Showing posts with label Peru. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Peru. Show all posts

Wednesday, June 19, 2019

Afterthoughts and Aftermess in the Amazon by Stuart R. West

Click for the third Zach and Zora comic mystery
Well, all good things must come to an end, I suppose. Even if there were times I didn't think I'd survive the Amazon jungle. Not due to life-threatening situations, mind you, but rather the strenuous activities of hiking through a sauna-like environment in long pants, shirts, and those torturous boots.
Goodbye Peru...
But I made it. Even though the plane trips back were trying--eight days in the jungle and no ailments, but everyone on the plane was hacking and wheezing, sure to be my downfall; also, we had an encounter with an ugly American teenage girl who tried to cut in line (but my wife put a stop to that!)--we began the long, dull process of settling back into routine.
Fun in a germ-ridden flying tin can!
Upon return, Kansas seemed rather...lifeless. Sure, it felt safer and was definitely cleaner, but it lacked the energy, the vibrancy of Iquitos and the unfettered nature of the jungle. Everything about the Midwest appeared so ho-hum.
BO-RING!
Except, of course, for my week-long bout with diarrhea. Yay, TMI! (At least I didn't suffer while in the jungle; I can't even begin to imagine...wait, yes I can).
Wake me when we leave Kansas...
I learned a lot on my adventures. While I'm not quite ready to bunker down in a tent (too many serial killers lurking in the woods), or go backpacking in the Himalayas (too many yetis), or cannonball into a hot tub with Buddha (not enough room for both of us), I've decided to embrace nature as my friend. Finally. Call me ridiculous, but the other day there was a grotesque, hard-carapaced bug skittering down the hallway. I managed to scoop him up and put him outside. In the past, he would've been instant floor-kill.

The incredible power of the Amazon--nature at its wildest, most untainted state--proved awe-inspiring, not only in its beauty and yin and yang of terror, but also in the potential it has as a natural state of energy. If people would learn to coexist peacefully with the river, harness it without doing damage, it has the potential to power a good chunk of the world. It is to be respected.
So are people. After my trip, I've vowed to try and be nicer. A tough chore, but I'm committed. Our visit to Iquitos made me realize just how "rich" we are, comparatively speaking. We saw squalor, miserable living conditions, and even worse health care issues. But the locals' living conditions didn't get them down. On the contrary, they carried on with life, making our trials and tribulations appear petty. We could all learn something from the people of Peru.
I also came out the other side with the pleasure of bonding with new friends and reacquainting with old ones. You can't go through a boot camp of that type, storming the gates of hell, without growing close to those experiencing the trip next to you. And seeing as I write full-time from home, it was the most socializing I'd done in years. Big ol' honkin' baby steps!

New friends/family!
Best of all, I love the fact that "jungle pants" has become a nonchalantly dropped word in our everyday lexicon.

And the stories I heard, the things I saw and experienced, will shape and fill at least one future novel percolating on the back-burner, a paranormal mystery.

Onward and upward, the world's a great big, ol' beautiful and wondrous and scary place, much more than my previously staked-out back yard of Kansas City. I can't wait to explore more. (But, um, just with air conditioning this time).

Peace.

Tuesday, February 19, 2019

Spiritual Healing Jungle Style by Stuart R. West

Visit lovely Peculiar County, just a click away.
Here we go again, back into the Amazon rain forest...

As things go, I'm kinda skeptical by nature. Which is a funny way to phrase it: "by nature." Because during our eight day sojourn into the jungle, "nature" challenged some of my earlier, stubborn notions.
Me in all my glory getting dowsed by a shaman!
Jungle Momma, the amazing organizer of our Peruvian trip, is--like my wife and many others in our party--a pharmacist. These days, however, she resides in Iquitos and the jungle, soaking up all the information she can regarding the vast, untapped, and downright amazing array of herbal and plant medicines available in the jungle. She's also been apprenticing with a shaman for the past twenty years.
Antonio, the Maestro!
Which brings me to Antonio, el Maestro Magia! Antonio, one of the last of the red-hot shamans, is a fascinating guy. He carries within him immense knowledge passed down from previous shamans, sadly the end of the line. Since his village civilized and moved into Iquitos with direct TV dishes, no one's interested in carrying on the shamanic traditions any longer, preferring the sparkly, new-fangled allure of Western medicine. A shame.

