Author: markhinaman

Mantra: Spontaneity is the Spice of Life

If you’re struggling in a corporate job, feel like you’re trapped in life, and want to do some spontaneous travel, hopefully this diatribe will serve as motivation to make the leap.  Find a friend, buy a hammock and a plane ticket, and go adventure.  If you need an example of how to do it, continue reading.

For much of my life, I have lived in a state of constant moderation and delayed gratification.  I earned an engineering degree, save regularly for retirement, and never spend more money than I’m taking in.  I’m strict with my eating regimes, adhere to a vigorous exercise program, and am diligent in my professional social life.  Such a culmination of discipline affords periodic indulgences which some frugal folks may refer to as “reckless” or “wasteful,” but let’s be honest – frugal folks are often prudes and don’t know how to live.

There are only a select group of people capable of derailing me from my low-key path towards world domination.  My best friend, Brandon, happens to be one – and on a fateful day in the summer of 2015, he called me while I was experiencing a euphoric high immediately after rock climbing.

“What’s up, brotha?” I greet him with my deepest gym bro voice over the phone and employ snow surf slang.

“Dude, plane tickets to Aruba for three weeks from now are $300.  I need a vacation so fucken badly.  I love my job, but I’m just really ready to get on a beach and do some awesome shit with you.  What do you think, are you in?  Three-hundred bucks for a week in paradise.”

The complete lack of research, knowledge of true cost, or even awareness of Aruba’s location only flickers a sputtering of warning in my prefrontal cortex as the endorphin high rushing through my veins trumps all decision making. “Dude, fuck yea I’m in.  Let’s do it!”  Spontaneity if the spice of life.

“Sweet, I just bought my ticket.”

“Wait… you already bought your ticket?  Don’t we need to do some research first?”

“No way man.  We’ll figure it out as we go.  But you can’t fucking back out on me now!  I took seven days off work for this, and I’m not going alone.”

The social pressure is too much.  Fast forward three hours, and I am the proud owner of a round trip ticket to Aruba on Spirit Airlines.  Fast forward three weeks, and I know nothing more about the small Dutch island in the Caribbean.  It’s Thursday night, and I call Brandon to clear up plans.

“Hey man, have you checked out any hotels or anything while we’re down there?”  I asked with hesitation.

“No, dude, I’ve been way too busy with work.  I have an idea though.  I’m thinking about going to REI and just buying a hammock.  We’ll backpack around the island and won’t have to get a hotel!  What do you think?”

“I think that sounds like a crazy idea.  I love it.  I’m on my way to REI.  Let’s just figure it out as we go.  We’re both intelligent engineers – what’s the worst that can happen?”  Spontaneity of the spice of life, right?  What could possibly be more spontaneous than being #HomelessInAruba?

The following night, I take a taxi to the airport.  My flight doesn’t leave until 11:35 PM, so I figured I’d grab dinner in the airport and make a night of it.  Brandon and I agreed on meeting at Baggage Claim in Aruba since he was flying from San Francisco and I was flying from Denver.  I’m giddy with excitement when I arrive at the airport, but I’m also starving.  I approach Panda Express at 9:15 PM, and all of their food is put away for the night.  However, they still have three orange chicken meals remaining for the taking.  The middle-aged Asian woman looks stressed and tired, which is undoubtedly her normal state after dealing with the public in an airport every single day.  I employ my terrible negotiation skills and give her all the cash in my wallet (which, luckily, was only $2) for one of their three remaining orange chicken and fried rice meals.  She grudgingly agrees, and I have dinner for the night.  I would later regret this decision upon landing and realizing again my body doesn’t understand how to handle large amounts of fried food.

I board the plane at 11:05 PM, and quickly realize my attempts at sleep are futile like voting as a republican in California.  Because I was cheap and opted for Spirit Airlines, the seats don’t recline on a four hour red eye flight.  Regret and self-hatred festers for not spending the extra $100 for a classier airline.  Will I always be this cheap?  I watch two movies I downloaded pre-flight, read a little bit, and develop semi-permanent nerve damage in my neck while attempting to sleep.

Upon landing in Ft. Lauderdale, FL, I have a six hour layover.  The airport is empty at 5:15 AM EST, and so I capitalize on some prime real estate next to one of the few outlets.  I send an email on my laptop for work, then promptly lie on the floor and fall into one of the deepest REM cycles I’ve ever experienced.  Three hours later I wake up to three Asian girls giggling at me as I’m kicked repeatedly by a large man wearing Levi’s.  Confusion and disorientation causes a brief panic.  Three Asian girls laughing at me, and a large man assaulting me.  Have I been captured?  Am I going to be raped by this man in some sort of sick role playing Asian porno?  No.  Relief washes over me as I realize I’m actually just in an airport, and the man accidentally tripped over me because the number of people present has multiplied like rabbits in a metropolitan suburb.  Point for being near one of the only outlets and having girls giggle at me while I sleep.

Once I landed in Aruba, I had to make it through customs.  While getting my passport checked, I omitted one of the required fields on the declaration form: my address in Aruba.  I didn’t have an address or destination, so why would I fill it out?  The woman checking my form inquires about this.  “Where are you staying?”  Normally I’m extremely witty, but my giddiness about being in paradise combined with a lack of competent sleep completely annihilated any ability to produce the required charisma to work past awkwardness.  Feeling guilty for not booking a hotel room, I said possibly the worst remark I could have in this situation: “Um… I… uh… I forgot.”

“You forgot where you’re staying?”

“Yes.” I replied, eyes gaping wide with guilt.

“I have to put something down, sir.  Which hotel are you staying at?”

“Um… the hostel.”

“Which hostel?”

“Hostel vin… vint…”

“Hostel Vintura?”

“Yes, that one!  Definitely that one.  I’ll be there as soon as possible!”

