I had retched my stomach. I had retched my stomach into such a state by wondering how in the world I had ended up in a taxicab full of Filipinos in some dingy port town in South America. That a case of severe diarrhea would shortly ensue was without a doubt. I had it coming; I could feel it from my throat to the very bottom of my entrails. I had to ask myself insipid questions just to maintain my steadiness. I wasn't drunk or otherwise disposed, I was completely aware of myself, my surroundings, my current condition of circumstance.

When in life, at fifteen, eighteen, twenty-one, yesterday, do you ever think such a queer environment will occur? Never, but it happens. One day you're be-bopping down the street, strolling into your neighborhood po-boy shop, the next day, you're a world away, relying on the kindness of strangers. The whole time you're waiting for them to gut you, to rip out your intestines with a machete or any other handy device, to skull you with a bottle or any other blunt object and you just have to get used to it. Get used to it and learn how to fight back if at all humanly possible, if the odds aren't terribly overwhelming.

I've always been one to be an adventurer, or so people like to tell me. They laud me, those who think they know me, for being brave, for going places and doing things that the average sod wouldn't do. Inside, my stomach is doing loops, flying in every direction, a veritable red baron with guns blazing. I am merely a vessel that goes where my stupidity leads me. I can thankfully say that though I stupidly walk into situations, I luckily walk out of them.

It is all about adaptation. A man who walks down the street harboring the sideways glances of a nervous Nellie is sure to be taken out of commission. Some street-smart thug is sure to spot this, the nervous over-the-shoulder looks, and jab a knife deep into your belly. Walk with confidence, say hi to strangers, as though it were the most natural thing, especially in bad neighborhoods. Don't go getting too friendly or they'll find out you don't belong. A quick howdy in the local slang will do and keep your ass a-moving. The key is to look like you belong.

I'm no expert on the subject of human communication, hell, I'm not even an amateur on the subject, but the deal is to be positive, confidant. Sometimes you have to reach out and maybe you'll even make a friend here or there. You have to give up the diabolical American attitude that you are superior in the world. If you hold on to that maligned tenet of haughtiness, here comes that guy with the knife that looks like it's butchered a few mountain rebels in its day to prove to you just how highly he thinks of America. Don't misunderstand this small time Che Guevara, he wants to be in the States more than your mom baking apple pie and saluting Uncle Sam does, but he'll just as surely kill you and steal your shoes as he would look at you. After all, he'd need new shoes for when he gets to America.

Sounds droll, over-exaggerated, and I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't ended up one night on the other end of the blade. My gleaming white skin marching through some disreputable and shit-stained backstreet in another impoverished village is a beacon to the thieves and murderers. What's wrong with white skin? Well, I'll tell you right here and now. It exclaims one thing in poor countries…I'm filthy fucking rich and I carry a million dollars around in my back pocket. You know, all Americans are millionaires. I didn't know it myself until I ended up in places where they believe this as much as they believe that AIDS doesn't trans-mutate and you can't catch it from any sort of sex. Only the queers get it, so they say.

There I was, in the village of Los Desconocidos, facing the sharp end of a very dangerous looking man offering to take from me my shoes and any other article of clothing I was willing to give up in exchange for my life. Yes sir, hand over your clothes and all important papers, mainly the dollars, and you get to live to see another day. You get to see the bright light of sunshine one more time. Once he had a good look at my shoes and my jeans and my dirty, ragged t-shirt, he decided he'd had enough of my poverty. He offered to slice and dice me right there for not having nice stuff to steal. I felt ashamed for myself. Why didn't I have nicer stuff to steal?

The story would have ended all daisy fresh had maybe he offered to give me his shirt and perhaps a little extra cash on the side to help me along, but it didn't go quite that way. He took my glasses just to spite me. I didn't mind, I didn't much want to see his town so clearly anyway. Usual story, different town.

There was a woman on the streets of Rio de Janeiro in broad daylight, or so I've heard tell, that was a simple middle-class gal, working her way up in the corporate world and all that. As she was walking along one day, another man, possibly with the very same knife (as knives get around), asked rather pointedly for the woman's diamond earrings. Being the brain surgeon that she was, she gave them up and they each went on their way. Transaction easy, everyone happy.

But, as there is always a but, the diamonds happened to be cut glass, just something cheap and pretty to wear for work. Good for her not to put up a fight, bad for the thief because he had what amounted to nothing. Thieves don't much like stealing things that are worthless, gives them a feeling of fruitless effort. The next day on her normal route to work, from out of the crowd, the same man approaches the same woman with the same knife. Instead of another happy transaction, he slices open her earlobes and gives her one parting piece of advice. "Bitch, next time they had better be real." She no longer wears jewelry to work from what I've heard tell.

I could give you a million stories that I've heard or experienced or fabricated for my own delight, but that's all neither here nor there. Even as I write this, I could be making it all up as I go along, not much giving half a rat's ass whether it's true or not. You'll read it just the same as if it was the truth and think of what an excitingly racy life I must lead. Perhaps I am just some dork that has read too many National Geographic magazines.

I only wish it were that simple. No, instead I am here, have been here before, have been other places and am looking forward to not returning, though I will again. I will return because I am a natural glutton for punishment. I am dubiously regarded for my fool-headedness. Give me a shot of adrenaline, point me in the vague direction of adventure and off I go, blind and loving life.