Antonio's part miracle worker, part doctor, part magician, and a pinch of dirty ol' man. Maybe even a sliver of Catskills vaudeville stand-up comic. Savvier than he appears, he pretends to not speak English at all, although we had our suspicions.  During his stay at our lodge, he was sequestered in the back conference room, down a very long walkway and closer to the jungle, because he couldn't handle all of the city energy in the lodge for too long. 

Yet, the reach of civilization had touched Antonio, too. Wearing an Americanized ballcap, emblazoned with the letter "M," and duded out in designer jeans and stylin' kicks, he resembled a tourist emulating American style (or lack thereof). I so wanted the "M" on his cap to stand for "magic." Alas, it was a corporate symbol for Iquitos' mega supplier of cable TV and cell phone plans.

The stories surrounding Antonio are amazing. With one look he diagnosed someone's cancer with his "MRI vision." He healed someone's growing fungal attack with jungle plants when all  Western medicine failed. Father of many, lover of even more, no one truly knows Antonio's age, but it's guestimated at around 82 or so. Given that, he's in better shape than I am, leaping off boats with ease and (terrifyingly) running through the jungle bare-foot.
El Maestro Magia!
Our first night in the jungle lodge, Antonio arranged a group blessing. This consisted of us donning our swimsuits; one by one, he doused us with a bucket of cold water with flowers stirred into the mix. His blessing went untranslated. For all I know, he could've been singing the Brady Bunch theme song.
We were then given the option of having a personal, spiritual healing session with el Maestro Magia. I waffled back and forth, wanting to experience it, yet fearful of what he might find out about my health. Did I believe in his unexplained abilities? I don't know. But I was afraid enough to waffle. And after the stories I'd been told by intelligent, sane people, I'd be a fool to dismiss Antonio's talents out-of-hand. So, I continued to waffle. Man, can I waffle, more waffling than the local pancake shop, a waffling talent I've perfected over many years of waffling. I mean, if I've got some kind of necrotic skin disease, isn't it better to not know about it until the last second?

At the final moment, I took a giant leap of faith over my waffles and landed in Antonio's domain, off the griddle and into the frying pan. 
I entered the circular room, empty except for Antonio sitting in a folding chair, head bowed. I approached him, shook his hand. Quietly he muttered something, gestured toward the folding chair across from him. I sat. He slapped some kinda nice-smelling oil on my face and doubled down on my head (I kinda think he liked the feel of my slick pate as he gave it a few extra smacks). A cigar was lit as he smoked herbal tobacco, constantly blowing it on me as he whistled a nameless, tuneless song. I closed my eyes, went with it, tried to "get out of my head" as I was instructed (usually an impossible task; I mean where else am I gonna go?), as he brushed palm leaves all over me.

I'm not sure what happened, but something did. The constant rustling of the dried leaves fell into a drum-like pattern. Pungent, rich smoke transported me elsewhere. With my eyes shut, I envisioned the past, ancient tribes beating drums, dancing around a fire, a community of respect for Mother Earth.

A duck-like call at my temples brought me back; Antonio sucking out the bad energy from my head. When it ended, I was disappointed. Eyes still closed, I waited. Finally, Antonio said, "okay," a universal word. I opened my eyes, felt comfortably numb, rested yet exhilarated.

I stumbled out to the communal hammock/nap room and just lay there contemplating my navel for half an hour.

Was I really transported back in time? No. Probably just my writerly senses propelling me into a flight of fantasy. But I felt more rested, comfortable, and at peace than I had for a while. It also made me consider bigger issues than my rather small Kansas City backyard.

Other members of our group experienced different things. My wife felt connected to water. She said, "We're moving close to water." I said, "Okay, as long as there's air conditioning."

Another person felt a shoulder wound heal and the word "metaphysical" kept bouncing around his mind. One woman said it felt like the aftermath of a really great massage. I couldn't argue with that. Another guy shrugged, said, "it was alright."

On the other hand, Antonio also strongly believes in love potions, so there's that.

Speaking of unexplainable and magical happenings, book a trip to scenic Peculiar County, where things are never as they appear.