At baggage claim I source my 57 liter backpack and unpack my 17.2 ounce camping chair.  I post up next to an outlet near one of the baggage claim terminals, open a book on my smartphone, and wait patiently for Brandon to arrive.  Twenty minutes later Brandon appears, and we exchange our typical bro greeting: grasp each other’s’ right hand, embrace in a bro hug, pat the other’s back and ass.  Brandon promptly inquires why I’ve chosen to post up a camping chair next to the women’s restroom.  I blush and realize I’ve made a mistake.  Idiot.

Brandon finds his bag, then spends 34 minutes unpacking and re-packing his carry on bag into his backpack.  I question why I’m friends with him as a pang of regret shoots through me for opting in on this vacation.  I purchase some duty free rum from the first tourist trap, and we walk through Customs.  It always amazes me how relaxed some countries are about customs.  In Aruba, customs entailed one man casually watching people leave the airport.  We couldn’t believe it.

After baggage claim we find the second tourist trap and opt out of gaining telecommunication capabilities.  Apparently in 2015 and on our shoestring budget, $35 is too expensive to have access to all of the maps and resources we would require for our entire visit.  We opt to go the cheaper route and piggy back Wi-Fi from the honest established Aruba businesses.

When we resolved to save money and have a “different” vacation experience, we were hoping to push our limits, learn how to be more functional/self-sufficient, and see a different side of the island rather than the manufactured tourist trap which was most of Palm Beach.  What we didn’t expect was to feel like bums without a home for six days straight.  I now have more sympathy for homeless people – it’s not easy.  It’s even harder in Aruba.

Upon exiting the airport, we’re approached by four different rental car salesmen.  They offer us a car for $195 for a week.  We counter with $20.  They say fuck off.  We say gladly.  We’re young, fit, and stupid, so we hit the road and start walking.  We open the duty free rum and decide walking while drinking from the bottle is a great idea.  We ask a local which way the beach is, and start heading that way.  Five hundred yards down the road we run into a food vendor selling coconut milkshakes and snow-cones.  Brandon purchases a snow-cone, and I purchase a coconut milkshake.  We put rum into each.  The Venezuelan vendor has never tasted one of his milkshakes with rum in it, so we let him taste it.  He approves.  Our confidence rises as we honestly believe we’ve increased the prestige of America in the mind of a foreigner for adding rum to a sweet drink.

While we were purchasing the coconut drinks, a peculiar thing happened: one of the cars that was pulled over to buy a snow-cone had a local girl in the back who was taking a photo of us.  Why was she photographing us?  Had she never seen backpackers in Aruba before?  Of course she hadn’t.  Nobody ever fucking backpacks in Aruba.  We may have been the first ever.

I was struck by the apparent poverty prevalent in much of the country.  There were abandoned buildings everywhere, with an old shipyard that looked like it had been out of commission for twenty years.  It was as if they started tearing down the old buildings, then half way through the project they would look around at each other and say, “Dude – what the hell are we doing?  Why are we working?  We live in paradise.  Let’s go get hammered on the beach!”  The buildings were falling apart, and we walked through what we thought was an old school.  The inside appeared to have caught fire and had never been restored.

Upon finding the beach, we immediately drop our packs, change into our swim suits (basically in public), and hop into the ocean.  The beaches are shallow and sandy, the water is crystal clear, and we understand that we’ve arrived.  It was incredible.

After swimming, we decide to hit the road again.  We walk for approximately four hours straight before we’re too exhausted to go on.  We ask a couple of hotels about their rates since we’re both exhausted, but opt out of getting a room.  I fall asleep in a hotel lobby while Brandon is negotiating, but the hotel we want to stay at is all booked up.  They recommend a neighboring hotel and send us on a wild goose-chase to find it.  We can’t find the hotel, but we do find a place to eat.  We are both now so tired that we no longer care about self-actualization.  We’ve regressed to survival status, and we both need food and rest.  We spend $120 on dinner, but you know what – it was worth it.  I had a meat platter, and Brandon had a shrimp casserole, and it may have been the absolute best meal we had for the entire trip.  Turns out, fatigue and homelessness make everything taste amazing.

After dinner, we opt to walk up the beach and see if we can find a place to sleep.  There are some extremely dark sections of the beach, and we believe that we can find an area capable of hiding us for at least six hours.  After ten minutes of walking, we stumble upon an awkward looking palm tree.  It’s perfect.  It is the Taj Mahal of Hammock hanging trees.  We would find out later in the week after checking out a satellite map of the area that we found literally the only tree within a two mile radius.  Sometimes luck matters more than skill.

We hang our hammocks in the tree, hop into the ocean, brush our teeth, and hop into the hammocks for some much needed rest.  Both of us hardly sleep the entire night since we’re paranoid about the police approaching us and telling us we need to go sleep somewhere else.  At approximately 2:00 AM, I wake up to see a tall man wearing a cowboy hat and Levi’s standing over me.  I can’t see his face, but I’m sure it was of confusion.  I panic and assume the self-defense technique which should be employed with grizzly bears and rapists who aren’t into necrophilia: I played dead.  He loses interest after approximately two minutes of staring at me and wonders off to find other Brokeback victims at 2:15 AM.  I no longer feel safe, so I hardly sleep for the remainder of the night.

Upon waking the next morning, Brandon and I hit the road.  Brandon did a little research while we were at dinner (we had wifi at the restaurant) and found a scuba diving shop to check out the next day.  It takes us about 90 minutes of walking to reach, which was about 87 minutes more than both of us wanted.  Combine humidity, wearing just a swim suit (no underwear), and walking for hours longer than both of us are regularly accustomed to, and there is no amount of Gold Bond or Vaseline capable of relieving the generated chafing.  We consider taking a taxi instead of walking the 90 minutes.  A taxi is $9.  We decide our comfort is not worth $9, and we opt for chafing instead of air conditioning.

