by Kirsten Koza
“Free booze on arrival?” I whisper to my husband. “I like this place already.”
“Your room is on the third floor,” the attendant says, handing us an envelope. “There are keys and a resort map and some informational things on activities in here.”
We get to the door, and my husband opens the envelope. He chuckles. “O.K…they gave us six room keys. For the two of us. How many keys do they expect us to lose in three days?”
“I don’t know,” I say, looking around the room, “but maybe that has something to do with it.” I point to the wall above the wet bar.
“Holy crap!” My husband spots the six mounted bottles of liquor—with spigot dispensers—hanging upside down on the wall. “It’s like a booze soda fountain.” He grabs a shot glass and heads for the tequila.
“Whoa, Pancho Villa,” I warn. “Stop right there. Is this stuff included, or is it extra?”
My husband squirts himself a tequila, sucks it down and winks. “All-inclusive, baby.”
I shake my head. “You’re unbelievable.”
The raucous sounds of a Mariachi band boom from the downstairs lobby. “Wanna unpack first or just head down and wander around?” he asks.
“Let’s unpack a little first.” Then I do what I always do when I first get to a hotel: turn on the television.
Up pops a pair of balloon-sized breasts, bouncing up and down with vigor. “Give it to me, baby,” she moans, grinding her pelvis into the man underneath her.
“Whoa! Porn! Honey, get a load of this. What kind of perv had this room before us? I am going to be so pissed off if this comes up on our hotel bill. Inclusive, my ass. I’m sure they charge you for porn.”
“Babe, relax. I’m sure it’s fine.”
“No, really. Go check the information booklet. No way am I paying for this.” I flick the channel on the remote. I’m greeted with the sight of a perky, oiled male ass. “Ack!” I fumble around the room for a hotel television guide.
“Nope,” my husband calls from the sitting area. “Porn is free!”
“Good thing,” I call back, scanning the television listings, “because we have five channels of it.”
“Hand me the sunscreen, would you?” I ask, arranging towels on a chaise lounge. “You have to admit, this is a beautiful pool.”
“Yeah, but it’s deserted,” my husband says, handing me the Coppertone. “It’s eleven o’clock.”
“You heard how late that party went last night. I’m sure people are sleeping it off. It’ll crowd up soon.”
My husband browses the activities board posted by the towel station. “Tequila blackjack at 11:30.”
“Ugh, Jesus! We just ate breakfast! How do people do this?”
“It’s vacation, baby,” my man smiles. “Some people go big or go home.”
Some people do show up for tequila blackjack: a pack of young, ruddy-faced men with Canadian accents. They arrive with beers in their hands, gambling chips in their pockets, and sunburns. My husband can’t resist. I wave him on and return to my book.
Within half an hour, things get animated and loud at the blackjack table. The Canadians are already several beers in and hurling good-natured insults at one another. I wander over to investigate.
“Saskatchewan!” my husband announces, beer in hand. “It’s ten degrees below zero there right now! This is Brian, Kevin, Kurt, and Devin. They work on fishing boats. They come here every year!”
The boys nod.
“The fucking winter, eh, goddamn cold and long,” Devin says.
“We save up and spend two weeks here every year,” Brian says. “Can’t beat the prices.”
“Or action,” adds Kurt.
“Or the view,” Kevin wags his eyebrows at his buddies. They all chortle.
I glance at the pool area. “The view?”
They break into fits of laughter. “Wait until afternoon,” Devin leers. “You’ll see.”
By 2:00 P.M. the Saskatchewan lads are well into their cups.
“Damn, those boys must have had one cold, hard winter,” I say to my hubby. “How do their livers survive the two-week stay here?”
“Stamina of the young and the unlaid,” he says. “Hey, do you want to grab some lun—oh my, what is that?”
“What?”
He jerks his head hard left, eyes wide.
I look at the buxom, bottle-blonde in an impossibly small bikini. Well, the bottom half of a bikini, anyways. “Those tits are too good to be true,” I say.
“But they…sparkle,” he says.
