It was a long silly road to get back home. It was a bus hack through 8 countries with no shortage of ridiculous things to stare at out of the window. Donkeys tied to fences and pyres of burning garbage stretching to the heavens. Unattended children splashing around in dirty rivers playing with cups and broken buckets - beautiful. But after all the dusty volcano voodoo, the highway delusion, beatings and greetings, the run across Central America could never prepare me to step back across the border into the good ol' U. S. of A.

I had been out of the United States for 8 months and it was time to return. I was almost sure I was ready for reality, at least the reality TV reality that is our reality in THE GREATEST NATION IN THE GALAXY. In order to find this real landscape I knew I had to make the trip overland. I had to reconnect in the dirt and slime of the Pan American Highway System instead of being spit out on the tarmac at Miami International with sweaty hands and 2 carry-on items.

Lots of bus lines run from the Panama to the Mexican border with Guatemala and vice versa. If one chooses, he or she can be treated to an air-conditioned tour of Panama, Costa Rica, Honduras, El Salvador, Guatemala and Nicaragua for 95 bucks. For a hundred more you can run up the gulf coast of Mexico from Chiapas to the Republic of Texas. From the Canal Zone momentum builds slowly, though. I didn't cross into Costa Rica until nightfall and was treated to some shenanigans at the border; the kind of silliness that would follow me across the continent at every border. On good nights, the borders in Central America can turn into open-air love markets where one can buy remote control cars and barbecue chicken as well as change money and get into arm wrestling matches for pay. For $1 Costa Rican skater punks and Honduran surf nazis will take you to the guy who sells "pastillas para viajar" (traveling pills). These travelin' pills usually run 3 bucks for a couple and can be anything from muscle-relaxers to expired anti-depressants that make you cry like an old woman on the bus in the lonely night. These things happen.

At every little border check you pay a cute fine or two. For most people it is an entrance fee. For American citizens, it is usually an entrance fee on top of an exit fee, then a tourist card fee or passpor-visa-scam-rip-off-fee. I always knew when I was getting screwed, and that's when you look them in the eyes and call them a liar. Refuse to pay. Sometimes they will threaten to break your head open with a hammer and then put you in jail. Sometimes they will laugh and hit you with one of those, "Hey you got me!" kinda smiles. You win either way.

On the way into Costa Rica the bus driver began to play a movie called Wild Bill on the TV screens. It stars Jeff Bridges and tells the tall tale of the great Pioneer Bill Hicock, in Spanish. It’s a real mindblower; really gets under your skin after you watch it 2 times back to back. In San Jose a crazy man and his obese wife boarded the bus. He rode with me all the way to Santa Cruz, Mexico. Every morning as the bus left port, he would stand up and say a long and rambling prayer about Jesus watching over the bus. As soon as the prayer was finished, the bus driver would hit play and Wild Bill would come back on with Jeff Bridges looking like Lebowski in a cowboy getup shootin' the hell outta some Sioux.

In all truth the bus ride is a comfortable one. The buses are clean and sleek, new and air-conditioned with sanitary bathrooms. VCR equipped TVs are all over the place and movies are played constantly. Spanish versions of The Hurricane, Captain Ron, Spy Kids, Charlie's Angels, and Predator - you name it. In Mexico I watched 3 back-to-back episodes of the 1992 season of L.A Law.

The Latin American Bus experience is like being on the goddamned Concorde when compared to Greyhound Bus meth tour experience. No screaming junkies and teenage runaways bitching and complaining, no monkey business. If a bus driver in Guatemala sees a guy selling ice cream on the side of the highway he stops. Everybody loves ice cream. Try getting a greyhound bus driver to stop for ice cream, I dare you.

THE PERFECT MANAGUA AVACADO SANDWICH RECIPE

Outside La Terminal Central in Managua, Nicaragua stroll around until you are approached by a glue-sniffing street kid. This won't take long. Offer him a quarter to shoplift 2 avocados from one of the old women selling fruit nearby. When he returns with the avocados pay him with an American coin if you have one. Not only will it make you look cool, but also it will put him on his way towards another bag of glue to inhale in the afternoon sunshine. Once you have your avocados, splurge on a couple of 5-cent dinner rolls for the backbone of your sandwich. Using a pocketknife borrowed from a street thief or a shoeshine boy, filet the avocados and place the slices (peeled) on the stale dinner rolls. Salt and pepper would be nice but they’re a hassle to acquire. Dig through a garbage can or search the gutter for an old Cheetos or Dorito's bag. Use the spicy crumbs to accent your Perfect Managua Avocado Sandwich. Enjoy!

Most of the bus lines have hotels attached to the terminals in order to make things easier. For six bucks a night one can count sheep in a place other than a bus seat. The rooms are adequate, but the bus company will assign roommates to you or thou shalt pay extra for a private room. In San Salvador, a beautiful concrete funhouse of horrors that pops out of the jungle, the hotel security guard stopped me as I was leaving the compound. "Hey gringo, you can't leave the hotel at night. Are you fucked in the head?"