The Scuba Shop was called Unique Sports and would become the closest thing we have to a home over the next four days.  There’s an awesome pier right next to Unique Sports with a gift shop, Dunkin Donuts, cigar shop, sunglasses shop, ice cream stand, bar/restaurant, an incredible view, and, most importantly, free WiFi.

We grab breakfast at Dunkin Donuts and approach the Dive Shop.  They review the options for us, and I decide to get my open water certification.  It’s $500.  I briefly consider rethinking my life choices.  My prefrontal cortex turns off, and I decide dopamine is worth credit card debt at 14% APR.  Brandon opts for the Advanced Scuba Diving certification.  It’s $400.  He justifies it as our housing allowance is null, so we have additional capital available to invest in fun experiences.  I concur.

The open water certification was a three day course with five hours of theory/book work, approximately 20 skills learned and practiced in a pool, and four open water dives up to 60 ft deep.  I did all of the theory work on Sunday since none of the instructors were available until Monday, pool skills on Monday with one dive Monday afternoon, and then three dives on Tuesday.  It was awesome.

After finishing up the theory, Brandon and I walk to a nearby restaurant and grab some food.  We received advice from one of the instructors at Unique Sports that whores were available in the southern part of the island near the Valero oil refinery.  Stanley’s explanation of it was one of the funnier things I’ve heard:

“Yea, you know, they built the refinery there, so the guys who work there needed something to do.  So they brought a bunch of girls in.  And you know, they live there, it’s cool, it’s legal.  They hang out on the street or in the bars, you talk to them for a few minutes, go into their private room, do your thing, and then you can take a shower and rinse off if you want or whatever.  It’s normally about fifty bucks.”

As a strapping 25 year old in a committed relationship with an incredible woman, I had no interest in paying for sex, but I did find it somewhat hilarious that brothels were so easily available.  It made me curious about how many fat old American men capitalize on the experience when they’re down there.  Brandon postulated the number of women available to the number of men recycling them, and we both gagged briefly at the thought.

Sunday night was the final night for a world championship kite surfing festival that was taking place on the island.  Unbeknownst to Brandon and me prior to arriving, Aruba is one of the absolute best places on Earth to kite surf.  The water’s flat and calm and the wind is dependable, strong, and continuous.  We decide to check out the kite surfing festival since we know it’s going to be a party, and we want to party on vacation.  We take a bus up, and decide to find somewhere to safely drop our packs prior to entering the festival.  We find a private, unoccupied gazeebo approximately a half mile from the party with two lawn chairs (beds?), aka a gold mine.  We lock up our packs, drink the remainder of the rum that we have, and head over to the party.

The party wasn’t really anything special.  They served drinks, had a DJ playing until about midnight, but that was about the extent of the novelty.  Brandon made friends with a really cool Dutch guy, and I made it a point to be the Prom King of the party and meet every single person present.

The most ridiculous part of the night occurred when I almost got beat up by four extremely large and upset Aruban natives.  Brandon and I were chatting on the beach when a golf cart drove up filled with very large, very intimidating, very pissed off looking men wearing all black.  We are ignorant of their titles or responsibilities, but they all simultaneously exit the golf cart and meander away to handle some trivial problem e.g. pick up trash cans, collect money from bartenders, tackle drunk hooligans like me, etc.  As soon as they’re out of their vehicle, Brandon makes a gargantuan mistake and challenges me:

“Hey Dude, I’ll give you $10 if you drive that golf cart.”

I believe there were three reasons why I didn’t hesitate to jump behind the wheel and drunk drive on the beach:

1. I’m wearing my Courage Crown constructed of 300 ml of duty free Captian Morgan’s Spiced Rum – Collector’s Edition.
2. Brandon challenged me, and while we’re best friends and great teammates, we’re extremely competitive. I’ll be damned if I can’t show him that I’m the absolute best golf cart driver on the planet.
3. I’m dangerously addicted to dopamine, and the rush achieved through performing ridiculous acts of spontaneity somehow manage to trump all social norms and self-preservation.

I hop in the golf cart and, while laughing hysterically, punch the gas.  I once again become grateful for my 12 years of experience dodging bananas in Mario Kart as I speed through a crowd of people.  Partiers dive out of the way as I nearly run them over.  The owners of the golf cart are screaming at me frantically and running after me.  Brandon can’t stop laughing.

After approximately 30 yards of reckless driving I decide I’ve driven far enough to warrant my well-deserved $10.  I turn the golf cart around and stop it when I realize the owners have caught up to me.  They are not happy and begin inquiring why I have the audacity to steal their beloved vehicle.  Their vocabulary is expansive and consists of words and phrases such as, “you fucking idiot”, and, “I’m going to beat your ass you American prick.”  While I want to wallow in disappointment for degrading the prestige of my homeland and reinforcing the stereotype of American idiocy whilst traveling abroad, I’m too busy quietly suppressing my thickening panic and fight-or-flight reaction.  I’m moments away from realizing I’m not going to be able to talk my way out of this one when an angel in the form of a 250 pound father figure appears to my left.

“Mark, there you are!  Geeze, I thought we’d lost you.  Come on, we’re just getting started over here.  Thanks, guys – he’s just a little slow.”

Befuddlement is overcome by gratitude as I realize this stranger is saving my ass.  He takes me away from the large angry men and back to his circle of friends and family.  A woman about my age calls me out by name and says, “Holy shit, Mark, that was hilarious and ridiculous!  Why did you do that?!  What were you thinking!  Had I not sent my dad over there to save you, you would have been screwed!”  Thankfully, I’m able to successfully hide my confusion and not reveal that I have no recollection in my conscious working memory of this woman standing in front of me by employing my practiced charisma and conversationalist skills: ask questions, then shut up and listen.  Works every time.