Saturday, January 19, 2019

Visit with a Peruvian Indigenous Tribe by Stuart R. West

Laughs, Murder & Mayhem! One simple click away!
Continuing our adventures down the Amazon River (and not to be as boring as everyone's least favorite uncle at holidays), the next day of our trip started with a red-eyed, bird-watching boat trip at six in the morning. Bleary-eyed, half-asleep, agitated like a disturbed hibernating bear, I blundered into the boat and managed not to capsize it. Barely. We saw lotsa birds, rare and exotic ones, but I probably would've rather seen the inside of a coffee cup.
A local fisherman kindly showed us his daily catch. Later we found out the locals weren't too keen on tourists invading their waters and jungles. Given their past treatment by colonial invaders, I can't say that I blame them.
After lunch, we visited an indigenous people's village. Decked out in long pants, long sleeves (groan), and enough bug spray to kill Mothra, we set out again by boat. Oh, we also had to don boots.

Ahhh, the boots. Those horrific boots. Heavy, hot, ill-fitting, we wore them every time we trekked through the jungle (snake protection). My feet were terribly loose so I had to wear two pair of thick, hot, sweltering socks. Conversely, one of my calves is oddly larger than the other and I couldn't even get the boot on so I had to roll the top down on that leg. Not only did I look even more ludicrous than usual, my feet felt like I was walking on burning coals.

But once we hit the village, my petty pedi-problems seemed minuscule in comparison.

Our first stop was a fantastic, ancient, ginormous tree next to the village. Legend has it that it contained mystical qualities and I certainly wasn't going to scoff in the face of such overwhelming nature. 
These boots aren't made for walking!
A small local girl had been craftily lying in wait for us. As soon as we disembarked our boat, she met us, carrying her pet sloth with her. Yep, a pet sloth! No fool, the child had been schooled in the nature of mercantilism, voguing for change. She got me. Seemed like bad karma not to tip.
The Salesmen of the Year Award goes to this little girl and her sloth.
As we entered the village, children ran merrily about--some in school uniforms, others not and I never could figure out why--dropping "buenas dias" and spreading the word of the visitors' arrival. 


This particular village had been aided by charity (Jungle Momma's art program being notable in providing lessons in how to improve the indigenous' wares). A new water tower provided clean water, yet abodes were still meager by our standards. Unlike Iquitos, though, they kept their village scrupulously clean (if you overlooked the visibly sick dogs living paw to foot among the villagers), decorated trash bins strategically located throughout the small village.
When I entered the grade school, the children adorably feigned working hard at math. I thought I'd flex my Espanol muscles and talk to the kids: "Ahh, bueno, bueno, ninos! Muy caliente matematicos!" They just kinda stared at me. (Later I found out I'd only singled out the boys--having left out the "ninas"--and told them their math was very hot.)
We piddled about the village for a while, killing time. Turns out it was a strategic ploy as it gave the people time to set up their small marketplace.

Soon we were hustled into a traditional communal hall, a large hut thatched with palm leaves. Decked out in original Yagua full garb, grass skirt and face-paint for the benefit of we marauding tourists, the chief proceeded to tell us a little about his tribe's traditional ways (and to shill for money). Soon, other villagers were painting our faces (wait a minute! Why did the other men get "hashtag" marks on their cheeks and I got the feminine stripes? Curious and curiouser...). Next they dragged us out for a hoedown of a dance (basically an endless, dizzying circle around the uneven dirt floor in my heavy duty boots and suffocating clothing).
Next was blow-dart shooting where my wife nailed the target first try.
Then...shopping!

Eight to ten stalls were set up, each representing a different family. The offered goods were similar (bracelets, masks, fans, touristy stuff), but the quality varied by booth. To be authentic, some of the women wore traditional palm fiber breast covers...which didn't quite do the job at times.  We were told that uneven distribution of funds might cause strife, so we tried to share the wealth.

Now, I was warned early on that the Peruvian merchants expect you to barter. Just part of the deal. But to me it felt wrong to barter with these poor villagers so we gave them asking price, even though one woman automatically brought her price down when she saw us waffling.

Last to leave, the Chief accosted us. He stuck his hand out. I thought it was a token of friendship, so I grabbed his hand. Clearly pissed, he jabbed out his other hand. Dumb American that I am, I seized that hand in a sorta embarrassing cross-armed double hand-hold. He yanked away, held out his hand again and bellowed, "Change!" Hard-core salesmanship, the taint of civilization. I obliged. Otherwise, we weren't getting outta there. He looked at what I gave him, finally said, "okay," and stepped aside. Guy needs to be selling cars in Kansas.
As we left, I was struck by the happy nature of the village. Honestly, though, my privileged, liberal-guilty self fabricated a touch of sadness. I felt like donating my boots to them.

