Tres Cheap - Page 6

Sint Maarten, an hour's flight north of Trinidad, is as overdeveloped as Rush Limbaugh's ego, inflated by a Customs policy whose operating guideline can be simply stated: “It’s none of our business." Consequently, this investment-rich island is the little Switzerland of the Caribbean, wall-to-wall with restaurants, banks, resorts, fast food joints, duty-free shops, casinos, and an oversupply of time-share hotels. While making the rounds among the many hotels, a blond-haired girl called out to me.

“Hey good-lookin’. Would you like to go to breakfast?”

“Me? I’m married,” I said.

“Who cares if you’re married?” she replied, raising her eyebrows suggestively. “You got a credit card?”

“Oh, I get it,” I said. She wasn't after my body. She was after my scalp. She was a headhunter, one of the predators that prowl the sidewalks of every resort town. Her job was to lure gullible tourists to the time-share boiler room, using free breakfasts as the bait. These places are called time-share because by the time you realize that you’ve been had, you’ve already shared the rest of your life savings with some used car salesman transplanted from Toledo. The trick is to eat the free breakfast, then slide out the side door for some fresh air and just keep walking.

Obtaining a free meal now and then does help the budget, especially on an island where you can spend $3 on an orange. I'd rather not eat. In fact, not eating is the best way to save money while traveling, though slowly starving to death doesn’t figure into most people’s vacation plans. Failing that, a bread and water diet will keep a person going strong for a day or two.

Still, there comes a time when you need food. Whenever I want a cheap, nutritious meal, I search out the place where all the natives go: McDonalds. The real new world order isn't geopolitical, it's a Big Mac, large fries, and a 32-ounce coke.

I arrived in Santo Domingo with extra baggage in my belly. Constipation is an occupational hazard of the traveler. I’m convinced it’s an evolutionary holdover from our prehistoric ancestors who, when migrating through foreign ground, didn’t want to leave any trace of their passing. It had to do with survival of the species-still does, as anybody who has ridden 48 hours on a Mexican bus will attest. But enough was enough. After finding a cheap hotel near the Santo Domingo airport, I walked next door to the farmacia. In my rusty Spanish, I said something roughly equivalent to, “I am under incredible pressure from my lower self to relieve the stress that results from taking in more than from what comes out in the end.”

“Ah, si, quieres Ex-lax," said the pharmacist, who was quite astute for being only 12 years old.

Not having much experience with laxatives, I ate one tablet and relaxed for ten minutes in my hotel room. Nothing happened. I ate another tablet, and laid down on the bed for another hour. Still nothing. So I gulped down the entire pack and went to sleep.

My wake-up call came at dawn as my intestines knotted into a pretzel. Doubled over in pain, I dropped to the floor in a fetal position, then crawled on hands and knees to the toilet, wondering if I would be the first person in history to die of an Ex-lax overdose. Why do they make it taste like chocolate candy if you aren't supposed to eat it all at once, I fumed. What's next? Cherry-flavored antibiotics? Candy-coated Kaopectate? Tutti frutti suppositories?