Happy Thanksgiving

Me and My Brother Matt


I’m teaching Costa Ricans how to talk like me. I’m paid six dollars an hour and I live in a vacant classroom with my brother, he’s also a teacher. In our room there’s a whiteboard that we use to conjugate verbs. We did have a pull-down map of the world, but a social studies teacher took it from us.

Our school is in Heredia, a town located in the Central Valley of Costa Rica. The climate here is comfortable. Not too hot or humid. It can be boring at times, but for now it’s a good place to hang-out and practice Spanish. The jungle can wait.

Twice a week we have Spanish lessons with a chill teacher named Ronny. Our progress is slow, but I think we’re almost ready to initiate conversations with attractive chicas. Sure, the conquest of Central America by the Spaniards wiped-out entire civilizations and destroyed indigenous ways of ways of living, but at least the mixing of these cultures created lots of beautiful women.

The food here is pretty basic: meat with rice and beans. Yesterday we ate pig feet. It was good, but a little boney (kind of like me). We eat most our meals in the cafeteria at the local university. Soon we plan to move out of the classroom and into our own spot. Then we can start cooking our own meals.

Our drinking has definitely gone down since we left San Francisco. During the week we drink beer in glasses with ice at these tavern-type places called cantinas. They're full of old men and haggard prostitutes. Our favorite cantina has a jukebox: the current jam is “Making Love out of Nothing at all” by AirSupply.

On Saturdays we hang-out with an old guy named Don Toni and drink cacique, a cheap liquor made from molasses. Don Toni is the owner of the school. He has a healthy mustache and kind of looks like a bear. He’s always telling me that “He’s going to cut my long legs with his machete,” and refers to me as his, “Gay-Nicaraguan-Gringo.” He’s probably the best friend I have down here.

In conclusion, Happy Thanksgiving.

Panamania

Hiking the Cloud Forest in Boquete, Panama
(Photo courtesy of Aaron Boyd)










I’m on the bottom of a bunk-bed in a hostel in Panama City. It’s dark and there’s a French girl sleeping above me.

The skin is peeling off my nose because I love the sun, but my big nose doesn’t. And, yes mom, I wear sunscreen, but I may need you to send me some zinc oxide.

When I catch myself picking off flakes of skin, I tell myself that someday I’ll procreate with a woman that has some brown in her skin. Then maybe the next generation of Cameronites will have a fighting chance.

This evening I hung out with some locals at a casino. I don’t want to like casinos. I think they’re evil, but I went anyway. When I’m alone in a new place, I tend to be flexible with my values: gambling, cigarettes, the occasional illicit drug. Prostitutes are continuously slipping me their business cards, but thankfully none have made it into my rolodex.

Not all my travels involve the influence of sex, drugs, and blackjack. Last week I lived with a small community of surfers on the Pacific Coast of Panama. They surfed and I simply tried to hold onto a surfboard while giant, salty waves reminded me of my insignificance. Hey at least my duck dives are improving.

I spent the week before with some quality individuals in the mountainous town of Boquete, Panama. The hostel was full of Rastafarian jewelers, writers, and non-awkward Europeans. We even managed a Girl Talk dance party (no worries SF crew, our shirts stayed on...y'all still hold the title).

In less than a week Brother Matt will arrive. I imagine he´ll show-up, sit down at a bench in some park, start drawing pictures of furniture and plants, and within five minutes have a following of young college girls that refer to him as 'El Guru.'

It will be nice to be with family.

Nica What?

The other day I attempted to enter a store that was closed. I’m still getting used to the idea of siesta. After I tried to open the locked door, a local Nicaraguan teenager informed me, “Esta cerrado…Gringo!” All his friends started laughing. I then walked up to them and said, “No soy un gringo, soy Cameron!” That made them laugh more.

I spent the rest of the day taking pictures of sorry-looking dogs:


Dog del Dia

Meet Tucho (too-choo), a Nicaraguan heart-throb who's our pick for the Dog del Dia! We just love his 'I’m hungry, blind, and scared' carefree lifestyle – here, he answers our goofy questions!

Age: 63
Sign: Virgo
Birthplace: Somoto, Nicaragua

You may know me because: I smell terrible even when I’m not wet. Oh, and I still have testicles!



My favorite junk food is: Vomit.

When I try to eat healthily, I chow on: Myself.

My childhood celebrity crush was on: Katie Holmes.

Lately I've been surprised by: All the puss that seeps out of my right eye. It’s non-stop.

The cereals in my cupboard are: Cookie Crisp…duh:)

The book I’m reading: In My Own Words by Mother Teresa.

For dinner, I like to make: Easy-Mac. It really is easy!

When friends come over, we: Do the opposite of helping to control the pet population.

My first financial splurge was: A $4,000 Tom Binns vintage crystal "skull" necklace.

Before I die, I want to: Eat your face.

When I fly I have to: …chew gum.

People would be surprised that I: Don’t drink or smoke.


If someone gave me a million bucks tomorrow, I'd: Buy a foot-long meatloaf sub instead of a six-inch and I’d have em toast it.

I’ll never forget the time when: Some dude pet me, or at least his leg brushed-up against me. I had a boner for seven hours.

My biggest weakness is: I'm a perfectionist.

Itchy Beginnings

Last week I was staying in a small Garifuna village on the coast of southern Belize. One night, while drinking rum out of a coconut and watching the sun set on the Caribbean, I was ambushed by a swarm of Belizean sand fleas. I immediately dove into the salty water, but it was too late. My legs and feet are now covered in hundreds of red bumps and blotches. They itch and I look like I'm suffering from some type of jungle fungus. My Garifuna friend, Elvis, assures me that everything gonna be aarait.

Two days ago, I was riding in an old school bus across the Belize border to Guatemala, and an old Guatemalan rancher sitting next to me looked at my legs and suggested, in Spanish, that I pee on myself. It took me a few repete por favors to understand what he was saying. He assured me the urine would stop the itching and get rid of the bumps.

So that night I checked into a sketchy room in an even sketchier Guatemalan town, took off my clothes, and pissed on myself in a cramped shower with a slow drain. I think it made it worse. It may be time to dig through my medicine bag (props to Sister MaeJoy B. WithU).

If you asked me six months ago what I’d be doing right now, I would've said I'd be using my degree to teach poor black students in the Mississippi Delta. I don't have a clear reason why that didn't happen. I'm sure the idea of establishing a hippy commune with my brothers had something to do with it.

Right now my only plan is to keep going south towards Panama. I started in southern Mexico and have made it through Belize and Guatemala. Currently, I'm traveling along the northern Coast of Honduras. As I go further south the food taste fresher, things are cheaper, and the women are more beautiful.

I'm traveling solo, but I´m definitely not alone. Everyday is an opportunity to share a round of beers with the locals and befriend dorky Europeans. Yet, nothing can replace deeply-rooted friends and family. I’m not quite sure where this adventure will take my brothers and me, but I´m loving the uncertainty and will keep y’all posted.