12.18, palmira, colombia 12030km

Alright, I admit it.  I’m not ashamed but I’m not proud, either.  I’d rather not have to do it, but it’s just a simple necessity.  It had never even occurred to me as a possibility before this trip; not in childhood, not in my adult years, not as a professional.  In fact, the thought had never even crossed my mind.  Not once.  Scout’s honor.  (for whatever that’s worth these days).
You see, it’s the sweat.  That and this damned cheap-ass cotton shirt  I bought for 3 bucks in a black-market shop in Lima, Peru.  (I bet this wouldn’t happen to me if I could afford a high-thread-count Egyptian cotton).  But there’s more to it, too.  (isn’t there always?)  It’s the inordinate amount of salt that I sweat out that dries in little cakes and strata on my shirt, as if I were some ancient saline lake drying up in front of my own eyes.  Yeah, the salt certainly doesn’t help.  And it’s the temperature variations; the cool mornings, the hot days, the sudden gusts of chilly wind, the mountain passes and the humid valleys…those don’t help one bit.  And let’s not forget the long days, often 30 miles or more, walking, walking, walking, my shirt swaying, sliding, sticking, rubbing and chafing over two distinct spots until they’re raw, and the salt gets in there and stings like a bitch and always the chafing and the rubbing, there’s no getting away from the chafing and the rubbing.
 

Yes, I suffer from chronic nipple-chafe.
 
And as a result, I’ve become…

A NIPPLE TAPER! 
There, it’s out.  I wish I could say I feel better now, but how can I when I’m the one to have to look in the mirror, always with a bit of shock  at being nipple-less (thanks to the caucasion-colored band aids I use).  I’m the one who always tries to make it through a day without nipple-taping but there I am, around noon, hunched over on the side of the road, like a junkie, trying to time my nipple-tape application so that no passing cars or trudging farmers can catch a glimpse of my shameful ways.
Because how do you explain the nipple-taping need to some local, oak-like Colombian farmhand, his arms all twisted with muscle and sinew?
 
“Hola señor.  Oh, what am I doing?  Well, sir, to be perfectly honest, I’m taping my nipples.  I’m a nipple-taper.  You see I take this caucasion-colored band aid here and I apply it so that the non-sticky part rests firmly on my nipple.  I like to put it on vertically.  There’s no good reason for that, just habit.”  “What was that?  Oh, why do I put them on?  Great question, sir.  It’s a lot to explain, but suffice it to say that the constant sweaty, salty friction between my cheap-ass shirt and my nipples creates tiny wounds…well, yes, that’s well put, it is very much like a miniature version of rug burn.  Very distressing and surprisingly painful.  Anyway, the nipple-taping prevents further damage to the nipples and allows me to walk virtually chafe free.  You know what…here, take these band aids.  No, I insist.  Give it a try sometime when you’re out there picking coffee beans or harvesting watermelons.  I think you’ll be delighted by the results.”
I wish I had retractable nipples, you know?  Like a cat’s claws.  I could pull them in at will, keep them away from all cheap-ass cottons.  And while we’re at it here, why in the hell do I have nipples anyway?  I’m a male of the species, I don’t breast-feed, I don’t “give of the teat” as it were.  What in hell am I doing with these things?  Oh, well, ok then, I just spent 15 minutes on wikipedia reading about how I have nipples because they seemed to have formed before my embryonic self was differentiated into being male.  It’s an answer I guess, but of little consolation.   
I mean, my nipples have actually formed calluses now.  I’ve got to be the first person in the world to have callused nipples (or do women get those breast feeding?)  But they don’t really help, they just delay the inevitable.  Friction, sweat, long miles, and cheap-ass cotton always win out in the end.  And so here I sit, in this little nowhere town in the middle of Colombia, typing away under the burden of a dark secret…I’m a tape-nippled nipple-taper.

  
Watch out, or you’ll become a nipple-taper too.