True Travel Tales by an Insatiable Adventuress

By J.R. Bergstrom

This collection of travel tales describes unexpected surprises that have expanded my thinking. These memories dangle like charms on a bracelet—shiny, unique, and precious. There are stories within the stories, and they reflect many aspects of traveling. They describe high points and low points, sidesplitting humor and tear-jerking tragedy, heartbreaking poverty and mind-boggling wealth, and both delightful and contemptible people. The essence of these tales is true, but some details and names have been altered. All tales are told from a slant based on my experiences and observations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.R. Bergstrom
• Release date: Feb 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524277574

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

The word fernweh (pronounced |Feirn-veyh|) means to have an ache for distant places: the craving for travel.

I have a severe case of fernweh. My mother had it and our oldest daughter has it. It must be a genetic predisposition. I’ve had the good fortune to travel to many places with my husband, with my kids, with friends, with strangers, and sometimes alone. During my travels I enjoy tourist sites and cultural activities, but what really makes my heart sing are recreational adventures that lead to wild beauty. The mention of such places revs up the desire to travel in the same way a triple shot of espresso kick-starts the day. I’ve kayaked, sailed, biked, hiked, and skied thousands of miles and worn out a fair amount of equipment while doing so.

This collection of travel tales describes unexpected surprises that have expanded my thinking. These memories dangle like charms on a bracelet—shiny, unique, and precious. There are stories within the stories, and they reflect many aspects of traveling. They describe high points and low points, sidesplitting humor and tear-jerking tragedy, heartbreaking poverty and mind-boggling wealth, and both delightful and contemptible people. The essence of these tales is true, but some details and names have been altered. All tales are told from a slant based on my experiences and observations.

HEAD TRIPS

Parts of some trips are surreal.

IS THIS YOUR DEAD GUY?

Anna called to chat. Something weird happened today, Mom. When I got home from a cafe a cluster of paramedics were trying to resuscitate a guy who was lying next to the entrance to our apartment building. I didn’t have my key so I called Kilian (Anna’s partner) to bring me his. While I waited, I watched the EMTs use that thing to shock his heart into beating.

A defibrillator.

Yes—that thing, but was too late for him. Then Kilian came with the key. We had errands to run all afternoon and each time we returned to the apartment the dead guy was still there. We had to walk by him. At least he was covered.

Why did they leave him for so long?

I think it’s a formality in France to have an official verify the death before removing the body.

The official must be a busy person.

Anyway, I was reminded of the time you and Nancy came to Paris when I first moved here.

Spring 2009

When Anna moved from Sendai, Japan to Paris she rented a temporary apartment in a residential neighborhood filled with immigrants. I spent a month in Paris to help her make the transition. When our friend Nancy came from Bellingham to visit, we celebrated my birthday.

After gorging ourselves on a feast prepared by Anna, she topped off our wine glasses, and then she brought out an elaborate torte decorated in chocolate swirls purchased from a neighborhood patisserie. Anna and Nancy sang the birthday song to me.

Cheers! said Nancy. We raised our glasses in a toast, and then took sips.

An urgent pounding at the front door startled us.

The three of us looked at one another.

Who could that possibly be? Anna asked.

BAM! BAM! BAM! A man’s voice boomed through the door. "Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!"

I wonder what he wants. I whispered.

BAM! BAM! BAM! Qui est cet homme?

We jumped up from the table. Anna, Nancy, and I knew enough French to try to patch together what he said.

He wants to know if we have a man, Nancy whispered.

BAM! BAM! BAM! S’il vous plait, ouvrir la porte.

Anna looked at us. He wants us to open the door.

No! Nancy and I said at the same time. Wait.

Est-il vôtre ami?

Our friend? Tell him we don’t have any friends, I said. Anna, you talk to him.

Me? You’re my mom! she hissed. You talk to him.

You speak the best French. We’ll stand with you.

I looked for something to protect us and grabbed a large wooden spoon.

The three of us stood together behind the closed door as Anna said loudly: "Oui, Monsieur. Quel est le problem?" (What is the problem?)

"Cet homme. Qui est-il? (This man. Who is he?)

Quoi? Je ne comprends pas? (What? I don’t understand)

Est-il mort?

Did he just say there’s a dead man out there? I asked.

Je ne sais pas de quoi vous parlez. (I do not know what you say.)

Cet homme sur le sol à côté de votre porte. Il ne bouge pas.

I think there’s a man on the floor, and he’s not moving, said Anna.

Ask if he’s dead, said Nancy.

Est-il mort?

"C’est ca que je vous demand." (That is what I’m asking you.)

Anna whispered, I think he’s asking if he’s our dead guy.

Anna, Nancy, and I held hands. I whispered back. Oh my goodness! What do we do?

Nancy looked at Anna. Open the door, but keep the chain locked.

Anna cracked open the door. The three of us stood one above the other to peek out. At the door stood a tall African man dressed in a traditional dashiki in vibrant colors and a head wrap.

Obviously scared, he looked at us with pleading eyes. Next to him was a large mound on the floor covered with a shower curtain. Heavy work boots splayed from beneath the fabric.

"Un moment, Monsieur." Anna closed the door. What should we do?

Call the police. I handed Anna her phone.

Maybe the guy is drunk and passed out, said Nancy.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

I don’t think the man at the door did anything to him, Anna rationalized. He wouldn’t knock on our door to tell us, would he?

