Visit with a Peruvian Indigenous Tribe by Stuart R. West

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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). 

The Poultry Conundrum by Stuart R. West

Visit mysterious, alluring, scenic, and dangerous Peculiar County! Just a click away...

I'm from Kansas and I'm apparently quite a dumb Kansan at that.

You'd think I'd know the distinction between a turkey and a chicken since I live in the Midwest. You'd be wrong. I mean, okay, everything I taste is formulated around the ground zero of chicken. It's like six degrees of Kevin Bacon, minus the actor, minus the bacon, add the chicken. Very complex equation (but if you add a side of bacon in again, you might have something. Hold the Kevin.).

So, over the holidays, my wife brings home a turkey, cooks it up. Tastes great. I like turkey "drumsticks." Anyway, I've eaten two of the drumsticks outta' the refrigerator and then I find another. And yet another. From the same turkey!  THE SAME TURKEY, YOU GUYS! Four drumsticks!

What?

Did this turkey grow up by a chemical waste plant or something?

I asked my wife why our turkey has four legs. After much eye-rolling, pantomiming and frustration from her, I sorta' intuited the answer.

I guess the turkey is the stronger of our fowl brethren with buffed-up, muscular upper arms that I mistook for bonus drumsticks. And it gets even stranger. The turkey apparently has many more bones in its legs than chickens do. New one on me! Why in the world would a turkey have more bones in its legs then a chicken? Do they bully the barnyard? Are they brutal fowls with thighs of thunder? Femurs of fury?

Edible nature sure can be kooky.

No matter what you celebrate or where you live, happy holidays everyone!

How about stuffing some Banana Hammock into your stocking?

Beware the Most Dangerous Animal in the Jungle...by Stuart R. West

Of course I'm talking about the great lumbering beast: the American Ox. Otherwise known as myself.

Click for comic mystery antics.

 I don't camp. Never have, never will. Nature and I don't get along. If I so much as glance at poison ivy, I turn into a giant blister bubble. On the other hand, my wife loves camping and nature. Everything that is nature except for...the unspeakable eight-legged critters. She suffers from a truly bad case of arachnophobia. 

My wife (kinda, sorta) avoiding arachnids in the jungle (what she doesn't know won't kill her.)

Over the course of our trip, several people thought they could cure my wife's fears easy-peasy with some Dr. Phil nonsense: "Oh, the best way to conquer your fear is to face it." Someone else tried the routine of "no, no, spiders are good! They bla, bla, bla..." While their intentions were good, they've never witnessed my wife jump out of a moving car once she spotted a spider. While she was driving. Twice.

So, for obvious reasons, people thought we were crazy for going to the jungle.

My wife, um, enjoying the floor.

Me, I possess the grace of a big, clumsy meth-head trying to thread a needle. Getting in and out of the boat proved extremely problematic. Our guide, Victor--an amiable sort, fluent in English and bird-song--grew weary of my (literally) rocking the boat. Constantly, he told me to "slow down, slow down." But he didn't understand speed was the only way I kept from falling, sheer momentum my only ally. Amazingly, I didn't capsize the boat, but I capsized myself a couple of times. 

Victor standing at ease and defying gravity in our boat.

Once, Victor wanted to redistribute weight throughout the boat so he instructed me to move back a bench. I'd successfully moved myself back before by just using my arms and swinging my body backward, so I thought I could do it again. Methinks I'd forgotten the 50 pound backpack attached to my body. I fell between the benches, legs up in the air like half-price day at the old-West brothel. A particularly poor day to wear white pants (and what was I thinking wearing white pants into the jungle anyway? Terrible fashion choice.). 

A good larf was had by all (except for me and my wounded pride. Not to mention my wounded posterior).

Falling isn't anything new for me. Gravity and balance are not my friends. While escorting us across wooden planks to the local jungle health clinic, Victor remarked on one of our cohorts' very good balance. I said, "I think she has better balance than me." 

Victor readily agreed. "Much better," he said. "Much, much better."

Of COURSE nature just loves Victor.

So there I am, floundering around in the jungle, trying my damnedest not to fall on snakes or worse, planting my feet ploddingly, arms out like a new-born tyke learning to walk. Hardly jungle material.

