs through the mountains of Madagascar, fought off leeches in tropical Queensland, hunted a lion on foot in Botswana without a gun, and survived a kidnapping in Tunisia. Her Tunisian story, “At a Crossroads,” was published in The Kindness of Strangers.

  DEANNA SUKKAR

  Almost Grounded

  This time they weren’t groans of pleasure.

  I MAKE MY WAY THROUGH THE PROVINCIAL LAOTIAN airport with the ease of an inveterate traveler. My backpack, festively covered with embroidered patches from such country delicacies as Cambodia, Swaziland, and Cuba, proudly salutes my exploratory spirit, if not my sewing prowess. I have been traveling for one month shy of a year. Walking by my side, with not quite the experienced swagger in her step, is my mom, carrying a baguette. She has decided to join me on the final leg of my global tramp.

  The airport terminal boasts a corrugated metal roof, reed walls, and gravel floor. We check in and try to make ourselves comfortable for a long wait on chairs better used to stack canned goods. Looking about, I see deposited across from me three dazzling blue plastic bags. They are oddly rustling. Piqued, I sit up in my chair to scrutinize. Crammed inside, eyes bulging and throats pumping, are dozens of anxious frogs jumping randomly within their confines. Bemused, I pass several minutes watching before realizing that I am witnessing a break-out in progress—a determined handful seek liberty and are escaping their prison. This soon creates a mild ripple of excitement among the handful of Western tourists.A few mouths fall open mutely, followed by a smattering of whispers. One word eventually triumphs. “FROG!” This particular utterance dooms the fugitive riparians. The alerted amphibian merchant retrieves his slippery activists (none too soon in my book), and we all settle back down with contented sighs of amusement.

  Ten minutes later, a man, thin as a chopstick and dressed tightly in uniform, approaches and in broken English informs me that there is a slight problem with my luggage. “Slight problem?” I ask. “Why yes, is ticking.” My mother and I rejoin in a duet, “TICKING?!!” Ticking, in a piece of luggage, especially if it is emanating fro
m my luggage, at an airport, does not sound “slight” to me. I am wholly perplexed. Did I let it “leave my sight?” One look at mom and I see that she has judiciously relegated her anxiety level about where to stay for the night, to second place. She looks around for suspicious characters, terrorist alert on orange. Best to nip that in the bud. I tell her not to worry. “Don’t worry mom. I’ll handle this.”

  I duly follow the guy down cement steps where some two dozen bags are awaiting their flight. As we descend, I reassuringly mumble to myself, “It can’t be my bag ticking. I pack so light! I don’t even use an alarm clock. Why do I have to investigate?” I am becoming increasingly indignant.

  Three additional officials await my arrival; their cocked ears belie a contemplative calm. The bag in question is kind of balancing on top of the others, like a reclining Buddha. One of the young men indicates my closed pack with an uplift of his hairless chin. My cockiness gives way to curiosity. Looks like they haven’t even opened it yet. I narrow the distance slowly. I am hearing a slight reverberation now, too…only, it’s NOT “tick-tock.” Oh my God! An overdue thought is entering my head, timidly surfacing at about the same speed as my hand is nearing my bag. My curiosity has fallen victim to unadulterated horror. I rest my palm on the surface and peek up at the expectant male faces. Oh shiiiiiit! The color of my face goes from white (shock) to green (sick) to red (wretched mortification), and back again, like an undulating Italian flag or a shimmering squid in the throes of courtship. What could they be thinking? How much English do they understand?

  Feeling like one of those condemned frogs awaiting a sautéed garlic finish, and yearning for home (or spontaneous ascension), I unzip leisurely, playing for time, composure, and air. Out of my plastic toiletry bag, I extract my three-inch, mercifully non-descript, éclair-shaped vibrator. Regrettably, it has been blithely working overtime and is humming tirelessly, its own private party.

  How I wish at this moment that it had missed my “packing light” cut a year ago. In retrospect, I must have confused necessity with luxury. I mean, how lazy can a woman be? Ben Franklin firmly avowed, “Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry, all things easy.” Nay, he was indeed not speaking of such an electric frivolity. Nevertheless, over two centuries later, I have proven him correct. Couldn’t I have seen fit to be a bit more “industrious?”

  The first thing I do, after turning off the little traitor, is smile innocently at the poker faces, dismissively shaking my head. Then I resort to what any loyal daughter would do. I blame it on my mom. “I am sooooo sorry. Heh, heh, I guess my mother’s massager has gone off. On. Sore shoulders you know. She’s not used to lugging a pack.” To prove my point, I deftly apply it to my left deltoid, squint my eyes, and emit an aaaaaah. The men are grouped together like a nascent banyan tree, staring at the culprit with a collectively raised eyebrow. Is third from left smirking? Humph. Apart from my neon face, I think I am handling this with aplomb, commendably trying to spare our little group gratuitous embarrassment. I nimbly pop the device back into the little sack, next to my earplugs. Grinning sheepishly, I make a calculated point of storing the batteries separately. The four musketeers are exhibiting a stealth approximating that of my chocoholic sister guarding a diminishing cache of chocolate. Seeing this temporary cessation of activity, I speedily offer up a few more apologies, turn around with deliberation, and start walking away, knowing that all eyes are fastened on me now. At the foot of the stairs I turn, do some sort of bowing thank-you thing, and with a pathetic wave, flee. No one follows.