Indeed, they do sparkle, because the woman has embellished her titties with dangly, gold chandelier-type nipple rings, encrusted with little gemstones that wink and gleam in the midday sun. They bob and entrance us. Neither of us can look away.
“We gotta look away,” I say, grabbing my book. “We’re staring like magpies.”
“But they’re mesmerizing,” he laughs.
Her companion, a male, is nearly as sparkly and so tanned that he’s the color of tree bark. He boasts two heavy gold bracelets, a diamond-encrusted watch, and a medallion around his neck. He compensates for such heavy-handedness by being nearly naked from the waist down.
“What do you call those things?” I hiss to my husband.
“Banana hammocks, babe,” he snickers. The man turns around to adjust his chaise lounge and I’m treated to a full view of his backside.
“Jesus,” I say, “you know what this means, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Eurotrash.”
Eurotrash. By four in the afternoon, the pool area is teeming and pulsating with oiled bodies, fancy body piercings, bleached and coiffed hair, and audacious jewelry. They’re everywhere, they’re heavily liquored up, and they’re incredibly friendly. They buzz from lounge chair to lounge chair like a welcome wagon on steroids.
“Hello, there, darling! Who might you be?”
“Haven’t seen you around. Did you just get in? Isn’t it fabulous?”
“Don’t tell me. Americans, right? I just love Americans…”
We’ve been asked out for predinner cocktails by Roxy and Daniel. Roger and Gigi ask if we’d like to join them for dinner. Stephan and Bianca want to know if we’re interested in sharing a taxi to a chic discotheque later in the evening. All of the attention is beginning to make me grumpy. “Gaaa, can’t people leave us alone?” I mumble into my margarita. “Can’t they tell we’re on a romantic getaway?”
“They’re just having a good time, blowing off some steam,” my husband shrugs. “Nothing wrong with being sociable and meeting new people. It’s kind of a party crowd.”
“No shit,” I say, surveying the pool area for the Canadians. They’re bobbing up and down in the hot tub, red-faced and sweaty, half-draped around some very young, bronzed babes.
“So I guess that’s a ‘no’ to dinner with Gigi and Rog?” he chuckles.
“I’m interested in having dinner with you,” I say. “Just you.”
“And maybe watch a little quality television after? Eh? Whaddaya say, baby?”
“Shut up.” I give him a swat with my book. “Perv.”
It isn’t until late afternoon, on our second full day of vacation, when we encounter a man at the pool bar smoking a Havana cigar, wearing a large, neon Hawaiian shirt and nothing on the bottom half of his person, that we realize what kind of situation we’ve stumbled into.
Nobody even blinks an eye at no-pants man. He hangs around, has a few more drinks and chats amiably with the bartender.
“How can that be O.K.?” I hiss at my bug-eyed husband.
“I seriously don’t know,” he says. “They just must have different kinds of…rules or something here.”
“More like NO rules,” I shoot back. “Is that even sanitary?! Walking around just…flopping like that?”
“Well, look at all those ladies at the pool,” he says. “They aren’t exactly wearing much either…”
BOOM.
And then it hits us: multiple room keys, five channels of free porn, unlimited liquor, Eurotrash, unabashed nudity, plus strange couples who are eager to get to know us better.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, looking at my husband in shock. “Fuckity-fuck! Your mother! Your cheap-ass mother booked us at a swinger’s resort!”
My husband is laughing so hard he can hardly speak. “Babe! She didn’t know! She no way knew about this.”
“There’s a guy walking around here with no pants, for chrissakes!”
My husband snorts and wipes away a tear. “What are you really mad about, Honeytits? That my mother booked us at a swinger’s resort? Or that we’re so stupid that it took us two whole days to figure it out?”
“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Funnypants. You keep laughing, but need I remind you: we have one more full day left here.”
So how do you spend your last full day of vacation at a swinger’s resort? My husband and I decided to completely go with it. What else were we gonna do? We played tequila blackjack. We challenged the Canadians to a rousing game of beach volleyball. We screamed out answers during poolside “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” trivia. We kicked ass at Dirty Word Bingo. The last half-hour at the pool, before we had to pack for the trip home, I took off my bikini top, cheerful and defiant.