In fact, I would've happily paid them to take my boots.

To show you just how generous I'm feeling, I'm going to donate this book to you, dear reader (for the low, low price of $2.99), a perfect stocking stuffer for the holidays. Bad Day in a Banana Hammock...it's for a good cause (hot dog money). 

Sunday, August 19, 2018

Day 2 of Amazon Adventures: Museums, Manatees and Misery by Stuart R. West

Click here to read about the "wilds" of Kansas City!
Hola, fellow explorers! Herein resides more adventures in the heart of the Amazon River and Iquitos, Peru! I can't wait to get writing books set there...quite a stretch from my usual stomping grounds of Kansas.

Our second night, "Jungle Momma (the group coordinator)" told us to get lots of sleep because the next day would be jam-packed. I scoffed, nothing to it. Hey, I lived through a heart-pounding motokar city-wide trek!

Dumb. I'm soooo dumb. So very, very, very city-dumb.
I showed up in shorts. Jungle Momma chastised me, said "Nope. No. No way. You need two shirts, a long-sleeved shirt over a short-sleeved shirt. And long pants."

Grousing, dragging, I hauled myself upstairs and changed, wondering what the big deal was. I mean, it was a thousand degrees out and humid as Satan's sauna. Oh, what a naive, spoiled American I am!

First stop! The Belen market. The market is huge, supplying all of the food and goods for the entire city of Iquitos, population around 371,000 (plus ignorant tourists such as myself). 

But something didn't seem quite right. On the bus, there were two guards: one, a man strangely named "Clever" and a guy whose name I never caught. Clever warned us to watch our pockets, wallets, purses, and leave all but our necessities on the bus.

Hmm... Odd.

Ye gads, talk about overwhelming. More fish on display than an ocean could house, I wondered about the sanitation of it all. Clearly I needed to get over my Western way of thinking. Dogs and cats meandered about nonchalantly, inches away from food. Dead mice lay gutted at the foot of chicken corpses. Strange men mosied up, smiled, performed a kinda one-armed chicken dance. Ghastly things lay splayed out on merchant tables. Giant turtles were cut open with their eggs on display. Alligator heads and tails decorated tables.
 Thumb-sized larva and grubs ("Suri") wriggled about in baskets before being skewered and cooked. Like that annoying kid in eighth grade science class, I held one, showed it to the females until they "ewwwed." To get the full effect, I was willing to eat one until Jungle Momma shut me down.
Our guards stayed attached to us and I'm pretty dang glad they did. At the end of an hour-and-a-half, claustrophobia  set in. I couldn't move. An unwelcome realization dawned over me with the sledgehammer inevitability of a "duh" moment: "Hey, I think the locals might realize I'm a tourist." Not only am I the whitest guy in Kansas, but my Hawaiian shirt and camera were probably a giveaway.

Sweat began to percolate as we boarded the bus (air conditioning!). I thought I knew sweat. Turned out I hadn't even mounted the sweaty trail.

Up next was a visit to a medicinal herbal garden. (Our group was composed primarily of pharmacists, so it was kinda a big deal for them. Which made me arm candy, I suppose. Maybe more like an arm grub). But, I thought, "This will be a nice pleasant five minute stroll. We'll just drive up, park, get out, "ooh" and "ahh" over some plants, get back on the bus, and bask in air conditioning." Oh, naivete, your name is Stuart.
My wife grabs her purse, thrusts it at me to stuff into my backpack. (Embarrassing disclaimer: I've never worn a back-pack before. Back in my day {pay attention, whippersnappers!}, we carried our books.) Suddenly, Jungle Momma is tucking her pant legs into her socks. (The hell...?) Bug spray is lacquered on. Sun hats are strapped on. Shirt sleeves rolled down, buttoned, and double-checked. (Uh-oh...)

Just off the bus and already sweating, I follow the others' precautionary efforts. I don't really understand what all the fuss is for over a simple stroll through a garden. Right? RIGHT?
 That "simple stroll" turned into a three hour tour (worse than Gilligan's nightmares) through the jungle. And I'm wearing double shirts, long pants, and carrying my wife's forty pound purse (clearly she packed her bowling ball collection) in my backpack. Naturally, every intrepid explorer carries purses into the jungle.