  To this day, I wonder what was going through the minds of those silent comrades. Did I really fool them? Or is this a story that veteran airport employees in Laos share with incoming trainees? And then there’s mom. To spare myself further humiliation, I never told her the truth that day. In fact, I am sure she hasn’t given the incident a second thought…until now.

  Deanna Sukkar is a lapsed professional chef who has taken off her toque blanche and set down her knife. Pursuing her Master’s Degree in Library and Information Science at the University of Washington, she now slings a backpack full of textbooks. Her first story appeared in Whose Panties Are These? She still scratches her travel itch, but the only battery-operated device she packs now is her camera.

  This year I will be traveling by airplane at the height of flu season, just before Christmas. I’m finding myself with a fear of flying for another reason. I haven’t had a flu shot.

  We can hardly weed out potential flu spreaders like we weed out potential terrorists, plucking a runny-nosed woman out of line and ejecting her to the airport doctor for further questioning. But the thought of sharing recycled airplane air for five hours with hacked-up potential flu germs scares me silly.

  If only there were a way to quell the spread of germs by inconsiderate sick people who cough, cough, cough, without covering their mouths in tight corners such as an airplane.

  How about fines? Yes, implement a $100 fine for each cough, $500 for each sneeze. People would think twice then before letting loose a string of germ-riddled snot and saliva. And, if we’re going to go this far, why not impose a $20 fart fine? Just for the sake of good manners.

  —Jennifer Brown, “Fear of Flying”

  ELIZABETH ASDORIAN

  The Naked and the Wed

  They all enjoyed a divorce from their clothes.

  “WATCH OUT FOR THE NUDIES, MON,” ADVISED VALENTINE, the bartender we had affectionately named “most stoned at work.” It was a toss-up between him and the extremely buzzed Charlton, but when we caught Valentine desperately shoving maraschino cherries—stems and all—in his mouth when he thought no one was looking, we knew we had our winner.

  “No one want to be out there pouring them drinks. They be crazy, mon.” Scott and I were getting the finer points on enjoying our stay at the couples-only Jamaican resort we had been lured to by the promise of unlimited cocktails and utter relaxation. It was not exactly our style, but we were actually enjoying ourselves in a “watching people at the airport” sort of way. Plus, we were really, really drunk.

  “So it’s clothing optional?” I asked Valentine, of the small island offshore that was one of the resort’s main selling points in our book. In my not-a-fan-of-weird-tan-lines opinion, if you’re going to cook your skin in the tropical sun, why not broil the pasty nether regions as well?

  “No option, mon. No clothes period. It’s the rule.” Valentine tried to nod forcefully, for effect, but it looked more like he was losing consciousness and fighting to keep his head from falling into the blender of “Hummingbirds” he was making for an inebriated couple to our right.

  “You have to be naked the whole time?” asked the woman, with a disgusted tone, as if she’d spent her entire life fully clothed and had only heard rumors about what was under there.

  “Yah, from the time you get off the boat, off come the clothes, mon. And you know,” he paused, as if he was making one of those truly profound discoveries that only really stoned people make, “sometimes clothes are good.”

  Valentine had a point. But we were still intrigued by the island. We would definitely pay it a visit. As soon as we slept off our incredible hangovers.

  The idea of mandatory nakedness burrowed into my brain as I watched a couple I hoped I would never see naked walking down the aisle the next morning. It was not just another twenty-four-hours in paradise, it was Valentine’s Day, the worst possible day any two grumpy, jaded people could arrive at a resort for “lovebirds.” It was the official, Hallmark card-sanctioned holiday that made people everywhere feel desperate to be in love or prove they were in love. No good could ever come of Valentine’s Day, in my book. And the sixteen weddings scheduled at the beach gazebo before noon were vivid proof.

  The groom in question was marrying a much younger woman, although they seemed equals in the saggy skin department. Their journey down the path was wobbly and uncertain, hinting at too many breakfast Hummingbirds or perhaps the realization that they were getting hitched t
housands of miles from home, and life might not feel so footloose and beachy when they got back to Toledo. “Have they seen each other naked?” I wondered. “Am I going to bump into them and their naughty bits on that damn island?”

  From sandaled teens in spandex shorts to dusty crones in shapeless dresses, the women of Bucharest exhibited a certain freedom. Nipple shadows smudged thin, summer fabrics. Breasts bounced and jiggled. I was the only woman on Independence Boulevard wearing a bra. My inch of cleavage, daring on the airplane, now seemed dull. My bra felt like armor, chain mail at the feast after the battle is won.

  —Carol Stigger, “Braless in Bucharest”

  It became a phobia for the rest of the day. Every new husband, every new wife, every new wedding party filled me with prickly dread.

  What was the proper etiquette for congratulating the freshly betrothed when they were both without clothes? “That was a beautiful dress you were wearing earlier—you should have kept it on.” “I can tell you two love each other a lot— it says so right on your tattooed butt.” Or, “Like I always say, nothing spices up a marriage like nipple rings!” Miss Manners would have had just the perfect pleasantry, but I was at a loss.

  I kept trying to dissect my fears—why was I so afraid of seeing these newlyweds out of their wedding finery and in their birthday suits? I’ve spent lots of time at nude beaches. I’m no prude. So why was the thought of running into a recently Mr. and Mrs. out there causing such angst?