“How do I look?” I asked my husband.
He lifted his margarita glass in a toast. “Best damn piece of Eurotrash I’ve ever seen.”
To this day, my mother-in-law still likes to recall her instrumental role in snagging us the vacation deal of the century.
“Remember that time I got you that real good deal?” she will say smugly. “Crazy good deal for place like that. Super nice place, right? Amazing place.”
My husband and I will share a smile. “Yep, you really caught us a good one there,” my husband will say.
“Amazing,” I agree.
“Heh,” she will say, quite satisfied with herself. “Who know? Maybe, after I retire this job? I know what I do—I become travel agent.”
Dana Talusani lives in the Rocky Mountains and is a humor, parenting, lifestyle and food writer. She is the author of the snarky and eclectic blog The Kitchen Witch (www.thekitchwitch.com). Her work has been featured on CNN.com, Today.com, The Hufffington Post, Scary Mommy, Purple Clover, and In the Powder Room, among others. She is currently at work on her first novel.
GERALD YEUNG
The Battle of Waterkloof
Bruce Lee vs. the Namibian Baboon Army.
NAMIBIA WAS FOUNDED ON TWO INDISPUTABLE TRUTHS. ONE: IT NEVER rains. Thus I lose my favorite excuse to opt out of a hike. Two: every Asian person is Bruce Lee. These two random facts play pivotally in the attack of the baboons.
The Waterkloof Trail, which exists only in a theoretical sense, consists of 17 kilometers of yellow markers. My friend Bearcat and I are told to follow them religiously.
“Oh, and take this map too,” says one of the park rangers. On a crumpled piece of paper he sketches a crooked circle and scribbles small words along the perimeter. This is a Picasso of maps and a leap of faith to follow.
Our hike begins on a high note. We talk, we laugh, and we trap tadpoles in our baseball caps. With Taylor Swift blasting on my iPod, I am having the time of my life. “You smell that?” I ask, navigating through a thicket of tall grass.
“Smells like piss.”
“Really strong piss.”
“It’s getting worse.”
When I can find nothing comical to say about this pungency, a sense of urgency ensues. We inspect our shoes for rhinoceros diarrhea and find none. Then we scan for lurking predators, recalling from a recent game drive that it is a male lion’s territorial nature to urinate on everything. No lions. Good.
Then we identify the source—a rotting zebra. I dart away from the carcass before my breakfast returns as projectile vomit. My previous craving for zebra steak has evaporated, but Bearcat has already removed his pocketknife. “What cut would you like for lunch?”
We continue and the midpoint marker materializes after a protracted climb. We feast on Goldfish, apples, tangerines, and beef jerky while mesmerized by the landscape beneath. This place has a natural sense of order to it.
“You think they have wi-fi up here?” I ask.
“Probably not.”
“O.K.”
Only three hours in and a record-breaking finish looms. Encouraged, fed and rested, we begin our descent, fearless and unsuspecting. But much to our irritation, the yellow markers, aplenty thus far, have developed a newfound penchant for hiding. I haven’t had to look for anything so hard since Where’s Waldo? In Hollywood. Also, good vision, I discover, doesn’t come easier with age. Neither does patience. With our confidence sky high and patience wearing thin, we invent our own shortcut. It takes us around a hill through human-sized thorn bushes and then down a waterfall on algae-slick rocks. We blaze through every improbable opening, driven by the intangible concept of “manhood” and the unthinkable concept of turning back. When we stumble into a dreamlike cove borrowed from the movie Avatar, it finally hits us—we are lost. Recognizing the severity of our stupidity, we backtrack desperately up the hill. Forty minutes later, the sacred yellow marker reappears.
“I never once doubted our abilities,” I announce.
Bearcat takes a celebratory dip in the river, very much bearlike. I can’t tell if he is trying to cool off or catch salmon. But his victory lap proves premature. The river leads us to a valley tucked between two towering cliffs—the proud home of hundreds of baboons. When their piercing war cries descend upon us, our immediate reaction is denial.