Brandon and I party until just about everyone has left the area, then we decide to call it a night and head back to our pristine accommodations.  Upon arrival, we discover that in our absence, our incredible find has been occupied by 17 year old imposter locals who are utilizing our outdoor bedroom as a smoke shack.  We counsel them on the meaning of life (which, in hind-sight, is hilariously ironic given our current position of sleeping on gazebo lawn chairs), then rather rudely inform them that we’re using this area to sleep, and they needed to go home.  They submit, and I feel a small pang of (perhaps unwarranted) guilt.  Brandon is coherent enough to at least get his hammock out of his pack and use it as a blanket for the night.  I unconsciously decide to risk hypothermia and promptly pass out for six hours straight.  When I wake up out of my drunken stupor, I’m shivering, dirty, hungry, and hungover.  I recognize for the first time what it means to be Homeless in Aruba.

Heading back to Unique Sports for scuba diving, we perform what would become our morning ritual of grabbing breakfast at Dunkin Donuts and washing up in the Radisson Hotel’s public bathroom.  Brandon passes out for the morning on the beach while I’m in Scuba lessons.  My instructor’s name is Steve, which I find hilarious.  I’m reminded of the scuba instructor in Along Came Polly who Ben Stiller’s character’s wife cheats on him with: long hair, perfectly tanned skin showing off an ample level of fitness, surfer-Jamaican cool bro accent, and demonstrates an unparalleled suave demeanor with just enough apathy to reveal his true idiocy.  My scuba instructor is nothing like that.  The real Scuba Steve is in his late 30’s, balding, 30 pounds overweight, atrophied arms, British accent, saltine cracker spirit.  My fellow classmate is an African-American from Seattle named Kareem.  Kareem is 32 years old, speaks four languages, very well educated, in great physical shape, and retains an authoritative yet aloof personality only harbored by IT contractors.  He booked a trip to Aruba by himself with no plans other than to Scuba Dive.  On Sunday night, he met a girl named Joy who was in Aruba visiting family.  They fell in lust and fucked constantly all night Sunday night.  Kareem didn’t sleep before coming to scuba lessons, and was incidentally 30 minutes late.  The guy’s a bad[ass.  I came to find out he was actually born and raised in Jamaica, and he worked hard to degrade his reggae accent to be viewed more professionally in his field.  However, he couldn’t dispose of the nonchalant island demeanor which was abundantly portrayed in his persona.

Scuba lessons in the pool are fun, but the experience was dwarfed compared to getting out to the first dive.  I feel spoiled for all of my future diving experiences since scuba diving in Aruba is some of the best scuba diving in the world.  It was incredible.  I’ve never seen such an epic variety of fish outside of a tank – and we were able to get so close to them.  We explored the Pederalas wreck for about 40 minutes, practiced some skills underwater, and called it a day.

By this point in our adventure Brandon and I decided to forego our decision on walking the entire trip and rented a car.  The voyage to the airport was exhausting.  We took a bus to Oranjestad, then hopped in a car with a stranger who agreed to take us to the airport for $10.  I believe a lot of people in Aruba will act as a Taxi for some extra cash – the demand is high enough.  We got to the airport and compared prices of five or so car rentals.  We were both so exhausted by this point that we struggled to make even the most basic decisions. Consequently, what should have been a five minute exercise turned into a two hour dilemma.  We eventually rented an economy car for three days for ~$180.  We weren’t thrilled about spending the extra money, but we figured it would afford us the opportunity to explore the rest of the island.

After renting the car, we drove up to the north end of the island to check out the light house.  Our plan was to check out the lighthouse and hopefully find another tree to hang our hammocks from.  As it turns out, there are essentially no trees on the north end of the island – only cactus, grass, and sand.  While our efforts were valiant, they were frivolous.  The lighthouse was cool and under renovation, so we opted to come back fro a picture during the day time when we could actually see the view.  At the bottom of the hill from the lighthouse was a public beach that was absolutely empty.  We got creative with one of the gazebos and opted to hang both of our hammocks from them.  Unforunately, the pillars of the gazebo were too close together to hang the hammocks from adjacent pillars, so we had to hang them diagonally.  Here’s a picture – worth 1,000 words:

We slept poorly that night as well.  At about 1:00 AM, a car drove by and pointed their high beams at us for at least 15 minutes before becoming disinterested and leaving.  At about 3:00 AM, a torrential downpour erupted.  Brandon and I immediately congratulated ourselves for being wise enough to rent a car to store our stuff in and find a place to sleep that was covered (rather than between two palm trees).  Once again, luck was better than skill.

The following morning we packed up and headed back to the scuba shop.  We parked the car in the hotel parking lot of the Radison, then headed over to Dunkin Donuts for our morning ritual of coffee and crescent sandwiches.  After eating our sandwiches on the pier and heading back in, we saw our friend Stanley from Unique Sports.  “You guys aren’t sleeping out here, are you?” he asked.  “Ha!  I wish!” I responded.

I had three dives that day and Brandon had two.  Brandon took off for the morning to take a nap somewhere, while Kareem and I took additional lessons from Scuba Steve in the pool.  After learning how to share air and swim without a mask on underwater, we took to the boat and hit up the ocean.  The second dive was to the same spot as the first, the Pedernales Wreck.  Once again, it was just as amazing.

