Johnny Too Bad, The Slickers: (Honduras, 1993)

Walking down the road, I sing with my bed on my back, a GO-KOT, and a small backpack. On the road from nowhere, Honduras, to nowhere, el campo. Flea bites itching, the half-eaten jar of peanut butter should be occupying my thoughts, but I transcended hunger a couple weeks ago. Maybe not transcended, but when there is no food, I forget I need it. Monday through Friday I hitch on rusted out trucks, colorless flatbeds, sitting with chickens, pregnant women, old men sick with vomit. When it rains, I don’t run, don’t take out an umbrella, I get soaked like everyone else. After three hours of walking, the sweat fills me, breathes out from me. I let my drenched t-shirt dry in the sun, put it back on, fresh again. Nights I sleep with the volunteers, check their latrine-building progress in the morning. Hitch or walk to the next village. Boring, you might think, but you’d be wrong. Walking down the road, light, completely free.

Johnny Too Bad


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