How Low Can You Go?

Travel Stories: When a flamboyant Aruban limbo master picks him out of a crowd, Michael Yessis gets a reminder that traveling as a guest sometimes means being a little flexible

01.16.02 | 12:50 AM ET

The man on stage wore a gold-sequined shirt, gold-sequined pants and gold-painted Nike running shoes. He lifted his hand to his forehead and scanned the crowd for “volunteers.” I sipped my Heineken and tried to look invisible.

“You,” he said into his microphone, pointing directly at me. “You in the white shirt! Come on up!”

Heads spun in my direction. I tipped my bottle again and stared across the swimming pool, pretending it wasn’t me he wanted. He wasn’t fooled.

“You, you drinking the beer,” he said. “Come on up.”

I had been in Aruba for about an hour, and getting there had been a struggle. My hosts had routed me on a red-eye from Los Angeles to New York, where, delayed for hours, I shifted hundreds of different ways in a vinyl bucket seat. None of them were comfortable. Eventually I made a connection to Miami, where, delayed further and still unable to nap, I skimmed magazines and squirmed some more. By the time I arrived in the Caribbean, I had been awake for about a day and a half. I only wanted to find something to eat, have a drink and fall asleep in a king-sized resort bed with tropical-themed bedding. I didn’t want to limbo. I shook my head.

“Come on!” the Limbo Man said. “Come on up!” While I continued shaking my head, he appealed to the audience. On hand were about 200 honeymooners, a few groups of senior citizens, several sunburned families and a dozen or so journalists who, like me, had been invited to write about the island’s culture and activities. Limbo, apparently, topped the list. “Let’s give him a little encouragement!”

Limbo Man applauded as his backing band played a few bars. The crowd whistled and cheered. My hosts, sitting at the far end of our long, rectangular table, clapped and smiled. A few of the journalists, many long-time travelers among them, cracked smiles and gave better-you-than-me looks. They knew what I knew: I had no choice but to join Limbo Man.

I was traveling as a guest, which brings forth a mix of benefits, drawbacks and responsibilities. The upside, in my experience, almost always outweighs the downside. A knowledgeable host can point out attractions not listed in guidebooks or, better yet, be a gatekeeper to the local culture. Once, for instance, in Madrid, I was hooked up with a friend of my friend Hillary. “Un amigo de Hillary,” he said when I arrived at the bar he owned, “es mi amigo.” For three nights, all my drinks were free. He also introduced me to his regulars, who took me in like brothers and sisters, serenading me with Spanish pop songs. I will always remember them.

I will also, unfortunately, always remember the dark brown milky-meaty substance put in front of me by my German host mother during a cultural exchange of youth soccer teams. Just looking at the strange food on my plate, smelling an aroma I couldn’t place, almost made me retch. I ate every last slimy bit with a smile, though, as my host family looked on with glee. I was their guest, and when you’re traveling as a guest, sometimes, out of politeness and respect, you have to do things that you normally wouldn’t do. It’s a trade-off I’m usually happy to accept—new and unexpected experiences are the essence of travel. But cranky, jet-lagged limbo? I left my beer on the table and reluctantly walked to the stage.

“What’s your name?”

“Mike.”

“Where are you from?”

“California.”

“Are you on your honeymoon?”

“No.”

“Well, we have plenty of beautiful women here in Aruba,” he said, gesturing toward the audience. “Let’s hear it for Mike from California!”

The crowd applauded and I took my place with the four other volunteers: Jenny, a thirty-something honeymooner from upstate New York; Bill, a thirty-something honeymooner from Indiana; Angela, a twenty-something honeymooner from Curacao; and Danny, an eight-year-old stringy-haired boy from Michigan. Limbo Man set the bar about five feet off the ground and announced to the crowd that the limbo competition was about to begin. The band chimed in with a dramatic musical backdrop.

Danny tugged on my shirt and pointed at Limbo Man.

“I’ve seen him two times already,” Danny said. “He’s gonna win.”

Limbo Man didn’t reveal his championship form up front. He cleared the opening height with just inches to spare. Jenny, Bill, Angela and I did, too. Shutters snapped and video cameras rolled. Danny walked underneath without even having to arch his back. The crowd laughed and clapped. Limbo Man basked in the reflected glory.

Soon he set the bar low enough to draw a few gasps. People in the audience moved closer with their Nikons and Hi-8’s. Limbo Man swept smoothly under the bar, again with inches to spare. Jenny arched her back as best she could, but almost immediately flopped to the ground. The crowd chuckled. Angela cleared the bar, however, and so did Bill, both to great applause.

I approached the bar knowing I wouldn’t make it. I’m six-feet-four with the flexibility of a two-by-four, and my height is all in my legs. I didn’t want to pick myself off the floor, particularly in the throes of fatigue, so I high-stepped over the bar. The crowd went nuts. I cracked a smile and started walking off stage.

“You cheated, Mike from California,” Limbo Man said. “Mike from California is a cheater. Get back here.”

As I returned, I glanced at Limbo Man. Veins popped on his forehead and neck. The crowd’s cheers for me, unlike their cheers for little Danny, weren’t part of his plan. I knew he was looking forward to seeing me fall like a tall tree next time around. The bar kept dropping and, as Limbo Man seemed to hope, on my next approach I tumbled backwards into Danny’s feet. As I picked myself off the floor, I looked at Limbo Man again. He appeared pleased.

Eventually the rest of the competitors were eliminated, except for Limbo Man, who, just as Danny said, proved himself by clearing a series of low-set bars. In his grand finale, he set the bar on fire, placed it atop two bottles of soda, and made it to the other side like a sheet of paper being slipped under a door.

“Whoa!” said Danny, still mesmerized by what he was now seeing for a third time. “Whoa!”

As the crowd stood to applaud his amazing feat, Jenny, Bill, Angela, Danny and I started walking off stage. Limbo Man picked up his microphone.

“Wait, where are you going?” he said. “It’s time to dance!”

The band kicked into a rabid Caribbean beat and he called the spouses of Jenny, Bill and Angela on stage. Then he called Danny’s mother to the stage. Then he turned to me.

“Mike from California, do you have a date?”

He looked at me with a sly smile. I shook my head. “No? We need someone for Mike from California,” he said. “You in the blue, come on up.”

Out of the front row walked an octogenarian woman. She stood about 4’11” and used a cane, and Limbo Man suggested that she be my date. Maybe Limbo Man had wanted to embarrass me with the setup. If he had, he didn’t succeed.

I took my date by her hand and helped her on stage. The honeymooners, Danny and his mom, my hosts and Limbo Man had already started grooving. We joined in. My date tilted her head back, looked me in the eye, beaming. Then she laughed. I laughed with her, swaying with the beat. Sleep, I thought, was going to have to wait for a few more songs.

Tags: Humor, Islands, Limbo, Planet Theme Park, Caribbean, Aruba


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