My Journey with My Lilbookworm: [Review] Soup House

My Journey with My Lilbookworm: [Review] Soup House

Following My Dream

“I’m going to teach in Indonesia,” I told Colin.

For a moment, silence hung in the air, and in that long moment, I wondered if I’d lost him. After all, who would let their girlfriend (even a sometimes girlfriend) go halfway across the world and still hang onto her?

“I didn’t know a move was in the works," he finally said. But, to his credit, he rallied back. "But anyway, if ya want, I’ll take ya to the airport.”

"Are you sure? It leaves from Pittsburgh.”

“Three hours away? I think I can handle that. Now, if I only knew where Indonesia was ...”

On the way to the airport, we talked non-stop. I leaned over the stick shift and reached for his hand. I loved the connection we had in spite of our frequent separations. Colin had a seasonal job digging well, and came back to Pennsylvania occasionally. The Irish in him came through with his stories.

"...and one day a well I was digging began to cave in. I jumped out of the 'dirt scooper,' and ended up with my feet in the air and my mouth full of dirt. I can tell you that I was starting to panic and it was no picnic," Colin said, flailing his arms at the wheel in a comical way. He had to brake quickly, and for some reason neither of us knew, we both laughed hard. I nearly choked. 

Talk of rice paddies, Bahasa Indonesia and other tales about California oil wells kept us occupied on the drive to the airport. The one thing we didn't talk about was us.

At the airport café, we held hands and said our goodbyes over a quick coffee. “I can’t believe you got us lost,” I teased.

“Me? You were so busy talking about those In-do-ne-sian rice paddies,” he said tapping my nose as he stressed each syllable. “Is it any wonder I missed my turn-off.”

My heart thrilled even as I wondered what we had in common. “Oh you.” 

With his sandy-colored hair, dimples and quick smile, he sometimes left me tongue-tied. His tanned face and well-formed muscles from the recent well-digging he did made me wonder what he saw in a clumsy, non-athletic, brown-haired girl like me. Now you can add ‘going blind’ to your stellar list of attributes.

His eyes found mine over the table. What beautiful blue eyes!    

He squeezed my hand and bent to kiss me. “Am I gonna hafta wait a whole year to hear your first-hand account of them thar rice paddies? Are you gonna come home with one of those thick banana-leaf hats and a pocketful of rice?” He pulled me closer and kissed me again.

 “Maybe,” I whispered. We had only this moment. 

I suddenly wished I could have held onto him, that I didn’t have to board the plane and that he didn’t have to go back to digging wells.

My face must have reflected my indecision or raised some kind of flag to Colin. 

"What?" He asked, recoiling in shock. "Do I have four eyes or something?"

“Do you remember when I gave you that bar of Irish Spring soap and that poem?” I said suddenly.

He laughed. “I never got a poem about a bar of soap before. I wondered if you were telling me I needed a shower.”

"Oh, don't give me that. You got a kick out if it and  said I was quite the romantic one." 

Oh Colin …maybe romance isn't for us. You love a good party. I hardly ever go to one.  You’re a real guy’s guy. What am I doing with you? You don’t even have a relationship with the Lord!

We didn’t make any promises to write. Maybe we both knew our sense of daring is all that we had in common. Would we ever meet again?

I lifted the strap of the maroon leather bag I’d picked up in Costa Rica and slid it over my shoulder, grabbed my carry-on suitcase and set it on its wheels. “Time for me to go.”

He wrapped me in a bear hug and kissed me a last goodbye, then playfully pushed me on my way. “Go get ‘em, Prof.”

“Don’t get buried in the California dirt!” I called back.

After the Diagnosis

The problem was, if I really did have Retinitis Pigmentosa like Dr. Bellington said, I’d already lost the war. With no cure to fall back on, what chance did I have of fighting back even if I had it? 

I struggled to fight the battle at hand and forget the war. Take it one day at a time.

 How did Doctor Bellington know they wouldn’t find a cure? Why should I put all my stock in his words?  I’d need to go and do some research at my library. All the signs had been there but somehow I missed them—the blurriness, the night blindness, my own fender benders in high school, constantly getting lost and oh, yeah, the klutziness. 