We broke for lunch at about noon, and it occurred to me that Brandon and I hadn’t designated a meeting spot.  This would not have been a problem, but he had my wallet and all of my resources for purchasing lunch.  I wandered around for about thirty minutes to no avail, and eventually found Kareem eating by himself at a bar.  I sat with him for lunch, told him I coulnd’t find Brandon, and he immediately volunteered to buy me lunch.  Again – what a nice fucken guy.  He also explained to me how Joy’s family (the girl he had met randomly) was native to the island, and she was bummed they couldn’t hang out more because he was so busy scuba diving.  I asked him what they had been doing when they were hanging out.  He responded, with a befuddled and amused look on his face: “Fucking.”

The final two dives were amazing, but afterwards Brandon and I were ready to find an adventure.  We had rented a car, and we believed we needed to put it to good use and explore as much of the island as we could.  As soon as we had a couple of cocktails, we hopped into our Hyundai and hit the road.  There’s a national park on the east side of the island that we wanted to check out.  We figured we could head out that way and find somewhere to string our hammocks for the night.

The road into the national park suffers from spontaneous and terrible run-off periodically; to compensate, the Arubans built over-designed run off ditches filled with cobble stones to direct the water in the natural tributaries and save the road.  Had we had a jeep with excellent tires, this wouldn’t have been a problem; however, in our economy Hyundai, it was a disaster.  At every crossing (which was approximately every 500 meters), we had to slow to almost a stop and cross the cobblestone canals less we experience a flat tire.   This went on for almost the entire way to the East coast.  The pavement ended at a closed bar (which I’m sure attracts tons of tourists during the day), and we had to make a decision: continue on the dirt road, or try to find somewhere to sleep.  We decided to continue on.

Side note: four wheeling in an economy Hyundai is a unique yet exhilarating experience.  I’ll let you imagine why.

After maybe two or three miles, I stop the car and we make the decision to go exploring with headlamps on foot.  We can’t see anything (no lights, no moon, partly cloudy skies, and light pollution from the other coasts).  We walk towards the sound of the ocean, and as we get closer we’re sprayed with an enormous amount of mist from the gigantic crashing waves slamming against the east coast.  The ground is igneous volcanic flows with coral.  We see random crabs here and there, maybe a cactus, but that’s essentially the only sign of life.  We head back to the car and decide to keep going.  Another mile or two down the road brings us to a small wind farm of maybe 10 or so turbines on the coast line.  We briefly consider hanging our hammocks from the stairwells, but quickly decide it’s too sketchy to do so; mostly because there was a sign 100 yards earlier declaring: CAUTION: LIVE MILITARY ZONE.  LIVE AMMUNITION IN USE.  DO NOT ENTER WHEN RED FLAG IS RAISED.  I’m not entirely sure of the size or wherewithal of the Aruban military, but both of us decide it’s better to not risk it.

We ultimately decide to turn the car around and head back towards the windswept coast.  By now, both of us are absolutely exhausted from being homeless.  Brandon breaks open the bottle of imported Jamaican rum we purchased earlier and pours himself a rum and coke.  After promptly deciding the mixed concoction tastes more like blended ants swirled in lighter fluid, he opts to dispose of his cocktail out the window.  Keep in mind the wind is blowing at a minimum of 20 mph constantly, he’s on the upwind side, and all of the rental car windows are open.  Upon tossing the cup, the drink is immediately vaporized as the wind propels all fluid from his cup back into the vehicle.  Chances of getting 100% of the rental car deposit back drops precipitously as the full interior is coated with a thin, bubbly layer of sugar and cheap alcohol.  I scream loudly and curse him.  He screams at the alcoholic beverage for tasting so terrible and forcing him to excrete it from the vehicle.  The wind curses back with its continuous monotonic wail.  Point for Aruba.

After driving approximately half a mile, I look inland by happenstance when I see a large, out of place structure blocking light on the horizon.  I motion to Brandon, we check it out with my headlamp (which, in the rural Aruban sky, might as well have been a 3,000 watt spotlight), and we exit the vehicle to check it out on foot.  No more than 100 yards from the dirt road lies an enormous geologic rock feature.  Brandon and I look at each other with the same shit eating grin on our faces: we found the best hotel on the planet.  Notwithstanding the crabs and almost certain death resulting from an accidental misstep and bashing your skull on the side of razor sharp granite, we knew in advance that we had just stumbled upon probably our best night sleep of the entire trip.  Here’s a picture I took the following morning of our campsite:

I wanted to smoke a cigar while setting up our hammocks, but the relentless wind afforded approximately 0.0027 milliseconds of flame per shitty match we purchased at the cigar shop.  After burning through half the box, I gave up and opted for half a liter of water instead.  One more point for Aruba.

The following morning I woke up approximately half an hour before sunrise so I could watch the lighting change.  I knew this was going to probably be our only morning on the east coast, so I wanted to grab a few awesome photos given the awesomeness of our superb vantage point and isolation.  Aruba didn’t disappoint.  I climbed to the top of the rock feature, set up my 1.1 pound camping chair I’ve been carrying (which, in the Aruban wind, was threatened to be blown away about 50 times), and took some incredible panoramic photos.

While watching the sunrise, we saw a park ranger truck drive by, but that was almost the only vehicle we saw while we were in the monument.  It was incredible.

Brandon had to be back for another scuba diving lesson by 8:00 AM, and we were sure it was at least an hour drive, so we packed our stuff up and hit the road.  Commuting to Palm Beach can be interesting: traffic galore, everyone’s very liberal about obeying the traffic guidelines (in America I believe they’re called traffic laws), and yet they have large signs posted every five miles or so giving the following statistic: “2014 Traffic Deaths: 432.  2015 Traffic Deaths: 329.”  Remember, we voyaged on this trip in July, so we weren’t certain about the efficacy of reminding Arubans that they’re fatality rate was on course to double in 2015.  I’m not exactly sure if that’s a statistic they should be proud of, but I briefly considered taking a picture of one of the signs and updating their Wikipedia page.  Point for Mark and Brandon.