On the left, my beautiful wife. I'm the guy wearing mustard so the anacondas can see me better.
We climbed up trails, slalomed down them, slipped through mud, dodged branches, the whole nine yards. I thought we'd never reach civilization again. I also thought a daily five miles of treadmill walking had prepared me for strenuous hiking. Such is the life of city sissies. Jumpin' Jehosophat, by the end of the tour--and with my "moobs"--I looked like I'd been hosed down for a wet t-shirt contest.

Tired travelers, weary pharmacists, and soaking wet big dumb guys in mustard.
Back on the bus, I sucked down a bottle of water and juice in seconds, dehydrated as a shrunken head. But relief was on the way as the next visit turned out to be a relatively low-key visit to a nature habitat dedicated to saving animals on the brink of extinction (due to hunting, eating, other "civilized" products) such as manatees, turtles (of which we saw the grotesque end result earlier), monkeys (monkey-head soup's big), and others. Great cause. Still, it's outside. And once I broke my sweat-seal, I never stopped draining. In fact, between the three men on the trip, we had a bit of a sweating competition. Hands down, I won, glad to know I'm good at something.
A tour of two museums followed. First up was the Museum of Indigenous Amazonian Cultures. Amazingly, there are still 200 tribes in the jungle who flat-out refuse to "civilize." The not so amazing reason is due to white man unleashing a lotta diseases and vile behavior on the indigenous in the past. Honestly, after seeing some of the lifestyles in Iquitos (and boorish American behavior), I kinda think the tribes made the right decision. 
Our final stop proved to be the most grueling one yet, the Boat Museum. While fascinating, the displays and tour took place on a boat. In closed, non-air-conditioned rooms. During the hottest part of the day. Give me the jungle heat any day. Now I know why they're called steamboats.
Finished! Back in the room, my shower was perhaps the finest I'd taken in my life, definitely in the pantheon of Top Three Showers ever.

On the next blog post, we travel down the Amazon River to...Monkey Island!

Speaking of traveling, you guys ever been to Kansas? No. What're you waiting for? Kansas is a nice, exotic, wonderful, getaway of a vacation for... Ah, who am I kidding? Kansas is downright goofy. But don't take my word for it. Click here to read about some of its inhabitants.
A rollicking, good-natured mystery comedy.

Thursday, July 19, 2018

Adventures in the Amazon: Motokar Madness! by Stuart R. West

I flew 3, 265 miles to Iquitos, Peru, and all I have to show for it is a case of diarrhea! I kid, I kid (not really). 

Actually, I learned quite a bit from our trip to the Amazon, both about myself and the untapped, vast unexplored world around us. The adventures my wife and I shared will surely inform my future books and writing. Over the next several months, I'll be sharing some of my voyages into the jungle. So strap in, folks, it's gonna be a wild ride.
My wife and I all touristy in a motokar death-trap!
But I survived! Barely. My first time out of the United States and man, did I go big.

Day one of our journey to Peru actually took a day-and-a-half, all of it travel. Three flights, three airports, three rounds of security and customs and trauma. Anyone who knows me knows I'm a sucktacular traveler: "Are we there yet?" "I'm bored." "Can't we just be there?" "He's looking at me funny!" (My poor suffering wife.)

At 6', 2", weighing in at 225 pounds, flight engineers clearly didn't have me in mind when they created their flying crackerboxes. Our overnight flight to Lima was a contortionist's nightmare. At midnight, the flight attendants fed us dinner, then hurriedly shut out the lights, their intention to have us sleep for eight hours so they wouldn't have to deal with us. Sure, uh-huh, right. It's like trying to sleep in a bookcase.

When we finally landed at the Lima, Peru airport, I desperately found myself wishing I'd paid attention to my two years of high school and two years of college Spanish. Honestly, the local people in the airport put me to shame, most of them able to speak passable English. And here I am--ugly American--stomping around, adding "O's" onto the end of English words. ("Luggage-o?")

The Peruvian people were very helpful, even if all of them had different advice. Out of pure luck, we finally realized we had to reclaim our luggage and check it again. Total fish-out-of-water moment.