 It had been years since I’d seen an eye doctor. What if I’d gone earlier? Would I have found out about it? Would it have made a difference?  Thank God I didn’t go! If knew I was going blind then I'd have never traveled to South or Central America. 

 Now it was finally sinking in. Maybe I did have this eye disease. It made sense.

I needed comfort. Some kind of reassurance. I picked up the phone and dialed a long-distance Pennsylvanian number

After we finished the small talk, I wondered how to start. "Um, Holly, I went to this eye specialist, and you know, can you believe they found out I have this incurable disease? I guess I'm ... um, going blind." I hated saying those horrible words. Blind. I couldn't imagine it.  

Silence. 

What do you expect her to say anyway after you drop a bomb like that? 

 “Oh my gosh! I don't know what to say."

"Why do you think God let this happen to me, Holly?"

She coughed into the phone. "I have no idea. I feel terrible.”

I begged for an out. "Do you think the doctor could be wrong?" 

"Um, if they took tests, I don't guess there would be any error. Did, did you say there wasn't any cure?"

My gloom deepened. "That's what the doctor said."

"Oh. I have no words." 

"Yeah..."

The silences lengthened. I searched for something safe to talk about. 

"Hey, are you going back overseas to teach this year?" 

"Me? No. You were the one so gun-ho on teaching in, where was it? Silly me, I guess that's out now, huh?"
"I dunno. Just don't know..." My throat clogged and the tears came. 
What did this mean for the rest of my life? 
Silence       I hesitated, then blurted out,  "Holly, I don't know what to do..."        Please say something!
Finally, her troubled words came haltingly. "Just ... trust .. God." She sounded as helpless as I felt.
It was my turn to be silent. I didn't know how to do that at this moment. 
Holly cleared her throat and apologized for not knowing what to say.     
"No, no, not at all. Of course, who knows what to say when there's such shocking news. I'm sorry to put you in this situation...Thank you so much for listening..." I babbled, filling the silence. 

"Of course you should have called. I'm just sorry I don't know how to help you..." 

The call and the awkwardness exhausted me. What a relief to hang up. 

But, unable to sit in the silence of my fears, I picked up the phone again and dialed another. Each call ended the same, and I felt more discouraged. 

Finally, I pushed the faded-pink phone away. I couldn't even find the energy to walk the few feet to my bed. Instead, I lay my head down on my desk and sobbed. 

Would my life ever be the same again? 

Excerpt from Fading Light

    Our first inkling we had of their existence came in the middle of a desert. The tire-sliding plunges into sun-scorched sand dunes in the Abu Dhabi wadi left me nauseous instead of breathless.

     “Stop. Pull over,” I called to the driver of our four-wheel drive. “I’m gonna throw up!”

     My husband got out and held me as I retched into the sand.

     After a number of unscheduled stops, Mohamed—a local we didn’t know until this trip—elbowed Ihab in the ribs. “Walaa! Just leave her if she likes the sand so much.”

Ihab threw up his arms in the Arab way. “What can I do?” But he made a comical face at me to show he cared more about me than his Arab brother inside the car.

     That evening, I felt better. We gorged on a meal of lamb and rice, and washed it down with pomegranate juice. Ihab and I lay under a starry sky outside our tent, letting the exotic music and gyrations of the belly dancer steal over us.

     “What if I am pregnant?” I whispered.

     My husband kissed me and murmured, “Then that would be pretty exciting.” 

     Newly married, everything seemed possible. 

Trekking Through the Jungle

First morning, waiting at the hut for guide... 

***

Antonio arrived with a local (indigenous) guide and two new additions to our group—Hector, an Ecuadorian, and Grietje, his Swiss girlfriend.

“How do you pronounce your name?” Joe asked.

The amber-haired woman and Hector exchanged a glance, as if they heard this question often. The girl answered. “Greet-jeh. It’s Dutch. Of course you know the fairytale, Hansel and Grettle, yes?”

With her blond braids, she did resemble the fairytale child.

Before anyone could reply, Antonio clapped his hands. “Buénos Días, todos. ¿Listo, Calisto?”

“That’s the Spanish equivalent to ‘Ready, Freddy,’” I informed our group

Joe shouted with gusto, “¡Listo, Calisto!”

