The Wren’s Nest

My very first flight into South America I was as giddy as a schoolboy! We came in on some dilapidated old DC-8 out of New Orleans, ensuring that we made the departure time as there were no landing lights on the ‘airfield’ in Honduras. It was explained to us that if we were delayed we couldn’t land, as well, we couldn’t see where to land.

The view over the jungle canopy was fantastic! We came screaming-in low, I’m not sure if that was normal or if the pilots just wanted to have fun. We flew on a TAN SAHSA flight, which in “American” parlance stood for “Stay At Home Stay Alive”. Interestingly enough, these pilots have some of the highest ratings on flight simulators I later learned!

Back-in-the-day, the stewardesses (yes, I’m being gender-specific here) used to go around and spray DDT-laden bug spray on these flights to make sure we weren’t carrying any new malaria-carrying mosquitoes et. al., into the country. As if.

The pilot came out of the swinging cockpit door, looking all of “John Wayne-esque” with a long white scarf around his neck, barking in Spanish. We were a few hundred metres over the treetops. I didn’t know if he was telling us were getting ready to crash or to welcome us to our destination!

I was minding my own business, ensconced in reading a journal, my eyes downcast when I met Her. My life has not yet returned to normal. She occupies my thoughts.

I’ve written this story once before but due to the vagaries of computer hard drives, backups, crashes, etc., I can’t seem to find the original. So now I’m going to do my best to recreate it.

Arriving in Cuzco for the start of my archeological expedition I came in a few days early, both to acclimate myself to the altitude (13,300 ft) as well as do some general exploring. As my friends well know, I have a penchant for exploring alleys, which, might not be the smartest move in a country you’ve never been in and can’t speak the language and carrying $1000’s of dollars of camera equipment but nonetheless it’s what I do. It’s the nature of the beast.

So I’m exploring the ancient city of Cuzco (curiously enough, the only city in the world where people still live in archaeological settlements!) and I’m going down dirt-covered streets with no idea where the hell I am or even how to get back to the hotel. I know I’ll figure that out later. And my stomach rumbles. I’m hungry. I know almost zero Spanish. So I walk into this little nook-in-the-wall Mom & Pop restaurant, dirt floors and everybody looks-up as I enter. Here I am, a tall white guy wearing a traveler’s vest and cameras slung over my shoulder and then the proprietess, a middle-aged rotund lady came around and chatting animatedly escorted me to a table. All I could mumble was “Gracias” and “No habla”. She gave me a menu I couldn’t read and then reaching into my mind for the only other bits of Spanish I knew I asked for “Hugo de Naranja” (Orange Juice) and “Pollo Omelleto” (Chicken omellete).

In a few minutes she brought me both - it was by far the most exquisite meal I’ve ever had in my life! The Omellete was prepared perfectly, with just a slight burnt, crisp edge. I didn’t know what the custom on tipping was but I left a huge wad of foreign notes for her on the table as I paid my bill and she continued animatedly talking to me as I left, sated, and headed back out into the dusty streets for more exploring.

Along the way, I picked up some kids. They were interested in this ‘foreigner’. Fortunately, I had “my jacket”. My jacket was filled with innumerable goodies just for this eventuality. I gave out candy and balloons to all the kids and they all greedily took them and then quickly ran away. Except for one. Runny-nosed and barefoot, looking about 6 or 7 years old he stayed with me. I gave him a Pez dispenser shaped like a truck and showed him how it worked. The smile on his face could have melted anyone! I know it did me. It was a strange experience - I couldn’t talk to him due to my ignorance of his language and he seemed rather reticent himself.

By this time it was lunchtime and I found myself in front of a rather posh restaurant and thought nothing of going in and having a fine meal. I got a huge slab of chicken with all the fixin’s, wine, etc., for about $6.00.
I could see my little buddy outside playing with his Pez dispenser, delighted.