But once we hit the Iquitos airport, I was a whale-out-of-water, a (not so) Great White. The departure area was pretty much the size of a living room, hotter than asphalt on a Summer day, a crowded, sweaty hub of humanity.
Okay, about Iquitos... Hardly the touristy, exotic getaway locale I expected (man, I really should've done some research), Iquitos is over-populated, full of political corruption (citizens are forced to vote by law and bribed to swing a vote for the equivalence of twenty bucks), trash-strewn, crime-ridden, humid, terrifying, and absolutely exhilarating and thrilling in a roller-coaster, pants-wetting kinda way. Like an island, Iquitos is only reachable by boat or airplane.
History lesson! Years ago, Iquitos's citizens came out of the jungle and adapted civilization as they knew it (learned from TV) in their new city. Literally hundreds of tin shanties can be seen right next door to the few wealthy residents. Up to four families share the small, ramshackle dwellings. 
Yet even the worst tin shacks--holes and all--have direct TV dishes mounted on the roofs. Things exploded about six years ago when the former jungle dwellers discovered the internet and smart phones. Welcome to civilization.
The amazing Armando, motokar driver extraordinaire!
Unfortunately, as an adjunct to "civilization," unemployment (the rubber industry--Iquito's past major source of jobs and income--dried up, leaving people jobless) prospered.

Unless you're a motokar driver.

We've all been in white-knuckled cab rides before. Now imagine that multiplied by 200,000 unleashed motokars.

What's a motokar, I hear you asking? Why, it's a three-wheeled motorcycle of sorts. Unprotected, the driver sits in front while the terrified passengers are sardined into a tiny cabin behind him. Different designs adorn the tarp (Spiderman, Scooby-Doo, appropriate flames of Hell), the driver's number posted on back.

It's the primary vehicle of choice (cars are a rarity) and a new source of income, drivers eking out enough soleils for a day's worth of beans and rice.

And driving laws? Heh, don't be silly. Someone told us, "In Iquitos, there are no rules, no lanes, no lines, and no laws." (Check out the video below if you don't believe me.)
On our trip from the airport to the hotel, I thought we were going to die (and here I figured the jungle would get me). Two-laned streets turned into five and six, hundreds of motokars jockeying for front position like a vicious roller-derby. Near misses were common, no sweat to the crazed, undoubtedly caffeine-infused drivers. From the left, hundreds more swarmed. On the right, a small dirt road unleashed another couple hundred. They fused together like a massive swarm of bees, all of them chasing the honey at the end of their furious flight.  They swerved, cut others off, bounced back and forth like pinballs. The song, "Ride of the Valkyries" played out in my head as I held on for dear, sweet life.

Miraculously, we arrived at the hotel unscathed. There we met the gracious organizer of our trip, our "Jungle Momma" and her husband. 
Then we slept.

The next morning, cocky and sure of myself, I proclaimed, "Hey, nothing to it! I survived my first day. Got this by the cajones! What could possibly go wrong?"

As it turns out, kismet's got it out for me badly.

For a different kinda trip, come on down to Peculiar County, a lovely little day-trip away. Just make sure you're home before dark and lock those doors.
Click here for a scenic tour of beautiful Peculiar County!