When Brandon took off for his scuba diving lesson, I decided it was time for me to enjoy some recovery time to myself.  I found a local gift shop and purchased a $23 bottle of sunscreen (total rip-off, I know, but I didn’t care by this point) and a post-card, addressed it to my girlfriend back home, and wrote a private, intimate message to her.  I then headed to the beach and found a lawn chair to lie down on and check my eye-lids for pinholes.  The great thing about a tropical beach filled with white people is if you’re wearing a just a swim-suit and a can of sunscreen, then you can loiter for basically as long as you want.

After Brandon’s scuba lesson, we decided we wanted to put the car to further use and explore the town of San Nicolas.  Valero (the multi-national integrated oil and gas company) built a refinery on the south side of the island years ago and still operated it.  I was most curious about the conspicuous whore’s – I’d never seen a whore on the street, nor brothels, and I at least wanted to understand what the environment was like.  We head south to the city of San Nicolas… and we find approximately nothing.  We reach the south coast, find a giant anchor on the side of the road with a family taking pictures of themselves.  I offer to take a photo of the family, and they politely decline since they have their camera on a tripod with a timer.  Thinking back on it, I’m not 100% positive of their motivation to decline my offer.  Was it because their camera was on a timer, or was it because I was an over-muscled white guy with disheveled hair who smelled of sunscreen and booze and hadn’t had a proper shower in five days?  I’m going to go with the former.  When they finish abusing the anchor, Brandon and I decide it’s our time to shine and request for them to take a photo of us.  It still amazes me that in 2015 there are humans on Earth who don’t know how to photograph utilizing one of the most basic inventions ever created: the iPhone.  The mother can’t figure out how to take pictures, so the 13 year old daughter has to assist.  Brandon and I pull off our best impressions of famous bodybuilders and gay historians.  The girls in the family laugh (probably out of pity), and Brandon and I return to our vehicle feeling drunk and victorious.

Another half mile down the road we find a man selling fresh coconuts.  He has a gigantic machete, and is cutting up the coconuts and forming fresh beverages out of them.  Brandon and I love the idea, and we each purchase one.  We then drive to the nearest beach where a local family is hosting a birthday.  We drink our coconut drinks and whip out the Frisbee.  Playing Frisbee in Aruba is particularly difficult because of the continuous wind, but we made it work.  After 37 seconds of isolated play, we’re approached by a swarm of local Aruban kids.  I still don’t know which language they spoke, but they seemed to understand parts of English and Spanish.  Brandon and I think it’s hilarious and awesome to play Frisbee with them, so we let them play along with us for about an hour.  After that, we head over to a local restaurant and grab some dinner and a Pina Colada.  By this point in our vacation, Brandon and I feel like we’ve spent at least $100,000 each on alcohol and food, and we make a verbal commitment to not needlessly order any more alcoholic beverages.  We of course made this commitment only after we had ordered our pina coladas.

It took us about an hour of driving in circles to find San Nicolas.  The city boundaries were not obvious, and we couldn’t distinguish residential neighborhoods from rambunctious party areas.  Finally, we decided to drive closer to the refinery, and that’s when we found it: the part of the city that Stan had mentioned.  There was a very attractive woman standing outside of a bar on the street corner who winked at us as we drove past.  We drove down a one-way street and saw the bar Stan had recommended – Charley’s – but decided not to go in.  Brandon was tired, we both felt broke, and we didn’t think that our girlfriends would appreciate us fraternizing with the local whores and assuredly catching diseases.  It was interesting driving past the refinery because the workers were just finishing up their day and walking out – presumably walking home.  They looked like your classic blue collar worker: overweight, rough, in coveralls, and angry.  It surprised me that they were walking home rather than driving, but I suppose when you live on an island, it makes sense to live close to work and walk if you can.

After scarfing down canned food and sipping a little rum, Brandon and I decide to embark on finding our place to sleep for the night.  We’re both exhausted, tired, and hungry.  We scoped out briefly the place behind the restaurant earlier, and decided it was a good enough place to hang hammocks for the night because of its plentiful poles and vacancy of people.  After the sun set and we’re convinced just about everyone is cleared out, we head over and start scoping out an ideal place to hang our hammocks.  Inside the abandoned building hosts the best amenities (i.e. a covered roof), but there is one drawback: it’s an old abandoned building of perhaps a restaurant, maybe a school.  Normally this shouldn’t bother a person, especially two engineers who were relatively positive the building was structurally sound.  However, to two imaginative and homeless young men who were raised in the 90’s with abundant exposure to zombie filled video games and horror films, the building spoke panic, danger, and irrational fear of the supernatural.  Consequently, we opt to hang our hammocks just outside of the building…in plain sight to all of the subsequent drug deals which would occur later that evening.

Just as we both get our hammocks setup, we see headlights.  One vehicle drives up to a set of empty boat docks near our location, stops the engine, and turns off the vehicle.  Not two minutes later, another vehicle pulls up directly adjacent to the other and turns off its headlights and engine.  “Deer in the Headlights” would be an accurate term to describe the two of us as we gaze at the vehicle inhabitants exit the vehicles and begin to conduct business at the wee hours of the morning.  We stand there silent, waiting, until the people begin walking towards us, at which point we do the only rationally thing we can think to do: we panic.

