Gary Buslik - A Rotten Person Travels the Caribbean: A Grump in Paradise Discovers that Anyplace its Legal to Carry a Machete is Comedy Just Waiting to

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Table of Contents

PRAISE FOR A ROTTEN PERSON

If you threw P.J. ORourke and Paul Theroux in a blender with some cheap rum and prune juice, you might get a cocktail as hilariously astringent as Gary Busliks politically incorrect travelogue. This curmudgeons tour of the islands should set tourism back a few years. Though...oddly...it makes me want to go there now. But thats probably the Chicago winter.

Luis Alberto Urrea, author of The Devils Highway and The Hummingbirds Daughter

If I were an immigration officer in the Caribbean, I would never let this man enter my country!

Tom Miller, author of Trading with the Enemy:
A Yankee Travels through Castros Cuba and
The Panama Hat Trail

Fast-paced, quick-witted, and dangerously irreverent. Grumpiness has seldom been so much fun!

Elliott Hester, author of Adventures of a Continental Drifter and the bestselling Plane Insanity

When Gary Buslik dies, study his brain. We have to prevent the same thing happening again.

Daniel P. Luce, inmate counselor, Stateville Penitentiary, Joliet, Illinois

I blame myself.

Shirley Buslik, Garys mother

TRAVELERS TALES BOOKS

Country and Regional Guides

America, Antarctica, Australia, Brazil, Central America, China, Cuba,
France, Greece, India, Ireland, Italy, Japan, Mexico, Nepal, Spain,
Thailand, Tibet, Turkey; Alaska, American Southwest, Grand Canyon,
Hawaii, Hong Kong, Middle East, Paris, Prague, Provence, San
Francisco, South Pacific, Tuscany

Womens Travel

100 Places Every Woman Should Go, The Best Womens Travel
Writing, A Womans Asia, A Womans Europe, Her Fork in the Road,
A Womans Path, A Womans Passion for Travel, A Womans World,
Women in the Wild, A Mothers World, Safety and Security for
Women Who Travel, Gutsy Women, Gutsy Mamas,
A Womans World Again

Body & Soul

Stories to Live By, The Spiritual Gifts of Travel, The Road Within, A Mile in Her Boots, Love & Romance, Food, How to Eat Around the World, The Adventure of Food, The Ultimate Journey, Pilgrimage

Special Interest

Not So Funny When It Happened,
The Gift of Rivers, How to Shit Around the World, Testosterone
Planet, Danger!, The Fearless Shopper, The Penny Pinchers
Passport to Luxury Travel, Make Your Travel Dollars Worth a Fortune,
The Gift of Birds, Family Travel, A Dogs World, Theres No Toilet
Paper on the Road Less Traveled, The Gift of Travel, 365 Travel, The
Thong Also Rises, Adventures in Wine, The World is a Kitchen, Sand
in My Bra, Hyenas Laughed at Me and Now I Know Why, Whose
Panties Are These?, More Sand in My Bra

Travel Literature

A Sense of Place, The Best Travel Writing, Kite Strings of the
Southern Cross, The Sword of Heaven, Storm, Take Me With You,
Last Trout in Venice, The Way of the Wanderer, One Year Off, The Fire
Never Dies, The Royal Road to Romance, Unbeaten Tracks in Japan,
The Rivers Ran East, Coast to Coast, Trader Horn

For my friends.
This is what I was doing while you were making a living.

This is a work of nonfiction but some names and locations have been changed to protect the innocent, and in some cases, the guilty. Any resemblance to real persons of characters presented in a bad light is purely coincidental.

The Time I Accidentally Urinated on Idi Amin

WE WERE IN MUSTIQUE, AN EASTERN CARIBBEAN hideaway island, and our taxi driver had just given us a drive-by of Mick Jaggers estate, Princess Margarets winter mansion, and the vacation homes of two or three movie stars whose names didnt ring a bell, probably because I have not seen a movie since The Exorcist, which scared me so much that for a month I would not get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, certain that Satan was waiting for me behind the shower curtain. It was not easy holding it in all night, but it wasnt the impossibility it would be now, my prostate currently being the size and consistency of a matzo ball. Not just any matzo ball, but one made by my cousin Linda, whose matzo balls are roughly the dimensions of the first atomic bomb. If President Truman had dropped one of Lindas matzo balls on Hiroshima, the Japanese would have surrendered in five minutes, and we would not have had to destroy Nagasaki three days later. I will get back to my prostate in a minute, which I promise has to do with Idi Amin.

I saw The Exorcist in a theater in an African-American neighborhood. Chicago is a city where ethnic enclaves are clearly marked by expensive, taxpayer-funded signs that arc over main streets. So it wasnt like I wandered into the neighborhood accidentally, got caught after the sun went down, and decided, what the heck, may as well see a movie about Satan. No, I went to that theater deliberately, because I happened to be dating Marceline, a black beauty from a wealthy Chicago Gold Coast family, and wanting to show her I was open-minded and adventurous and would therefore work well in her fathers business empire, I picked a theater on the South Side.

Traditionally, film is a two-dimensional, nonparticipatory medium that limits its audience to sitting passively in a darkened theater while entering a troubled world of pretend characters, secure in the knowledge that when the lights come back on, the real, safe world will comfortingly reemerge. That pretty much describes your typical white-audience film experience.

But watching a horror film with a black audience is a different experience altogether, in which, Zen-like, the viewers become the movie, apparently believing not only that the events are actually happening to them personally and in real time but also that, corollarily, they can control the outcome. Its not a bad philosophy, actually. Ive always thought it more sensible than the zombic passivity we associate with Caucasian moviegoingnot unlike the difference between a staid Presbyterian church service and a rip-roaring Baptist get-down. Dont just sit there stupidly, tempting the devil into thinking youre there for the taking. Make some noise! Let that muthafucka know you aint going down without a brawl!

So, for example, in the scene where Father Damien haltingly approaches the upstairs bedroom in which Satan, in the body of Linda Blair, lies bound to the bedposts, my South Side audience, screeching Dont go in there! Dont open that door!! You crazy, man?! Dont open that door!!! jumped up, waved their arms at the screen, shrieked for their mothers, and fainted in the aislesand getting up to buy popcorn was reminiscent of crossing the Gettysburg battlefield after Picketts Charge. Except for the color, of course.

So you see that in that particular milieu, film was no longer a two-dimensional medium but one of at least eleven dimensions, including the Bizarro World, The Twilight Zone, the hotel in The Shining, Nightmare on Elm Street parts 1-4, and marriage. I will get back to that demented universe in a moment, and I still promise it involves Idi Amin. In the meantime, if Marceline happens to be reading this, I forgive you, and if youll lift the restraining order, Id still consider a position with Daddys firm.

Our first day on Mustique, Annie, the woman I did marry and whose father was financially useless, was feeling giddy, thrilled to get away from her grueling Chicago routine of dog-earing catalog pages and having to repeatedly type our Visa number into her computer. Her mood changed the moment we walked off the plane, and the redolent tropical air burled up her elated nose. I had not even checked in to our guesthouse when she was hovering over her first poolside pia colada.

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