Back to that health clinic... The Yanamano Clinic--a small, humid building just off the river--is run by a doctor from Wisconsin and services the locals (or at least those who've embraced Western medicine). The doctor, understandably frustrated by the government's lack of aid, caring and health care, ripped through a list of her recent patients and their alarming ailments. Needless to say, machete wounds topped the list. A sobering (and sweltering) visit, it truly made me grateful for what we take for granted in the States.

Solar-powered (and without air conditioning, natch), the small operating room was a sparsely lit hot-box where the doctor sweats over her patients while sewing them up. Recently, a fan had been installed (a huge deal) and a bright light bulb had been donated (again, victory). Doctors Without Borders swung by one day with good intentions and big ideas, but little could truly be done. It's a very bleak situation for both the locals and the doctors because help doesn't come from many places. And the locals are uneducated about their own ailments and what modern medicine can do for them. 

Later, I was told this was one of the better clinics. At least there weren't holes in the ceiling.

On the way out of the clinic, I made a big mistake, a huge one.

As we left the clinic, I held the door open for everyone because Mom taught me to be a gentleman. Our boat driver, Walker, glared menacingly at me as he slowly walked through my proffered opened door. Victor, our guide, actually stopped dead in his tracks, stared at me. He opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head and hurried through the door. Hands flailing, they chatted animatedly and angrily back to our boat. Clearly I'd done something to offend them.

Only later did I realize my whoopsie moment. 

The culture of Peru is muy machismo. Men are men and the very mention of a "metrosexual" will get you beat up. Men drive motokars and women work in the kitchen, end of story. However, the men are fooling themselves, for women truly rule the roost. It's a very sexist culture, but only superficially so. Regardless, men take their manly manliness very manfully.

Things weren't right between Victor and myself until the end of the trip.

Friendsies again! (L to R: My wife, Victor, me, Jungle Momma Connie)

On the bright side, my wife had only one minor spider incident. In the boat, she reflexively kicked our friend's butt to get rid of a small, menacing arachnid. (I purposefully didn't tell my love about the lodge's four pet tarantulas until we'd left). Not bad odds for the jungle!

Speaking of odds, what're the odds Wendell Worthy can race against time to save his brother's life by running through downtown Kansas City in his underwear? Not very good! Find out in my comic thriller, Chili Run.

Laughs and thrills just a click away!

Welcome to...Monkey Island! by Stuart R. West

Despite the banana in the title, this has nothing to do with Monkey Island except a whole lotta monkey business.

 "For you see, Mr. Bond, Monkey Island is a training ground for my personal army of monkeys where I shall eventually unleash them on an unwitting world to conquer...Disneyland! Mwah-hah-hah!"

Marvel at the cute, wacky antics of lovable monkeys!

Yes, Monkey Island sounds like a James Bond villain compound, a perfect setting for a future secret agent novel, one that has the creative juices flowing. And, yes, Monkey Island actually exists. Come with me now, intrepid explorers, as I recount more adventures in the Amazon ans we visit...MONKEY ISLAND!

Tuesday morning we set out by boat on the Nanay River, an Amazon River tributary. Where the tributary meets the Amazon River, a visually distinctive color change differentiates the two rivers from "black (that's what it's called, although it's not really. Hey, I don't make up the rules.)" to light creamy brown. Shifting sediment causes color change. 

Thrill at the incredible changing water color!

Which is just one of the many amazing things about the Amazon: the landscape changes constantly. (I saw a huge tree actually topple into the river as we traveled. And there are "walking trees!" They uproot themselves and move toward sunlight. Sure, they're slow, but they'd probably beat sloths in a foot race any day.)

See the incredible, uncanny tree that walks like a man!

Soon, we neared MONKEY ISLAND ("ka-blammo!"). My spidey senses tingled (or maybe that was water sickness). As we disembarked, I was quickly reminded of my lousy sense of balance and lack of grace. Pay heed, folks, for we'll be revisiting this theme many times.

Excitement swelled in our group as we walked the planks up to...Monkey Island! ("Bum, bum, bummmm...") 

Duck and cover from flying feces!

Another habitat (brought to you by the fine folks of the previous manatee habitat), Monkey Island personnel rescues rare monkeys and nurses them to health. Unlike the manatee habitat, though, the monkeys roam their island freely to mess with unsuspecting visitors.

Our host warned us to wash off all bug spray and sunscreen since there'd been an earlier incident where several monkeys died by licking toxic bug lotion. We were also told, "monkeys are curious. So watch your jewelry." Understatement.

Our group washed up, stripped down, and prepared to enter...MONKEY ISLAND ("Dun, dun, dunnnnnn...").

