by tess
Next week we embark on an extended stay in a third-world country. This is the first (and last) time The Hubs plans a vacation. After all, a little research tells you what to expect throughout the Virgin Islands and Lesser Antilles – palm trees, rum drinks, enough Patois to shop and eat. A few guidebooks render Paris, London, and Brussels relatively surprise-free. These are the vacations I’ve planned over the past sixteen years: nice, safe, expected, sanitary, if vaguely pre-chewed, vacations completely devoid of breath-taking highs and bewildering lows. I’m not at my best when faced with extremes and plan my life accordingly.
Proving that opposites attract, the Hubs fears nothing. He endured the Navy, he co-parented two now-grown sons, he sailed alone on a boat for years, he married a woman reported to be even more psychotic than me. He survived the Mekong River for God’s sake. This is not a man who embraces the pre-portioned, regurgitated vacations that have kept me relatively satisfied, if not enthralled, throughout my life.
I know that I should be “over the moon” at the prospect of facing “a once-in-a-lifetime experience” that “will alter [my] perceptions of Western beauty.” Agreed, I should buy into every cliché listed on the brochures. (Okay, there aren’t actually brochures – it’s a third world country and they need to spend their money on updating the antediluvian infrastructure of the country rather than paper and toner. But you get what I’m saying: even I know that I’m supposed to be psyched!) Far from thrilled, I’m facing a firing squad. Only they’re not just holding guns, they’re fondling every single abstraction that terrifies me.
My usual, albeit bizarre, day-to-day obsessions are further exacerbated by The Wretched Unknown: losing our passports, having an accident, getting robbed, requiring medical assistance, being murdered, flying for 28 hours in each direction, etc. Stuff happens. And I live in fear and dread that it will happen to me. But this trip provides bonus panic that has pitched me over the edge and into the Abyss of Anxiety.
In our holiday oasis, rabid dogs run rampant. According to local reports, again last month two people died of rabies. Okay, I get that two isn’t exactly a monster number but why are there rabid dogs everywhere? And freakin’ rabid monkeys. No, I’m not making that up. Rabid monkeys and dogs. Everywhere. I’m afraid of chihuahuas and have never been to a petting zoo in my life. Why? Because animals bite you and then you die. That’s why.
There are no public restrooms. And there aren’t bathrooms in stores and restaurants. And the few places one can find public facilities, even the guidebooks describe them as “disgusting” and lacking tissue. Instead there is -- again, not making this up -- a communal pitcher of non-potable water with which to flush and cleanse one’s self. Although I’m not generally a huge admirer of even the most hygienic public facilities, 85% of tourists suffer gastro-intestinal distress within the first three days of arrival. Somehow I don’t think The Hubs is going to be happy to sit in our little room “just in case” Something Poopy This Way Comes. And yet what’s the option? Being three hours from our house without access to a bathroom?
The food there is super uber off-the-charts hot. So on top of not knowing the language, we’ll be ordering insanely hot food (in restaurants without bathrooms!) that will fling me into paroxysms of gasping lungs, weeping eyes, and snotting nose. I can hear them chortling already (in a language I don’t understand): Serves the bigshot American capitalist pig right!
Scorpions and snakes. I think that sums it up nicely.
Months ago during a fleeting moment of married bliss and contrary to all evidence accumulated over the past sixteen years, I accepted the word of The Hubs without further research. This may well cost me my life. It’s true that there are no REQUIRED inoculations. There are, however, many RECOMMENDED inoculations including, but not limited to: Hepatitis A, Tuberculosis, Polio, Bird Flu, Rabies, Typhoid, Tetanus, Diphtheria, Japanese Encephalitis, Cholera, as well as specially-prescribed tablets to ward off Dengue Fever and Malaria. To those of you reading this after my excruciatingly painful death, please ensure that The Hubs does not marry anyone cuter, younger, funnier, thinner, or saner than I was.
And finally, even if somehow we manage not to be murdered in our beds, stung by a congregation of scorpions, or eaten by a pack of rabid poodles; if we refuse to die of embarrassment over soiled trousers, choke on the hottest peppers known to mankind, or succumb to cholera; still the most formidable culprit of our vacation might just be the specter of divorce. You see we’ve never actually spent twenty solid days together. Traveling during the very best of conditions (a short, first-class flight) can be a bit stressful. Twenty-eight hours each way crammed together in coach seats that are two small for each of us? Wow. And fifteen days in a country where we’re the only two people who speak English? That’s a lot of … togetherness. But I guess if we’re the only ones we can talk to, then it’s unlikely we’ll take the opportunity to neutralize one another. And it’s just poor manners to eradicate a loved one in-flight. So hopefully we’ll both survive the vacation. Shangri-la, here we come!
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