Sunday, December 21, 2014

An Early Christmas Gift Almost Killed Me, by Sandy Semerad #christmasgift

     “We’re going to Ecuador and Peru,” daughter Rene announced.
     I was overwhelmed when she told me. The timing was bad. The company I’d been working for was bought out by a larger company. I had to convince them to rehire me.
     Before we left on our trip, I was rehired, but scarcely had the time to get the shots and meds required when one visits two third world countries. At least my passport was up-to-date.
     My traveling companions included: Rene, her daughter Cody (my eleven-year-old granddaughter), Rene’s bestie Dia and Dia’s daughter Michelle.
     Rene rattled off our itinerary. We’d be going to the Galapagos and Machu Picchu, but no easy way to get there, she said.
     Three days after we left Florida, we arrived in Santa Cruz, Ecuador. All five of us slept in the same room, and it wasn’t long before the toilet clogged.
     None of us saw the tiny sign in Spanish telling us not to put paper in the commode. We were supposed to throw it in the trash instead. Rene speaks Spanish, but the sign was almost invisible to the naked eye.
     Rene and Dia discovered the blocked toilet after they’d taken their Ambien. Their doctors had prescribed the Ambien in case they had difficulty sleeping on our trip. I don’t require a sleep aid and was peacefully dreaming when Rene poked me. “You’ll have to pee in the shower, Mama. The toilet is stopped up. We’ve tried to plunge it, but it’s still clogged.”
     As her Ambien took effect, Rene began to act silly. I’d seen scary reports about Ambien. Some people have had terrible reactions after taking it. They do crazy things, like driving a car while asleep.
     Rene started playing with the ringtones on her cellphone. “Isn’t that beautiful?”
     “No, it’s loud and annoying,” I said.
     “It is not. It’s beautiful and colorful.”
     “Let’s go to sleep and try to solve our problems,” Dia repeated three times.
     Rene, who never overeats, became ravenous. She stuffed her mouth with every snack she could find.
     I watched with trepidation. What if she’s still hungry after she eats the Pringles, crackers and candy? And what if she walks out into the night looking for more food?
     “You need to lie down,” I told her.
     “I’ll sleep like a baby soon,” she said, between chews.
     “I’m going to take a video of you,” I said.
     “I’m told I’m very funny.”
     After what seemed like an eternity, she did go to sleep, but sleep evaded me then, and with the toilet clogged, I began searching for another one.
      I looked everywhere, even in the hotel's basement, which had been roped off. I was clearly trespassing when I slipped under the barrier.
     I turned the knob on the first door I saw.
     It was unlocked.
     I eased the door open.
    A toilet sat in the back of a small room, no bigger than a closet. I tried to lock the door for privacy before squatting on the pot, but I was unable to secure it. I had an image of getting busted with my pants down.
    Unlike the upcoming adventures of our trip, I escaped unharmed. If I’d been able to see into the future, I would have stayed in Santa Cruz despite the clogged toilet. All in all, Santa Cruz was a lovely town with exotic birds, sea lions, giant turtles, good restaurants and shops.
     Since I had no warning of the tribulations to come, I boarded the boat to Isla Isabella with a smile. At first we enjoyed exploring the lava rocks on Isabella. We saw exotic birds, penguins, iguanas and white tail sharks.
     As we watched the sharks swimming in a canal, the guide cautioned, “Don’t wake them.”
     For Dia, a photographer, this was paradise, until she lost her balance and fell. The lava rocks sliced her shin to the bone. Our guide dressed her leg wound to stop the profuse bleeding, but it was not a permanent fix.
     We’d all planned to go snorkeling after the rock tour, but Dia opted out. A wise decision, I thought.
     After seeing the sharks in the canal, we didn’t want to entice them with fresh blood.
     Cody announced she was jumping in regardless. Nothing would deter her from the snorkeling experience.
     I plunged into the frigid Pacific with her.
     The guide told us not to worry about the sharks. “They usually prefer the warm canal.”
     I prayed he was right.
     As we swam through the ocean, Cody and I found ourselves caught in a fierce current. We thrashed our arms and kicked our flippers, trying to swim out. One of the guys in our group kicked me in the face in his battle to free himself.
     The guide yelled, “Stay away from the stingray.”
     As soon as Cody and I were able to rise above the ocean’s surface, she said, “I’m tired.” I was exhausted. So we swam back to the boat.
     Once on dry land, Dia’s leg looked red and infected. She needed medical attention pronto. A doctor at the hospital stitched up her wound and prescribed antibiotics. No charge. (Healthcare in Ecuador is free.)
     The next day, we went hiking up Sierra Negra, elevation 4,890 feet. Sierra Negra is a large and active volcano.
     I wish I’d worn hiking boots, not sandals. (I must have been thinking of that Bible verse: For forty years I led you through the wilderness, yet your clothes and sandals did not wear out.”)
     In the beginning of our hike, we walked through the rain forest, where it never stops drizzling.
     “I can do this,” I told myself. I exercise daily with Jane Fonda’s Prime Time workout. I’ve walked all over Chicago and San Francisco with daughter Andrea. (Andrea probably would have enjoyed this hike, I thought. She’d walked all over Panama last summer.)
     Hours into the climb, I began to question my sanity as the terrain became higher and hotter. The rocks cut my feet. I started walking like an aging Galapagos penguin.  
    “This is worse than giving birth,” I complained.
     We were given no time to rest and sightsee. Only thirty minutes for lunch.
     When I sat to catch my breath, the guide yelled, “Up, up. Don’t stop.”
     “How long have you been a guide here?” I asked him.
    “Fifteen years. I do this every day.”
     “Have you ever had anyone to quit or faint or die?”
     “No,” he said.
     “This is tough,” one of the hikers said. “I’m sure he’s had someone to quit, turn around and go back. I think it’s wrong of him to rush us along like this.”
     After hours and hours of trudging nonstop, we finally saw the volcano’s rim in the distance. “How much longer,” I asked the guide.
     “Twenty minutes,” he replied.
      It looked like a vertical climb to the rim--much too dangerous. No bars, no restrains. Easy to fall in and die.
     My feet were burning. My whole body ached. My head was swirling from the heat and volcanic gases. Not much bottled water left.
     Dia and Michelle had already started back down, but not Rene and Cody. They were determined to hike to the rim.
     I bid them farewell, then looked for a trail marker to lead me out. I kept searching, but couldn’t find a sign. On a rocky terrain, it’s difficult to detect a path.
     I got horribly lost.
     I stepped on a sticker bush. My feet and legs stung like fire.
     I spotted a spider and thought it may have bitten me.
     I couldn’t see anyone from where I stood, no guide, no hikers, no Rene, no Cody. I hoisted myself up on a giant rock to get a better view.
     I spied specks in the distance. I thought I might be hallucinating.
    Then I saw blonde and red hair.
     I yelled as loud as my dry lungs were capable of, but Rene and Cody didn’t respond.  
     I ran toward them. My adrenalin and desperation had imbued me with renewed strength.
     Rene finally turned in my direction. “What happened to you, Mama?”  
     “Don’t ask. I think I need a hip replacement.”
     “Stretch and you’ll be fine.”
     No sympathy.
     Every muscle and joint in my body cried out in pain. I don’t know how I endured the hike back.
     A couple of days later, I felt better and could walk without aching, but in Cusco, Peru, Rene suffered. She threw up several times. The coca tea and leaves--natural remedies used to treat altitude sickness--didn’t work for her. Someone brought out an oxygen tank. She inhaled the oxygen, but it provided only temporary relief. BC Powder—an old Southern remedy for aches and pains--was the only thing that helped, she said.
     I’d been given a prescription for the high altitude, but the pills made me pee excessively, and I stopped taking them. (I’ve read it’s better to take it easy for a couple of days and avoid anything strenuous in order to adjust to high elevations, but when you’re seeing two third world countries in sixteen days with an action-packed schedule, resting and relaxing are impossible).
   
