THE PLAN: is for Adam and I to scoot to Mexico as quickly as possible from L.A., and to work on a few farms over the two or three months it’ll take for Erin and Danielle to raise the money to come join us.
My little brother and sister pitched in to get me registered with Willing Workers on Organic Farms in Mexico, Belize and Costa Rica. Now all we’ve gots to do is find a farm that wants a couple of soft white boys, and they’ll provide us with room and board in exchange for a few hours of our sweaty, whining labour each day.
A couple of handy phrases I’m memorising (apologies for my awful Spanish):
Trabajaría más duro si paró azotarme.
I would work harder if you stopped whipping me.
¿Qué es eso? Lo siento, yo no le puedo oír sobre el sonido de mi propio cuerpo que desploma de la insolación.
What’s that? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of my own body collapsing from heatstroke.
Es una tradición en mi país de llorar como una niña a fines de cada jornada de trabajo, y durante interrupciones planificadas.
It’s a tradition in my country to cry like a little girl at the end of each work day, and during scheduled breaks.
Yo no pienso que el asno querría eso.
I don’t think the donkey would like that.
L.