Then it dawned on me - if I had not been so self-absorbed I would have brought him in to this place, a place that probably he nor any of his family could probably never afford and bought him lunch. I felt like a heel. I still do.

NOTE: A friend of mine is heading for Peru. For my own reasons, I’ve changed the names in this story. Also, I recommend whilst reading this story that you listen to the music ‘Toda Sexta-Feira’ by ‘Romantica‘. It definitely conveys a sense of place.

You’ll forgive me if this story is somewhat fragmented or disjointed but
I haven’t told it a lot and I’m not quite sure where my thoughts will
ultimately lead.

I think earlier I told you that “my jacket” had a mud-stain on it
sustained from a fall down a mountain in Peru. I want to tell you how
that happened.

The last thing I remembered before I got kicked off the horse and fell
down the side the mountain was that I was falling in love. You might say
I fell off a mountain and fell into love.

Ever since I was a little kid I’ve had an avid interest in Archaeology.
Always dreamed of visiting and exploring places that I had read about as
a child. So it was perhaps not so unsurprising that when the opportunity
came to join an archaeological expedition as an un-paid volunteer that I
leapt at the chance!

Around 1999 I signed-up to be part of an 8-person team to follow the
“Inca-trail”, culminating at Machu Picchu. We had connecting flights
from all over - there was Simon from the U.K., Jacob from Indiana, Holly
from Canada, Brad and Jane (the only couple) from New York, Carrie, also
from New York, myself (then living in Colorado Springs), and our guide
Nichole, from Switzerland.

Sometime I’ll have to bore you with Inca archeology, but for now suffice
it to say that Cuzco was the “naval” of the Incan empire. The Incas had
spread their culture far north into almost what is now Venezuela and as
far south as what is now Argentina. But I’m getting off my story. I just
wanted to set a backdrop for the events that are about to splay forth.

As we introduced ourselves to one another I immediately liked Brad and
Jane; they were some of the most down-to-earth people I’ve ever met
(and from New York even!). Holly worked as a geologist for the
Canadian government and wasn’t really my type. I wouldn’t say that Carrie
was attractive, but she did have, as the French say, a certain “je ne
sais quoi” about her.

We had all spent a few days earlier acclimating to the altitude (13,300
ft) and exploring the ancient city of Cuzco before starting our ascent
into the Andes.

It was interesting to see how we all paired-up: our guide Nichole,
having made the trip many times before strode purposefully at the head
of the team while the rest of us somewhat trailed behind (in truth
catching our breath in the thin air; I who was living in Colorado
Springs at the time with an elevation of 6000 ft. probably had the
easiest time of it). Simon was a loner and preferred to stay in the back.
Brad and Jacob were jocks and paired up to jog together while Jane and
Holly were horse lovers and preferred to ride. That left me and Carrie
pretty much together.

I think it is fair to say that we were opposites in almost every
conceivable way. Over the course of 2 weeks and 60 kilometers in the
beautiful majestic Andean mountains we talked about Archaeology (which
we disagreed on), politics (which we disagreed on), fiscal policy,
fighting in Kosovo, congressional term limits, you name it, and of
course, yes you got it, we disagreed on all of it!

I’ll never forget the afternoon we had hiked all day in pretty crappy
weather to get to this one peak - we were high enough that we actually
walked through the clouds! As we emerged it began to simultaneously
hail and rain and we all got our stuff off the horses and donned foul
weather gear. The group had stopped to talk but I was anxious and
pressed forward, walking up the side of that damn mountain till I got to
the top and found a good stone to sit on and regain my breath. Ten
minutes later Carrie comes up and says “Move Over!” There was no place
else to move! So laughing, I sat in the mud while she caught her breath.
I guess it was at that point I knew I was hooked.

