Life Lessons in Gender-Specific Vocabulary
By Rotten Tacos
For those relatively impartial about Jesus, Semana Santa is a giveaway day screaming for vacation. These tacos needed to be baked and headed to the southern playas. Reaching El Salvador, two things cross your mind: 1) nothing, because it’s so ducking hot your brain is numb from drowning in its own sweat. 2) …wasn’t the Peace Corps just pulled from here due to the increasing popularity of murder as the favored method of conflict resolution? As with every other critical thought you have on vacation, this quickly leaves you.
Now, when you don’t know how to surf and you are female, you generally go to a beach known for surfing for very precise reasons: to let your hair get salt-water ratty so you look like you surf and to gaggle at surfer bods that have muscles in places you didn’t even know you could get muscles.
Looking for a louder, sandier, surfier night out I end up in El Tunco. Three tequilas in and I’ve befriended a six pack named Blaine who tells me he’s got mota…..awesome. I love motorcycles. He’s headed to Guate tomorrow and says I can hitch along! We join some friends at Blaine’s hostel where a crew is lounging in the pool. We do a quick round of intros: Todd, Ken, Brad, and Roxana. I wonder if it’s a good idea to trust people named after Ken dolls. I hazily know Roxana’s face – like a C-list celebrity from the 80’s or my third grade teacher recently off a coke binge… it’s familiar, but faded. And she’s haggard, like she’s been through some ordeal… definitely not the kind you take home to mother, but if you need a partner in crime for all the things you shouldn’t be doing, she looks perfect.
I chat up the pool dwellers. Roxana’s also from Guatemala! But she’s been spending a lot of time at a meditation center out of the capital, needing to stay away from Guate for personal reasons, hoping to find a new calling after her last career tanked. It seems like a touchy subject so I steer away and grab a handle of the nearest liquors. Every time the crew takes a shot they cheers and yell “La Lin-yah!”
Late morning comes early and everyone’s groggy. Roxana looks like a deranged raccoon that just found a garbage can full of pixie sticks. Everyone’s ready to take off to Guate and Blaine pulls up in a van. I assume he’s left his mota somewhere and we’ll get it on the way.
Two hours later we reach the border. Blaine takes our passports to get checked. The van hatch opens and 6 Guatemalan border police appear. They handcuff Roxana and escort the group to a holding pen. We answer a few questions and are released. Still wondering when we’re getting the motorcycle, I hear the cops: “Roxana robo la mota y está moviendola a través de la frontera.” That bitch stole Blaine’s mota! I bet she wasn’t even gonna pay the customs tax to get it back to Guatemala.