The day’s journey began on the banks of the enormous chocolate-colored Napo River. After a quick canoe ride, Antonio pulled it ashore and we headed into the jungle.

I reached out to steady myself along the way, a wet plant here, a smooth tree trunk there, a slippery vine, a slimy rock, several times to keep my balance.

Antonio warned, “No touch nothing. Every tree, every rock, every leaf, has alive.” In his broken English, he explained why. “Danger. Many spider, poison insect, creature only here in jungle. No touch. There is one ant kind, if she bite, woe to you. This ant, she killer-ant. She call to all the friend and attack you. We must careful.”

I shuddered and dropped my hold on the plant. Antonio broke into Spanish to ensure I understood the dangers of jungle life. “Tell to the others,” he ordered.

This is why I had to be careful what I touched in the jungle. 

“Listen up.” I translated warnings about tarantulas, poison brambles, bees and creepy-crawlies. By the time I finished, the hairs on my arms felt super-itchy and hyper-sensitive. I brushed off imaginary bugs, and kept my eyes peeled for unfamiliar critters that blended and lurked in the fertile plant life.

one of the jungle critters! 

Trekking through the deep terrain made it difficult not to touch anything. But with concentration, I refrained from toppling into the leafy vegetation.  Plants suddenly appeared in my path. I’d catch myself just in time. We all had to be so careful. It’s pretty tricky in this unfamiliar terrain.

Antonio noticed my difficulty and extended his hand. “Amy, you stay near to me. Take my arm. I no trust you safe.”

"Gracias, Antonio." I took hold of his arm and he helped me over the uneven passages.  

But even with the dangers, the jungle fascinated me. Every few steps, Antonio pointed out something new.

“Look this bird.” He pointed toward a thick canopy of branches. I squinted but couldn’t see any feathered creature.

Joe picked up on it right away. “Wow. Cool. What is that…a toucan?”

“Where?” I peered into the darkness.

The toucan looked something
like this to me, even with the binoculars. 

Antonio guided my head. "Right there." 

“That grainy thing?” Or was that just leaves? “Do you have any binoculars?”

Antonio fished them out of a worn bag he carried.

The darkness swallowed up the details. Is that light spot its beak? I pressed the binoculars into my face and squinted. Maybe I still wasn’t focused on the right area.

Marie squealed when she saw it.

Mark practically grabbed the binoculars off my face. “Come on, come on, give ‘em up.” When he got it in focus, he whistled. “Look at the markings on that bird.”

One minute the sun blinds me, the next, the jungle shadows get in the way.

Antonio pressed, “Amy, you see now?”

I badly wanted to see it and I sort of did catch a glimpse. But Antonio went to such great lengths to ensure no one missed it that I couldn't let him down. "How colorful! Imagine seeing this every day of your life!" 

Finally satisfied, Antonio agreed, "Si, que vista!" and moved us forward in the jungle. 

***

To read more, click on this link: http://amybovaird.com/jungle/

Misahualli, The Jungle Hut

The Jungle Hut

So, I left you back at the hut when I introduced you to the small ad-hoc tour group we recruited to go into the jungle. We're still taking in the hut and our surroundings. 

                                                                        * * * 

<-- A jungle hut similar to the one we stayed in. 

I looked down the cliff at the river and said, “There’s something exotic about bathing in the same river where you wash clothes.”

“Preferably not at the same time,” Mark pointed out.

I rolled my eyes.

On a grimy blue board in front of our communal hut sat a small monkey. As we approached, it stood up and reached out its hands to be held. Just like a baby. It wore a thick rubber tube around its neck and a small chain, which linked it to the board where it sat.

“So cute.” Marie cried. “Can I hold?”

Antonio handed it to her, chain and all. “Spider monkey,” he said.

Baby spider monkey

She cuddled it close. “Aww. But where…?”

He mimed holding a pistol and aimed off in the distance. When he pulled the imaginary trigger, he said, “Hunter shoot mama. Bang-bang.” He shrugged. “Is orphan.”