On our journey down from that pass on to Machu Picchu she too picked up
on the “vibrations” as they were and we had less heated arguments. None
of us had bathed (and in my case shaved) in about 2 weeks (unless you
count a brief shower underneath a glacial runoff! Brrrrrrr!!!!!!!) and
we all looked a mess. When we finally made it to Agua Calientes we all
got to stay in a hotel with real live hot water! Like sex, you don’t
necessarily appreciate it till you’ve not had it in awhile! I met her
outside the hotel lobby freshly bathed, scrubbed, shaved, scented and
trying to look my best in a somewhat wrinkled Navy blazer 14,000 ft in
the Andean mountains deep in the heart of Peru. For her part, she had on
a little black dress - the kind that all women seem to instinctively
know how to use. It clung and it formed, which bespoke of more than the
heavy gear packs that all of us had been wearing heretofore.

That night in Agua Calientes was magical for me - the place was a
frontier town - the kind where you could overhear conversations like
“How many Kalishnikovs do you want?” or “How much for the leetle girl?”.
There were beggars and rich men, natives and expats and there for
awhile there was just me and Carrie, laughing and talking of the trip.

The next day we were scheduled to head back to Lima in preparation for
our flights home. As was often the case at the time, there was a
railroad strike so we chartered an old Soviet-built helicopter and
enjoyed soaring through the mountains in a fraction of the time that the
old creaky train would have taken, which gave us even more time to
explore Lima together.

By this time I was back to wearing “regular” clothes and not expedition
gear, but I still kept my jacket about me. I always make it a practice
to carry a bunch of Pez dispensers, both for my own use as well as gifts
for the little kids that invariably came up to us, begging. As Carrie knew
I had these she’d say “Gimme a Pez” - it became our own private joke.

As we had spent the night in Agua Calientes together, so too did we in
Lima. Wonderful food, wonderful people, beautiful scenery. Its etched
deeply into my very fibre.

She said she traveled to Denver a fair amount, so I told her the next
time she was there to look me up - I too told her we could meet in New
York. Life was good.

When I got back home I found a battery-operated Pez Dispenser which I bought to
give her when I met her at the airport. As I anticipated our meeting I
got a call from Carrie’s sister who had known of our plans to meet - Carrie
was killed in a traffic accident.

I have a beautiful photograph on my wall of Machu Picchu that I took
after Carrie and I scrambled up a nearly vertical Incan staircase. I
actually helped push her up the steep incline until we tumbled together
near the top. I can’t help but think of her everytime I see that picture
or indeed, any photo of Machu Picchu.

Following up on my Hong Kong post, I’d have to say one of the loneliest times I’ve ever had was when I spent Thanksgiving in England. Of course Thanksgiving is an American tradition and holiday and not one shared by the British. So as I wandered around London searching for a pub that might serve me a slice of turkey and finding none I was somewhat homesick. As Boswell recorded of what Dr. Johnson said, “When a man tires of London, he tires of life“. It was at that moment that I understood what he said.

To a Westerner, the words ‘Hong Kong’ imply mysticsm, excoticness - or at least to me anyway. I realize that I’ve never written about my stint in Hong Kong. Some of it is simply too painful. I will leave that part out of my narrative.

Hong Kong is a wonderful mix of West meets East - Colonial British influence ensures that a majority of people speak English. But walking down a Hong Kong street is not like being in Trafalgar Square in London - it’s a wonderful panopoly of Asian culture - vendors with cages of frogs and lizards for sell. Pharmacists with shark fins and dried sea horses. Small little restaurants are everywhere serving every imaginable dish. They wouldn’t pass a U.S. FDA inspection but the food is scrumptous. I quickly gained proficency with chopsticks while eating on sidewalk cafes. Squid tentacles on a stick? No problem!  Old men carrying their little pampered birds in cages as they fed them succelent morsels of crickets bought from other sidewalk vendors.

In a city of so many millions, their ethos also offers many parks full of greenery to relax and to practice Tai-Chi. It’s very soothing even if the air and humidity are stifling. The buildings make up for it though with their constant blast of frigid air-conditioning - make sure you bring a jacket!