One time, just for the sheer sake of adventure, I hitched a ride on an Indian freighter ship from New York City to Darjeeling. The port wasn't Darjeeling, it was Bombay, but Darjeeling was my first objective upon landing. I had this notion after a midnight bar bet that I wanted to see where Darjeeling tea was made and, in complete confidence, the arrogant confidence of an American, I was firmly rooted that I had to get there immediately and return with some "freshly cut tea leaves" to prove my point. I volunteered to work the forty-seven days for free to cover my room and board, meager as it was. I had my fresh tea, straight from some generous peasant farmer's tea field, even shared some rotten food with him and his family, and went happily on my way north.

I had another notion, once I had finally made my way over there, and that was to hike north to the villages were Tibetan monks lived in exile. I wanted to meet the Dalai Lama. With my handy travel guide that I lifted from a Barnes and Noble independent bookstore crushing mega-giant extrodonaire, I made my way north eating with the poor and spreading joy and happiness. I spoke no language other than that of a smile and a laugh and it fed me all the way up. It may have meant eating small portions of some sort of curried maggot dish, but, as it was oh so tasty, I wasn't any worse for it.

Finally, I made it to the temple where they, you know the people who know, said the Dalai Lama lived. He wasn't home, though. He had gone out for some tour of the west to convince Americans that the Chinese were evil. It wouldn't take much if Americans would listen every once and a while. Since I had come that far, why not go to Lhasa and see it all. I'd have to cross over the Himalayas, nowhere strenuous or crazy like Everest, but an easier path. I'm not fleeing political persecution; I am running towards it.

I made it there, too, after a few trouble spots with the Chinese military thinly disguised as a division of some border patrol. That was all very intimidating because none of them spoke English and none of me spoke Chinese or anything resembling it. After a few searches of my person and my objects of poverty, I was declared not to be much of a threat and given a ride, via military observation, for further probing. All went well because they had someone there that spoke English better than I did, though he kept trying to throw me off and capture me in a catch 22. I gave him the truth, that I was just another American dreamer floating harmlessly about the world, lost and alone, not giving shit one about governments, especially my own.

They let me go after another week, which suited me because they had brought me to the place I had wanted to see. I was fortunate enough to find a Chinese businessman who thought what I was doing was noble and decided to put me up in his house for a few days. I ate rice like a king. He thought I was a gas. Tan Xiougeng, was the amiable chap's name. After he'd had his fill of me and our miscommunications, he decided to take me along to Guangzhou on the South China Sea while he went for business. It was a hell of a way to pawn me off, but what did I care?

From there I took the long way home, hopping ship to ship until I found one going to San Diego and convinced the captain, a Brit, to let me along to get home. I didn't do as much work as I did on the Indian ship, mostly because I spoke English and the rest of the crew didn't. I was an easy friend for this captain and the only other Brit on the ship, an engineer. I arrived San Diego, well fed, and ready to hitchhike Interstate 10 to my home. Two years after I left, I strolled into my quaint hometown of New Orleans, unpacked my emotional baggage, and took a vacation.

None of this really explains how I got here, wherever here is today, where I was in a taxi full of strangers. I had to get somewhere, anywhere other than where I was, quick, and, as though some fate had stopped the taxi at a stop sign on the corner of where I was standing, I got in and joined the crowd. As it goes, they spoke English in varying degrees, and I ended up explaining how to give injections of Trobicin to the guy in charge of the pack. Take bacteriostatic water and just a touch of benzyl alcohol and mix it with the Trobicin (spectinomycin hydrochloride) and shake the vial vigorously, inject 5 milliliters intramuscularly in the buttocks using a twenty gauge needle, then pray to your favorite god of choice and hope he or she takes the gonorrhea away. Easy.

I received many thanks for the helpful hint, as many of the man's friends, all Filipino sailors, had a run in with the wrong port whores and had a bit of the clap, or the pus, or whatever it is one gets when they have a dose of the uglies. I was a little unnerved because I wasn't sure if the one sitting next to me had it also and whether or not I could get it by casual contact. I'm always getting my communicable diseases mixed up.

As thanks, when I delivered them to their ship so that I could find my way back to trouble, they invited me in for a delicacy. What was delivered was a milky substance that seemed a bit bloody, but as not to offend I drank it with the same speed as the others. Later I found out it was a treat. I gave them one formula for the night so they shared with me theirs. Take one glass milk, add two teaspoons of dog blood and stir and, whammy, you have a specialty drink. It's even better if the dog is black, they said. Usually it's for breakfast, but I think they wanted to see my expression when I found out that they had cut open some German Shepherd they had bought off a Greek ship. All the same to me, I told them, dog blood, cat blood, human blood, why let any of it go to waste.

That's where I was until four-thirty in the morning, that day, and half of all this is the truth and the other half is a lie. One spectacular line of balderdash, an express train routed to the land of poppycock that has a quick stop in Truthville. I won't bother with the details of which is which, it takes the fun out of it. I've already spoiled some of it because it's more fun when you've hoodwinked yourself to believe it all to be the truth. If it's any consolation, though, if you're one of the ones who has to know, I'll give you a little hint: I've never been to China and I've never drunk dog blood, yet.