In no less than 30 seconds, our hammocks are stripped down and we’re headed back to the rental car.  We hop in, and exit the sketchy back yard area of the restaurant strip mall.  Looking back on it, I realize the ridiculousness of our next action: we drive approximately 200 yards (just up the beach) and decide to park the car in an empty parking lot.  We had visited this part of the beach earlier, so we were aware of the amenities i.e. there were two lone palm trees… just enough space to hang one hammock.  Both of us are frustrated and exhausted, so after watching some crabs fight, Brandon decides to pitch his hammock between the palm trees, and I opt to just sleep in the rental car.  It’s past 10:30 PM, and I decide that if I can just get a few hours (maybe six, maybe eight )then I’ll be good to go and ready for the next day.  It’s relatively easy for me to sleep in cars, but it was still around 85 degrees F by then, and I decide that sleeping with the car windows halfway down to let the continuous breeze through would be much more comfortable than dying of heat exhaustion in the rental.  Just a few minutes of sleep, and I’ll be fine.  Just a few minutes of peace, and I’ll be…

“Excuse me, sir!  Do you speak English, o habla espanol?”

“I… what?”

“Sir, we are the police!”

Panic sets in immediately.  It’s the police.  They’ve found me.  They’re going to arrest me.  I’m getting deported.  Jesus, this is going to be embarrassing.  What’s my girlfriend going to think when she finds out I’ve been deported or arrested on my vacation?  What are my parents and co-workers going to say?

“Sir, what are you doing here?  Where are you staying?  Are you hear by yourself?  You know you can’t sleep here!”

I check my FitBit.  It’s just past 3:00 AM.  There are two men standing outside of my vehicle.  The one doing the talking is holding a flashlight in my face, wearing a sweatshirt, in his mid-twenties, and clean shaven.  The other is standing behind him in, sure enough, a stereotypical police officer outfit.  He even has the classic-cop mustache.  Their trooper car is still running, with the lights shining towards the beach – directly at Brandon swaying in his hammock.  I weigh my options, still dazed from being woken suddenly, and decide to go with the truth… or at least what I truly believed to be true in my mind.

“Yea… sorry, officer.  No, I’m not alone.  My best friend, Brandon, is sleeping down there on the beach.  I guess we got a little drunk last night and decided to sleep here instead of drive back to our hotel. Is there a problem?”

“Yes, there’s a problem!  It’s not safe to sleep here!  Don’t you know you could be attacked, robbed, or murdered here?  You should definitely at least go to a busier street and park your car there.  You’re in an empty parking lot right next to a dark beach!  Only bums and criminals would hang out here, and you don’t want to be associated with any of those people!”

I briefly consider which category, criminal or bum, I fall in before submitting my response.  “Thank you so much, sir!  I genuinely appreciate your concern for my well being.  I feel much more sober now.  I’ll collect my friend, and we’ll go sleep somewhere else.”

Brandon and I collect ourselves (he heard the cops screaming at me initially and deconstructed his hammock as fast as he could) and head out.  We’re amazed that an empty parking lot is more dangerous than the downtown area of San Nicolas, but I suppose it is for some people.  Grateful we escaped being deported or arrested, we head out in search of a new sleeping spot.  We drive about 20 minutes before coming back to an old abandoned beach we had found earlier.  Car parked, seats back, lights out.

The following day, Brandon and I are more exhausted than we’ve been all week.  There’s only one logical thing to do: go kite-surfing.

Aruba is the kite-surfing capital of the world, and we intended to take advantage of it.  We drive to the north side of the island, and arrive just in time for the kite-surfing shops to start opening.  We negotiate with one shop and almost purchase lessons, but decide to check out the other shops on the beach prior to spending another $400 each.  I also found a long sleeve shirt I fell in love with but didn’t purchase at that first shop, and I’m still kicking myself about it.  Despite searching for five hours the following day, I couldn’t find one like it.  It was one of the coolest shirts I’ve ever seen.

Walking down the beach, we come to one of the smaller shops which eventually won our business.  I wish I could say it was their superior ability to give lessons, their fantastic advertising, or even their above average equipment, but all of that would be bull shit.  When we walked up to the shop, one of the most beautiful women Brandon and I had ever seen was outside, raking the sand in her bikini.  Both of us were in committed relationships, and we had no intention of adulterous activity.  In fact, the woman’s similarity to our girls back home probably helped draw us in: long beautiful hair, super thin waist, small breasts, super model legs, visible abs, and a rock star ass.  This was obviously the most qualified kite-surfing shop on the beach with the best and smartest instructors.  Please, take our money.

Kite surfing is a fantastic sport, and I envision myself living on a beach at some point later in life and learning how to kite surf with my wife and kids.  I won’t go into the details of learning it because it’s rather boring, but all I can say is if you have the opportunity, absolutely go for it.  It’s worth the money.

After the morning lesson, we break for lunch.  Brandon and I kick off a conversation with two tall dutch women who were taking lessons from the same shop (they were lured in by the lower prices rather than the supermodel).  Brandon and I decide it would be fun to have some company, so we invite them to lunch.  We learn about how they’re medical students back in Holland, and it’s very common for such students to take vacations to Aruba and other carribean islands during breaks.  They came during the cheap season since they’re students, but they were having a great time.  We compared the differences between the American and Dutch systems, and Brandon and I did our best to propagate the undeniable truth that ‘Murica is the absolute best nation on the planet.

Brandon and I kite surf for the remainder of the afternoon.  I do subtly better than Brandon, which genuinely pisses him off.  By the end of the day, I’m concerned Brandon is going to come to blows with our instructor, so I encourage him to go speak with the hot surfer girl instead of antagonize the locals.  He obliges.

After kite surfing, we head to one of our safe places, Sbarro/Quiznos, buy dinner, steal their wifi, and scare the other tourists with how bad we smell.  Brandon Facetimes with his girlfriend, I text mine a bit, and we decide to head back to the airport to drop off the rental car.  Brandon assures me that he has an AirBnB procured for the evening, and I rest easy knowing that we’re going to have an actual bed to sleep in that night – particularly after being confronted by the police the previous night.

