BLAHGSPOT.com

very merry dysentery

Well, we are back. and by we, I mean the royal We. You know. me and the driver.

I am involved in a multi-day dialogue with my friend Immodium. Yes, A.D. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, well, …

I returned late last night to the US of America, carried over on an Airbus A320 replete with the scents of last-chance Pollo Campero purchases and US-bought colognes. My bottles of Havana Club nestled firmly against my armpits, I stepped through the Department of Agriculture checkpoint and into the smells of excitement and nervosity that to me define Dulles International Airport, IAD.

No more armed guards were there to bid me farewell as I stepped into an unusually cool night. Unusual for one who has spent time in the tropics. My arms wanted to swat at mosquitos but found loved ones instead. I became irate upon seeing the $4 per hour parking fees.

I am back. Home? My friend jostled me today. So you saw your ancestral homeland. Did I? Have I ever? Will I?

The Savior. This is what they called this little piece of Mesoamerica. Aun has de cumplir esa promesa (¿o será una de esperanza?). Not many places are this hopeful. Awaiting a savior promised in their name. Under their names are words of suffering. I knew from the beginning with the drunkard on the plane. We were stuck in the back row, my mother and I. An immigrant next to her downed about a dozen Bacardis on ice. I could smell the liquor coming out of his skin. Even over the smell of airplane. He told how he had not seen his family in years. And how he was a member of the Atlacatl Batalion. (google it if you haven’t heard of it. it was a US-trained death squad during the Salvadoran Civil War).

There are many things I could say about my trip to El Salvador. I could speak forever, so I don’t think I will just yet. But I will say, because I love to talk, that much will be kept with me, and that much will resurface in my life. Resurface like that man from the Atlacatl Batalion or the little girls playing in the slums. Perhaps in my dreams or while I am waiting in line at the supermarket, buying some item that I could probably do without.

joaquin

PS: for an album of the trip, email me.

south for the winter

Yukon Ho

Well, the thing is shitting and hitting the fan… I am abandoning Chapell Hell for the cold and worthy lands of Warshington DC. Sunday takes me to El Salvador, and I should be back on the 29th to work for NWF, attempting with noble futility to save the world from George Bush and other forms of anti-life evilness.

I have stopped drinking water to facilitate my full metabolic shutdown, thus permitting a stop-free ride to home in NOVA.

For those of you eager to speak to me, drop me at email at any of my various addresses. Though soon they will all change to “in transit.”

Thank you, Chapel Hill, and the maintainers of the Joaquin Bueno Memorial Desk Fund, for we couldn’t have done this alone. Now I go home.

Love

Joaquin

Day One

Let’s see how well this works.

I am culminating months of mental blither-blather by assigning myself a cyber-blog on the international internets of timespace.

For those of you visiting for the first time, have you nothing better to do? Also, welcome.

Here on this space we hope to keep you updated on my travels, adventures, misadventures, and distravels, and travails.

Not all of it can be symetrical, so bear with me.

I shall be in El Salvador, DC, England, Galicia, and North Carolina at some point this summer. Later in the year, I hope to add Montana and the Alligator River to my places of residence. More to come about my globe-trotting.

THank you for visiting our blaaaahg.

Joaquin, Eduardo, and J. Edward