Peligro fantastico!

Thrasher Magazine, March, 2002 by Michael Bupnett

Danger is a big issue these days. It's out there. We've seen it. Bonafide peril. And aside from flags edging out urinating Calvins on our country's bumpers, this recent tragic and downright scary turn of events has put some of our past worries in perspective. Consumer confidence? Lawn darts? The too-sexy jobs of our teenage daughters? Pittance. You can bet even former Second Lady Tipper Gore dreams of those salad days when racy WASP lyrics blazed bright as the number-one threat to our nation's children.

StOLe tHe PeNt aND DraNK aLL Mg

JD SHe WeNt aND HiJaCKeD My BraND New Car

I Say AC, SHe sass DC

THe DaMNeD BitCH iS JUSt too BiZarre

Blackie Lawless - WASP

Perhaps it is our overwhelming concern for day-to-day safety that makes real Earth-shattering disaster so much more horrifying. For all the accidents and danger, the US is practically Nerf-covered compared with the sharp, rusted edges of the rest of civilization--a lesson that bites you like a bad dog once you enter the so-called Third World.

WHO LET THE DOGS OUT???

And it could easily happen. I saw plenty of bad dogs on my recent skateboarding trip to Chile and Argentina. Packs of dogs roam the streets of South America--collarless and brazen, unabashedly unneutered. In all fairness, Cairo was the only one of us who was actually bitten, but small scruffy herds cruise around unfettered in a style unseen in the States. They're actually amazingly good-natured, these street dogs. In the poorer areas they snoot through the gutters and dodge asshole-ish children, but in many of the finer shopping districts you can see them sprawled out on the lawns, tummies full of McDonald's and Telepizza bits. A one-eyed dog in Valparaiso would sit and lay down on command (he didn't know me from Jesse!), but politely declined the crust I offered him. Household trash is set in face-high garbage baskets to keep dogs from dragging it all over the streets, but in general, they're benevolently accepted as members of the community.

"They're like automatic buddies," Preston said, And they really were. It was fun to watch them prey on couples, following them for a few blocks as if they were their own faithful dogs, hoping to get invited in for tacos.

And while you might pet a stray dog and accidentally touch a scabby sore or some other yuck, the rabies fears seemed unsubstantiated and the cities haven't taken to rounding up the lot for the public safety. But this was just the tip of the danger iceberg.

PLANES, TRAINS, & AUTOMOBILES

At the airport in Santiago, Chile, we rented cars. Not from the "Hello-my-friend!" dude in the blue sports coat with the leather patches peeling and flapping off the elbows who hounded us from the second we got off the plane, but from a more traditional counter-style vendor. Our crew consisted of me, Ed Templeton, Austin Stephens, Caswell Berry, Diego Bucchieri, Preston Maigetter, Roberto Aleman, and Diego's friend The Father, so we needed more than one car. Discovering they were out of vans, we chose the next biggest car from the laminated picture sheet they showed us--Jeep Cherokees. Ed needed an automatic because he can't drive a stick and I was told my Jeep would be diesel. No problem.

A few minutes later, the counter man met us on the curb in a small Mitsubishi something or other.

"Diego, this isn't a Jeep," Ed complained.

"Yeah, yeah, this is what we call Jeep," Diego responded. The argument of semantics didn't last too long because we were too busy laughing when they pulled up in my "Jeep" a lime-green diesel Suzuki Samurai.

For those not familiar with Suzuki's rich automotive heritage, the Samurai was introduced in the '80s and was quickly embraced by teenage girls for its adorably compact size, its easy-down soft top, and the fact that its color schemes matched the wine coolers and Boone's Farm wines of its occupants. It was Spring Break on wheels, and briefly gave the VW convertible Rabbit a run for its money as the rich-girl Sweet-16 car of choice. Sadly, within the first drunken year of release, it was discovered the Samurai not only had the maneuverability of its ancient warrior namesake, but was just as apt to somersault and roll. Take these cutie-pie SUVs around a corner any faster than 30 and they'd spill their contents faster than a stomach of Arby's and Southern Comfort.

It was in this death trap we'd be navigating the questionable boulevards and byways of Latin America. As the rental man painstakingly studied the car to record all pre-existing damage on a special form, I waved the buckle-less end of my seatbelt at him. His pensive brow lifted.

"No problem!" he said with a smile. "No worry about it!"

"Oh no. No I won't!" I laughed back. "Bueno, bueno!"

This became the general extent of my inter-lingual communication on this trip--someone saying something to me, and me moving my head in a roundabout, not-necessarily-a-nod-but-not-really-a-shake fashion and mumbling "Bueno, bueno."

If I could grasp that a question had been asked, I might pump it up to "Si, es bueno." Should they prod any further than that I usually garbled out a "No habla Espanol." Past that, I would just ignore them. Actually, I wish I could say I politely ignored them, or maybe smiled nicely. But in reality, I'm ashamed to say, I got in the extremely bad habit of answering them in abusive English.