After dropping off our rental car at the airport, we both utilize the restroom and get in line for a taxi.  Once we’re in the taxi, the driver asks us which hotel we’re going to.  We tell him we’re going to an apartment, not a hotel.  The driver says that’s not possible.  We ask why not, and he says he’s only allowed to drop people off at hotels.  On top of that, he tells us that we can only pay in cash, and there’s a $25.00 charge to be picked up from the airport in addition to the cab fare.  We realize the complication in the issue: we’re going to have to stop by an ATM, grab cash, pay the surcharge for getting cash, pay the airport fee, pay the cab fare, and be dropped off at a hotel instead of our place of slumber, then walk to the Air B&B apartment.  The culmination of this, in addition to being frustrated and homeless, is enough to make Brandon come off the rails.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!  WE HAVE TO PAY TWENTY FIVE EXTRA FUCKING DOLLARS TO BE PICKED UP FROM THE GOD DAMNED AIRPORT?! You realize we’re paying to fucking drive us.  What kind of bull shit tax on imported tourists is this?  THIS IS BULL SHIT!  Not only that we’re going to have to pay you in cash, but also the absolute absurdity that you can’t drop us AT THE GOD DAMN PLACE THAT WE’RE SLEEPING!”

I chime in and attempt to prevent Brandon from screaming further.  It doesn’t work.

Brandon: “I’m sorry… I’m not mad at you.  Sometimes I unnecessarily transfer my anger to undeserving parties.  I get it.  It’s a consequence of growing up in a family with a Vietnam vet with PTSD.  I’m just really pissed off because the FUCKING STUPID RENTAL CAR COMPANY CHARGED US A $200 CLEANING FEE FOR OUR FUCKING RENTAL CAR!  THE ATTENDANT SAID THE SEATS WERE WET!  WHAT BULL SHIT!  THE FUCKING SEATS WEREN’T WET, THEY WERE DRIER THAN THE FUCKING SAND OF THIS SHITTY GOD FORESAKEN ISLAND!  FUCK THAT RENTAL CAR ATTENDANT FOR FUCKING ME, FUCK THIS GODDAM TAXI DRIVER, AND FUCK ARUBA!”

The remainder of the cab ride was uncomfortable to say the least.  I don’t normally cope with problems via substance abuse, but I believe I pulled some rum out of my bag and pulled a swig or two to make it through.  I also found out later that we weren’t actually charged a cleaning fee for the rental car.  Brandon was just extremely pissed off about being nickel and dimed on a tourist trap island.

We were dropped off at our safe hotel, the Radisson, grabbed some free wifi, and then proceeded to our AirBnB.  According to Brandon’s GPS, it was about a 45 minute walk into the inland city of Noord.  No big deal.  We walked five hours the first day, we could walk 45 minutes.

Ninety minutes later and countless encounters with terrifying local dogs on dimly lit streets, we arrive at the supposed location of our AirBnB.  It’s a small apartment complex, very well lit, with a small pool area and some lawn chairs.  Brandon and I are sweaty, smelly, exhausted, and frankly a little scared (the dogs along the way were not welcoming).  We walk up to the unit which we’re supposed to be scaring, and it looks more abandoned than a steel warehouse in Pittsburgh.  We knock.  No answer.  We search for a spare key.  No spare key.

“Dude, did you actually confirm that they confirmed our reservation?”

“Well… no.  I just assumed it’d be good and hoped for the best!”

“…fuck.”

We conclude that the owner is not home, and there’s no chance of us staying at the apartment for the night.  We briefly contemplate sleeping on the lawn chairs around the pool area, but it’s better lit than a prison exercise yard (like, seriously… at least 10,000 lumens per bulb), so we pass that up.  We take solace in finding a few frogs and taking goofy photos, but the final decision is made to do what we know how to do best: return to the beach, find two lay down beach chairs, drink as much rum as the two of can stomach, and pass out until the sun rises.  The following morning, I’m baffeled that I now feel so confident and safe on the tourist beaches of Aruba that I left my wallet and cell phone approximately 50 yards away from me on a permanent gazebo stand prior to passing out.  It was still there.

The next day, I’m tired of burning money on “experiences”, so I leave Brandon to kite-surf by himself and explore all of the tourist traps by myself.  I had one goal: find a long sleeve T-Shirt like the one I found in the kite-surfing shop the previous day.  I didn’t find it, but I did find a long sleeved sweatshirt and awesome open back shirt to take to my girlfriend back home.  She’s tall and slender, and I know she’s going to look incredibly sexy in the shirt.

By the end of the day, it’s Friday, and it’s Brandon and I’s last night together in Aruba (I’m leaving the following day, and he’s leaving a few days later).  We decide it’s worth the cash to spend money on a hotel to get cleaned up and actually go out to enjoy the night life of Aruba.  We book a hotel through Priceline, and both of us are incredibly happy to finally have a place to call home for at least a night.  Cleaning 7 days of sea water, sand, and salt off never felt so good.

After getting cleaned up, Brandon and I crack open a bottle of whiskey and commence solving the problems of the world through open discussion and future plans.  Two hours and a whole bottle later, we decide it’s time to get food and enjoy our final night together in Aruba.  We find a fancy restaurant, order an incredible meal, and live like tourist kings for one more time… a.k.a. become engrossed in our food and spend far more than it’s worth.  After dinner, we hit up some bars that I wish I could recount better, but alas – the memories are gone.  They were gone moments after making them.

Waking the next morning, I realize I’ve sent several drunken text messages to my girlfriend.  I feel the post drinking guilt characteristic of a dopamine deprived brain creep its way into my life.  Brandon and I pack up our belongings, he whines about how he must spend three more days there without me.  I’ve never felt more relieved to be going home.  I don’t remember saying farewell or the flight back, but I do remember the envy on my co-workers faces upon returning and divulging my stories to them.

Spontaneity is the spice of life.