My nose bled, but it wasn’t severe enough to keep me from enjoying the spectacular vistas of Machu Picchu--the "sacred landscape" of the Inca. It sits on top of a mountain, encircled by the Urubamba River.
     Machu Picchu is in the southern hemisphere, 13.164 degrees south of the equator, 50 miles northwest of Cusco and about 7,970 feet above mean sea level. It’s one of the most important archaeological sites in South America.
     After visiting Machu Picchu, we took a long train ride. A taxi driver picked us up from the train and drove us back to our hotel in Cusco.
     After a night and day there, we began the long journey back home. We had an eleven-hour layover in Ecuador, but Rene didn’t mind. She was happy to be rid of her altitude sickness.
      “I could have died on that hike to Sierra Negra,” I told her.
     “My hands were so swollen,” she said. They looked like a giant’s.” She showed me the IPhone pictures of her hands and the volcano’s rim. “Isn’t that amazing?”
     “You and Cody could have fallen in,” I said. “There were no restrains.”
     “But we survived,” she said.
    “This early Christmas gift almost killed me," I said. "I feel lucky to be alive. I’m going kiss the ground when I get back home.” 
     Now that I'm here, there's no place on earth I'd rather be than at home celebrating the Christmas season. Here's wishing you the happiest of  holidays, and if you're traveling, be safe.
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     After working as a newspaper reporter, broadcaster and columnist for many years, Sandy Semerad decided to try her hand at writing novels. Her first novel, Mardi Gravestone has been republished as SEX, LOVE AND MURDER. She wrote her second mystery HURRICANE HOUSE after a hurricane ripped through her community. Her third book, romantic thriller A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES, is loosely based on a murder trial she covered as a newspaper reporter in Atlanta. All books have received five star reviews. Semerad is originally from a small town in Alabama, but now lives in Santa Rosa Beach, Florida with husband Larry, their spoiled Shih Tzu P-Nut and wayward cat Miss Kitty. She has two daughters and a granddaughter.



www.sandysemerad.com

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