Hong Kong is in constant flux - old buildings being torn down and new hi-rises being built.

I fell in love in Hong Kong as well as falling in love with Hong Kong.

Anyone who has ever been to Nantucket knows the meaning of “Nantucket Reds”; it’s the colour associated with a great deal of clothing on the island. One of the greatest things that ever happened to me after I returned from one of my trips to Nantucket was that Nina “stole” my Reds. “I’m taking these” she said. “They’re so comfortable”, after we had made love in the morning and she needed something to put on to drive off the cold. I was not one to argue.

I’ve always had a special place in my heart for Zimbabwe, neé Rhodesia and have long lamented the sorry state that the Thug-in-Chief Robert Mugabe has brought that country to. Now that the Times is reporting that Opposition party seems to have overwhelmingly won the election (provided there is no squelching of the results by the military) the question arises: How will the next administration deal with Zimbabwe’s *extraordinary* hyperinflation?

Price controls are an obvious start in order to keep basic commodities available to the ‘everyman’. But as the Wikipedia link on hyperinflation above correctly points out, they’re not a full stop. They’ll have to be a re-evaluation of the money of course. A few years ago we may even have seen it pegged to the U.S. dollar; today its probably not such a great idea and I can’t see it being pegged to the Euro either.  In any event, things will be getting  worse before they get better.

If you’ve ever been charged by an elephant, its an experience you’ll not soon forget.

I was sitting with my guide Rafi, a Kikuyu tribesman as a huge Bull Elephant stared down at us. When I saw Rafi start to sweat I knew I was in trouble. This was a man who would dismiss Mambas, Vipers, Alligators as mere bagatelles. When that elephant started heading towards us I don’t think I’ve ever seen a faster movement into reverse in our little Range Rover.  In the Masa Mara in Kenya there is an implicit understanding on road safety laws that “Elephants have the right of way!” It’s fascinating to watch them - they feel the sand berms with their very sensitive feet. And we had just seriously pissed-off one of the biggest of these guys I had ever seen.

When an elephant starts to run - well, you can literally feel the ground move under your feet.

Not the soft drink - her size.

She was tiny and diminutive, wrapped in a petite package. We did not meet each other passions inflamed across a smoky bar, but rather as the sole occupants at the checkout desk at 4:00 in the morning in a Stockholm hotel. She was cute, I thought as I checked-out then headed outside for a taxi to take me to the ‘T-Bana’, Stockholm’s subway system which would leave me to my early flight out from the airport.

So it was with some astonishment as my cab dropped me and my bag off at the closed ‘T-Bana’ station that there she was - in the same predicament as I. Early with no place no go.

“Hi!” I said. “I remember you!”, giving my best puckish grin.

“Hello” came back with a soft voice and a British accent.

“I guess we’re a little early!?”

“It would rather appear” she said, still not quite sure how to take in her surroundings - being approached by a foreign gentleman and not a few motley refugees from what looked-like to have been an all night Swedish drinking party.

It was bitter cold outside on a February day in Stockholm at 4:15 in the morning and all she was wearing was a simple sweater overcoat.  I on the other-hand had on a Goretex Adventure jacket, last worn in Peru. I was tempted to drape it over her in a chivalrous manner but truth-be-told I was bloody cold too.

As we waited for the T-Bana gates to be unlocked I asked her “What brings you here?” and she told me a story of how she just wanted to “jet off for awhile” and had to get back that day for her brother’s wedding. WOW!  It made me realize how Europeans are vs. us, American counterparts.

We finally made it thru the subway and thence to the high-speed train to the airport. She had a flight to British Airways and mine was through Air France. I escorted her as far as I could then watched her go.

I never did then, nor do now know her name. I never traded phone numbers or email addresses. We just spoke in the international language of helping a fellow traveler out.  Her (now married) brother is lucky to have a sister as her.