I ignored him and went on to eat an awesome 75 cent tortilla meal, got lost a block from the hotel, and got hit over the head with a milk jug by a vato loco cruising by in the bed of a pickup truck. When I got to Guatemala I began to smell the scent of my fellow countrymen. During a one-hour layover in the Guatemala City Bus Terminal, I spied an Adventure Couple arguing with a brand new copy of Let's Go! Central America and Mexico open to a map of some kind. The adventure couple is the New Millenium Version of the Ugly American. The Ugly American Tourist stereotype used to wear sandals with black socks and carry a folding map. The Adventure Couple is a younger Generation X model with low cut hiking boots, sunglasses, shorts and a surf company/ save the earth type of T-shirt. Their fanny packs are well stocked with a clay ganja pipe bought from "A Weirdo Indian Cat", sunglasses cleaner, a phone card, and ATM card, a pack of American Spirits Cigarettes and a souvenir lighter. Their backpacks are worn over their chests to protect them from thieves.

Sasha, the female doll in the Adventure Couple set, usually sports a nose ring with a tattoo in the small of her back, visible below the hem of her spaghetti strap tank top. Todd, the male action figure Gringo, has a tribal tattoo on his shoulder and dreads or a buzzcut due to the fact that he recently cut his dreads. Together the Adventure Couple makes their way from volcano hot springs to youth hostels, arguing on street corners with their guidebooks open. They all use the same books and therefore all end up going to the same hotels and sight-seeing spots. Tour buses and cafes filled to the brim with Todds and Sashas. I could smell talk shows and french fries on their skin. I was getting closer to home.

SEPTEMBER 10TH, 2002

Comfortable buses or no, somewhere a little past the border of Mexico I had a meltdown of sorts. Seven days straight give or take on a bus will change you, no matter how bad of a motherfucker you think you are. Being a veteran of many a greyhound break, I knew I had to slip behind the veil for a while and dream. I loaded up on Mexican sleeping pills in a bus station pharmacy in order to get some sleep. 24 hours later I was in the fetal position being shook awake by an old man saying, "Wake up, Gringito! You are home!"

SEPTEMBER 11TH, 2002

I stumbled off the bus at 8 am on the one-year anniversary of the birth of the New World Order and asked the bus driver if I had time for a smoke before we crossed into Los Estados Unidos. He said yes and I stepped aside. A minute later an old federale tapped me on the shoulder and asked me into his office. After a quick review of my passport he concluded that I was to pay him 50 bucks in order to leave Mexico. Bullshit to that, I said. I had paid for a ten day visa in Chiapas when I left Guatemala. This went on for 15 more minutes, a useless argument. I told I had been robbed of all my cash by two liar whores and that a Frenchman lent me money to get to the border. He slammed his fist on the desk and I paid him 10 bucks and left. By this time, my bus was long gone along with my bag and belongings. I had my passport, wallet, smokes, and a cheap Casio watch on my wrist. After hitchhiking across the border with a young Mexican gentleman named Rubio I came face to face with the country of my birth minutes away from the one year anniversary of the "greatest terrorist attack since the beginning of the universe."

My fellow Americans, the dudes running the show at the border, were not very impressed with me. Showing up like that at the border with a Bert and Ernie Teeshirt on at that very minute without luggage and a wallet made of duct tape made me a target for scrutiny. A big, silly, sleeping pill rocked target for scrutiny.

The federal officers were on high alert at all borders, all government buildings, and airports this day, as was to be expected. They didn't buy my story about the horseshit situation at the border and the dickhead federale and my missing luggage. They were more turned on by my passport and its stamps and visa extensions from my 5 month stay in Bogota, Colombia earlier in the year. It was felt that in order to get this situation under control, I better be taken into federal custody for a bit.

As one of the plainclothes agents and I were cruising through Brownsville, Texas, towards the interrogation site, I was reintroduced to my homeland. Vanilla Coke. American Flags. Flag Stickers. Fat panhandlers in "Defend the Homeland " sweatshirts. Blue Pepsi. Red Mountain Dew. Green Dr. Pepper. Sprite with cookie dough in it. Everything was 99 cents. Everything. In the interrogation room of the Brownsville, Texas Greyhound station I was asked the same questions I was asked at the border. Where is your luggage? Where is your bag? Why were you in Colombia? While in Colombia, did anyone try to get you to smuggle cocaine to the United States? Have you ever read the Book of Mormon? Where is your luggage?" After being lined up in front of a bunch of bags that looked like mine and watching a dog go over them with gusto, the Feds told me they needed to run a test or two. They sent the rookie Customs Agent to Arby's for a roast beef sandwich. When he returned, the Federal Agent who was the dog's handler, hid the Arby's sandwich in some stranger's bag. The dog paid no attention to the bag with the roast beef, nor any bag for that matter. Now. The reason for the roast beef test is unknown to me. Anyone who has watched a few hours of American Justice or COPS knows that those K9 dogs are trained to ignore food completely. If not, any jackass with a bag of peanuts in his pants would be harassed by scary police dogs. After another round of identical questions from the same dudes I had spent the last few hours with, it was reasoned that my bag had probably returned to Mexico. After returning to Old Mexico, my bag was retrieved and the contents of said bag were scrutinized and combed over with great enthusiasm. After the lining of my sneakers was sliced and searched, and the Danzig CDs I had were determined not to be empty vessels used for smuggling, I was free to go. Unfortunately, U.S Customs Dept. regulations forbade my new friends form taking me back across the border.

Two Old Mexican chaps in a minivan agreed to transport me back to the Land of the Free. I could see Texacos and the Wendy's billboards from where I was standing. As I pulled open the sliding door of the Chrysler, I knew how Richie Valens felt as he was getting on that plane. He had finally made it, but the destination was going to turn him into a ghost. THE END

Images courtesy of Matt McCarron