I didn’t know if he was trying to entertain us, be funny or simply supplement his poor English skills with the action-packed gestures to clarify the tale, but it got to me. I eyed the rubber tube and the slender, rusty chain. Did this baby miss its mama? Confined to the board by a few short feet of chain, it spent its time in the blistering heat. I hated the round tube. It seemed so cruel to be tugged anywhere by the neck. When I bent over and touched the monkey’s dark, course fur, my fingers brushed against the hot tube. “Poor baby,” I murmured.

Joe appeared at the door waving something. “Mosquito nets.”

Eager to check out the premises, we scrambled into the hut. With the Amazon below us, the thatched-roof hut, the monkey and now, mosquito nets, we immersed ourselves in the adventure.

Mark riffled through his bag. “That reminds me. Joe, we still have to take the malaria pills today.”

I stared. “Malaria pills? Wow. You guys came prepared. What else did you bring?”

Pretty pink pills...

“Pretty pink pills in case anyone has…” Mark lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper and looked around to see if he had everyone’s attention. “…diarrhea. You know the rest—mosquito repellent, sunscreen, first-aid kit, blah-blah. We got all our shots ahead of time.” He patted a side pouch. “Waterproof backpacks, boots and rain gear. Did we overlook anything?”

I had none of those things. Well, how could I know I’d be jungle-bound? “I…you’re…way ahead of me.” Uh-oh, how did I ever think I could just up and go to the Amazon without any advanced prep? Just as quickly as my fears came, they went. Travelers who don’t live in other cultures have to go by what they read in the guidebooks, all of which prepares a traveler for the worst case scenario. I’ll be fine.

I picked up my lightweight canvas army surplus backpack—containing only a few clothes, my toothbrush, sunscreen and a hat—and plopped it onto a cot with the mosquito net already in place. “I claim this bed. Hey, there’s not much light in this hut, is there?”

“You might see better if you took off your sunglasses,” Mark said.

“Very funny. I’m not wearing any.”

Just what we needed—a wise-cracker in the group.

* * *

Apple-bananas - the perfect size
for orphaned baby monkeys 

Monkey screeches woke me up early the next morning. I lifted the canvas that covered the so-called window—a square hole—and saw the monkey trying to climb down from the board. I threw off my light cover and slipped on my sandals. Some very fat, ripe bananas sat on the table so I unpeeled one and popped a bite into my mouth. It tasted faintly of apples. Apple bananas. I’d heard of them. They were the perfect size for baby orphaned monkeys. I grabbed a couple extra and headed outdoors.

The monkey caught onto the banana immediately and grabbed it from my outstretched fingers. Oooh, so clever.

It seemed to appreciate my offering as it plowed the banana into its mouth, chattering as I handed over the second one. With its mouth full, the monkey grasped onto my finger with its own. Even at this early hour, the pale sun projected faint wavy lines in the muggy air. “Come here. You need some shade.” The monkey put its arms around my neck and lay its head on my shoulder. My motherly instinct kicked in as I stroked it protectively. Eventually, I set it down away from the sun.

I wandered over to where Joe and Mark practiced some martial arts moves near the cliff. 

"Hey!" The faint shout came from the water below.

Mark stopped and peered down at the figure. Although a little overweight, Marie exuded a subdued sexiness as she spoke and moved. Joe crowded next to him and looked down. She waved and blew a kiss.

“Hello, my dear,” Joe called and waved back. 

They made me nervous standing so close to the edge of the cliff.  I had to hold myself back from reaching out and ushering them away from the edge of the cliff.  Instead, I said,  "Careful. Don't fall."

Joe nodded.  He retrieved his sturdy stick and snapped his fingers in front of Mark's face a couple of times to get his attention. "Dude, over here!" 

The two began their sparring match again.

Then something a little odd happened. For a moment, they completely disappeared from my line of sight. I looked away and rubbed my eyes.  Then turned to look again. About thirty seconds later, Joe and Mark reappeared, still sparring in slow, methodical movements. I blinked.  The sun must have been in my eyes. I can’t forget my sunglasses today. We’re right on the equator. Of course, the sun is going to blind me. 

* * *

To read more, go to http://amybovaird.com/jungle/

Introducing the Blog behind the Book...

Welcome to my new Fading Light blog! 