Three minutes into our tour, a woolly monkey approached my wife, crawled up her body, and tossed its arms around her. For twenty minutes, they were inseparable as the monkey licked and kissed her and tugged playfully at her necklace.

Get jealous as my wife finds comfort in the arms of a furry stranger!

One of our traveling companions wasn't so lucky. Sara's monkey started off all cutesy, innocent and sweet, but within seconds "cute" morphed into stark-raving TERROR! The monkey climbed atop Sara's head, yanked at her hair, entangled its limbs throughout Sara's tresses, and held on tight. Like a victim in the film The Birds, Sara ineffectively tried to disengage her primate pal, plucking at it to no avail. That monkey wasn't going anywhere.

Elsewhere on MONKEY ISLAND ("Zinnnnnngggg!"), another fellow traveler, Liz, welcomed a monkey into her arms. But this monkey had a hidden agenda, an evil one. Feigning sweetness, it jabbed out, snatched Liz's glasses, and tore off into the bushes. Miraculously, one of the guides was able to retrieve the glasses.

Don't dare trust these little buggers!

Yet another monkey dragged one of our pals, Kelly, by the hand. We all thought it the cutest thing. Until the demonic beast's true intentions became apparent. The creature stopped Kelly by a small tree, positioned her oh-so-carefully, then used her as a ladder to climb into the tree's limbs.

Hold onto your wallets and purses!

Even the sloth appeared less than trustworthy, evil gleaming in its eyes. (But I wasn't too worried; even I could outrun a sloth should it come to it.)

Me? My only contact was with a parrot. Oh, sure, it was friendly enough as it roosted on the teens in our group, but when I approached, it pecked at me.

Beware the feathered face of evil!

Maybe these surface-cuddly beasts truly were a secret, evil army in training after all. 

Speaking of nefarious goings-on lurking beneath the facade of innocence, check into the mysteries surrounding the citizens of Peculiar County.

Visit enchanting Peculiar County today, just one click away.

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.

Learning to Grow Lettuce Plants in Water by J.Q. Rose

Hello and welcome to the BWL Publishing Insiders Blog!

Terror on Sunshine Boulevard by J.Q. Rose

Mystery, paranormal

Click here to find mysteries by JQ Rose at BWL Publishing

Learning to Grow Lettuce Plants in Water by J.Q. Rose

My husband and I were in the floral and greenhouse business for nearly twenty years, so I was familiar with the term, hydroponics. According to Dictionary.com, hydroponics is "the cultivation of plants by placing the roots in liquid nutrient solutions rather than in soil." 
In the spring of 2017, hydroponics became very real to me when Gardener Ted decided to try growing lettuce and a few other plants by building a system of pipes to grow plants in water. 

He has grown lots of vegetable and annual plants as well as foliage plants, mums, glads, and Easter lilies in our commercial greenhouses, and he plants a vegetable garden which produces delicious food all summer for our family in Michigan and a small garden in winter in Florida for us. Yes, he gardens twelve months out of the year. A dream come true for him.

Lettuce and other plants growing in Gardener Ted's  hydroponic system
Photo by J.Q. Rose

He's always experimenting with new plants and new ways of raising them. But learning how to grow healthy plants in water is definitely not like raising plants in soil! Figuring out how to move the water through the pipes, adding nutrients to the water, and keeping the pH at the right level led to huge challenges for him. He soon learned the weather conditions affected the nutrients in the water. Warm, cold, wind, humidity, etc.affected the growth of the plants. Gardener Ted knew how to deal with weather conditions when plants grew in soil, but figuring out what to do to keep his plants healthy when their roots were only in water was a puzzle, at times frustrating. But he triumphed over the unknown and developed a working growing chamber which produced healthy plants.

Delicious speckled lettuce grown using the hydroponics system
Photo by J.Q. Rose

He followed through on producing lots of lettuce grown hydroponically, but the garden lettuce seemed to grow faster. I liked the hydro lettuce because it was clean when he cut it, whereas the garden lettuce had sand and soil on the leaves. 

This spring of 2018 he made improvements to his system and his plants are growing beautifully. We are enjoying a delicious, as well as, a pretty salad every day. And one other perk when gardening, he enjoys sharing his harvest with neighbors, friends and family.

Are you a gardener? Do you have experience with hydroponic growing? 

Click here to connect online with J.Q. Rose