“It can’t be because of us,” I plead to the air. “We just got here. Besides, we humans are distant relatives, honored guests who have traveled from afar to visit.”
But with each measured step we take, the cacophony explodes tenfold. There is no turning back now, not without backtracking thirteen kilometers and getting lost again. Alternatively, if we can somehow explain our situation to these estranged cousins—perhaps mention an ailing grandfather—will they commiserate and let us through? But how do we do this? With our eyes?
“Don’t look them in the eye,” warns Bearcat. He removes his baseball cap to wipe his forehead.
If I were the volatile drama queen in our partnership, Bearcat would be the cool-headed ranger in good times and bad. Now though, his expression betrays raw fear. Make no mistake—death is a distinct possibility here, if not from direct attack, then certainly from subsequent infection. (Fun fact: Untreated rabies can lead to coma and death.) I take his expression as a cue to pick up something sharp and put an angry rap song on my iPod. Where is the face paint when you need it? Being called “Bruce Lee” by everyone in Africa used to annoy me; now it offers a possible escape. Would my Asian heritage demand the same respect from King Baboon?
I am mortally scared of combat. Shaken though I am, I can smell a character-defining opportunity. Will this be the grand stage where my untried white-belt karate moves wow the world? Or, at the other extreme, a zoological experiment to see if I can outrun a baboon? Bearcat and I exchange a knowing nod and take the brave first step. I resist the urge to peek behind my shoulder for fear of coming across as weak. As the baboons’ bellows of rage reach a crescendo, the past reading I’ve done on survival springs to mind.
Jungle survival, especially on the subject of predatory encounter, has long been a hot topic. Countless literature and academic research, which likely includes several Ph.D. theses, have offered differing views on what to do and what not to do. Yours truly happens to have a massive appetite for such information.
Peter Allison, author of two candid African safari guides, said it all in his book title, Whatever You Do, Don’t Run. According to wildlife experts, animals often mock charge to see if you flinch. The best thing to do in these situations, they all claim, is to simply stand tall. “Food runs,” Allison’s friend Alpheus cunningly puts i
t, “and there is nothing in [the wild] you can outrun anyway.” Inaction was Allison’s recipe to surviving a standoff against two male lions. When I was reading his encounter from the safety of my couch, it made a world of sense to me. “Just. Stand. There.” I’d repeated to myself, sipping warm Ovaltine. I mean, shit, how hard can that be?
Fast-forward two months and here I am in Naukluft, presented with the opportunity of a lifetime to prove just that. For all the discipline with which I committed Allison’s words to memory, it takes one swift glance at a baboon’s fearsome teeth to swing my pendulum of indecision. In A Walk in the Woods, Bill Bryson offered a more cynical approach. “If you are in an open space with no weapons and a grizzly comes for you,” Bryson wrote, “run. You may as well,” he added, “if nothing else, it will give you something to do with the last seven seconds of your life.”
To run, or not to run, that is the question. Do I bet on expertise derived from years of field experience, or side with my vulnerable literary idol? In the end, I choose the latter—the coward in me relates to Bryson’s human shortcomings. Besides, being the elder of the two, Bryson has a longer track record of survival. In times like this, trust the numbers.
The baboons jump and wail and flail their arms. Then finally, the army charges our way. I freeze on the spot, moving only my arm to reach for Bearcat. “It has been an honor” is what I would have said had I not been so busy crapping my pants.
Then, a miracle.
They halt ten feet short of our defense line. They hover back and forth behind an invisible fence. I can see aggression draining from their faces. Then slowly and reluctantly, they move on. Perhaps they sensed my readiness to fight them to the bitter end. Or perhaps they knew better than to fuck with the Bruce Lee.
The moment Bearcat and I reach the other end of the valley, we toss our weapons and sprint up the hill to safety. Just like that, a showdown between primates is averted. And just like that, these baboons live to see another day.
Gerald Yeung is the author of Wannabe Backpackers: The Latin American and Kenyan Journey of Five Spoiled Teenagers. His futile pursuit of the American Dream was documented on the Hong Kong government youth blog. Now living in San Jose, California, outside baboon domain, he spends his free time running away from dogs.