The topics on this blog will go along with the chapters in my memoir. But I'll share with you some of the background content that won't go in the book. This first entry takes us halfway around the world to South America, to explore Ecuador's dark and leafy interior jungle--thick with mosquitoes and some queen-sized termites. You'll hear the screeches of monkeys, see the colorful toucan, and hear about the killer ants, all of which Antonio, my guide, points out. Grab your waterproof raincoat because it's the rainy season and the frequent, sudden downpours are merciless. This journey stands out among other travels because something happens to me that I've never experienced in the past. Come meet my small eclectic group of companions as we settle into our rustic hut, at the start of our go-native jungle tour...

A little map to give you an idea how far Misahualli is
from Quito, the capital of Ecuador. The journey to interior jungle
took several hours by taxi to get there. 

I couldn’t contain my excitement and shouted to my companions, “There it is—the Amazon River!”

Wide and curvy, it lay far below the embankment where our crude jungle hut sat, surrounded by clusters of coconut trees and tangled vines. The palm fronds dripped rainwater onto the cool, moist ground. Steam rose in the humid, saturated air. I shivered. I am in the jungle.

Mark smirked. “Technically, it’s the Napo River, a tributary to the Amazon.”

Joe called from inside the hut, “Where’s the toilet?”

Antonio, our guide to the interior jungle, shook his head. “No hay baño.”

“No bathroom,” Mark translated and grunted. “I suppose the jungle’s our toilet.”

“You got it.” Antonio grinned. “You bathe in the river.”

I eyed the steep cliff overlooking the river. How can I be such a chicken-liver? I just have to get down without killing myself.

“I will bathe first tomorrow morning,” offered Marie, the French girl, in the same way she might say, I’ll take the first crack at the bathroom. Her casual declaration struck me odd considering the unusual nature of our “bathtub.”

“I'm sure you can handle it. But if you need any help, I will be more than happy to  assist either of you to the river.” Mark bantered. 

I thought it best to ignore his jibe. 

 He continued, “Amy, how tall are you? Are you tall enough for this ride?”

“Huh? I’m five-one … and a quarter. What ride?”

He laughed and slapped his thigh. “The ride you’re gonna take to the river if you attempt to get there on your own.”

I colored slightly, having let my guard down.  Was I that transparent about being nervous of the hike down? 

***

Okay readers, there's something you need to know about me. I was teaching English in Colombia at this time so I used my holidays and breaks to travel around Colombia or go to other South American countries. At this time, it was toward the end of summer break, so with a few weeks left before the new school term, I thought I'd plan a trip somewhere. With other teachers not yet back I decided to strike out on my own. The two teachers who lived in my apartment had raved about their trip to Ecuador the previous Easter. So I decided to explore that country. Fluent in Spanish, I had no qualms about getting around by myself. I knew I’d meet up with other travelers. The jungle adventure grew out of the following encounter. 

    ***                                   

In Baños, I met two European gals who said they lived in the interior jungle. Students on a six-month study tour through their local university, they were researching the medicinal properties of the plants in the tropical forest.

“It’s very simple life,” the taller of the two emphasized. “We wash our clothes in the Amazon.”

I caught my breath. I almost wanted to wash my clothes in the river—except I couldn’t imagine myself pounding cloth with a rock or heaving it out of the water, wringing it out and laying it flat to dry on the bank. Still, the idea of going native appealed to me. After talking to these travelers, I decided on-the-spot to change my course and explore the jungle myself. Later, I stepped into a hole-in-the-wall travel office and inquired.

“Sí, why not? But no can go alone. You find five persons. Come and pay…” he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together to indicate the money. “…we go.”

Disappointed, I went off in search for more gutsy travelers. A few days later at a crowded vegetable market back in Quito, I met some expatriates around my age. With the Amazon adventure in mind, I convinced them to take a dive into jungle life with me. In their early twenties, Joe and Mark came from San Francisco. Nineteen-year-old Marie came from the French countryside; a lone traveler trekking through Ecuador on a longer trip around South America.

“Oui,” she said when I invited her along on our Amazon expedition.

Now “we” had arrived.

* * * 

To read more, go to http://amybovaird.com/jungle/