I don’t know, said Nancy. Could it be a ruse to get us to open the door?

BAM! BAM! BAM! Mesdames, s’il vous plaît aidez-moi.

He wants us to help him. I’m opening the door. Anna went to the door.

Honey, no!

She ignored me. I’ll be fine, Mom. She stepped into the corridor and Nancy and I followed her.

I held Anna’s arm. Tell him we don’t know the guy on the floor.

Nous ne le connaissons pas. Anna said. Etes-vous sûr qu’il est mort? (We don’t know him. Are you sure he’s dead?)

"Non." The man hesitated before stepping closer to the body. He shouted, Monsieur! Monsieur! "Réveillez-vous. Réveillez-vous." (Wake up. Wake up.) The man on the floor didn’t budge.

Est-ce qu’il respire? (Is he breathing?)

The four of us moved closer to examine the body...or the corpse. We couldn’t detect any movement.

By this time, other apartment dwellers stood on the stairs looking over the railing to see the commotion. Little kids peeked from behind their mothers.

"Je ne sais pas de quoi faire." (I don’t know what to do.) The man in the dashiki looked at us for an answer. We didn’t have one.

I held up the wooden spoon. I’ll poke him—try to wake him up.

Maybe that will agitate him, said Nancy.

Be careful, Mom.

We need to find out if he’s alive. We need to call an ambulance or the police.

Poke him. Be ready to jump back into the apartment if he becomes violent, said Anna.

I poked him a few times with my spoon and as I did I imagined the bathtub scene from the movie Fatal Attraction when Glenn Close thrusts herself upright in a sudden and crazed return from the dead, but that’s not what happened. He didn’t respond. Anna, call for help.

"Je vais appeler une ambulance et la police." Anna said to everybody and with that announcement we heard doors slamming as the spectators rapidly disappeared into their apartments—including the man in the dashiki.

They must be illegal immigrants, Anna said. It’s up to us take care of the problem. We’re here legally.

We slipped back inside the apartment and stood at the door, still whispering, trying to figure out what to do.

Do they use 911 here? Nancy asked.

I don’t know. Try dialing zero. I’ll look for a phonebook.

Anna took out her phone and got through to an operator who then connected her to emergency services. She explained the situation the best she could and gave the address. They’ll be here soon, she told us.

We opened the shutters to look for the ambulance and police.

This is horrible, I said. I wonder if he overdosed or had a heart attack.

Should we do something? Anna asked? I hate leaving him out there.

Let’s be sensible, said Nancy. I mean we need to be safe. If he’s dead, we don’t want to tamper with the evidence, right?

I’m scared. I mean, what if he’s crazy? I said. He’s huge. If he comes to, he could break in. Maybe we should shove some furniture against the door.

Let’s check on him, Nancy peeked out at him, but his position hadn’t changed. Then she shouted in her sweet southern drawl, Monsieur, monsieur! Réveillez-vous. No response.

An edgy twenty minutes passed as we sat inside the apartment tormented by the possible implications of the situation.

Are you sure the police are coming? I asked Anna.

Yes, Mom.

Should we call again?

This is a huge city. Emergencies take longer.

We’re so vulnerable, said Nancy. We’re three woman in a foreign country, foggy-minded from a bottle of wine.

How did he get in the apartment building? I wondered. Somebody must have buzzed him inside the door.

"You know, Mom, I think maybe the door didn’t latch when I came back from the patisserie with the cake."

Well, don’t worry about it. We’ll probably never know. I’m afraid this might turn into a major fiasco like the biking accident that happened in France all those years ago...the lawsuits...the deposition and everything...that took years to sort out. Remember that?

Of course.

This could be worse, I said. Oh my goodness, what if we have to testify in a murder trial! We might be blamed...we might—

Calm down, Mom. Anna rolled her eyes. Some things never change between mothers and daughters.

Maybe you should call the police again, suggested Nancy. It’s been nearly thirty minutes.

Anna called again, but the dispatcher told her to be patient. We waited, wavering between wanting to help the man and fearing him.

Well, I’m going to finish my glass of wine, I said.

I want to be clear thinking when I talk to the police, said Anna. I need to concentrate on understanding and speaking French. I don’t think wine will help me.

This is France. Isn’t there a recommended daily allowance? I asked. I don’t think they’ll care that we’ve been drinking wine.

Probably not, said Nancy. She cracked open the door to look at the man. He hadn’t budged.

Forty-five minutes passed before we heard the bellowing hee-haw-hee-haw hee-haw sirens. The emergency vehicles screeched to a halt outside the apartment. A haze of red and blue lights bounced off the canyon walls of apartment buildings and outlined three officers who then pounded on the entrance to the complex.

Anna shouted out the window, "Entrez-vous." She buzzed them in, and then we met them outside the door next to the body. The police looked at the mound on the floor and practically yawned when Anna talked to them. We didn’t need to understand the language to understand their attitude—clearly in their minds we were pampered, hysterical American women who were lightweight drinkers and were overly concerned about the neighborhood’s riffraff.

The cops irritated me and I could read the same attitude in Anna and Nancy’s eyes. Instinctively we knew to be polite and cooperative—the power of their authority added another dimension of fear to the bizarre situation.

Anna carefully left out mentioning the other tenants’ involvement. Having been raised among leftist thinkers who marched in protest against senseless invasions in other countries in the name of freedom and peace, she cares deeply about equality and oppression and racism. With an International Studies and a master’s degree in film, she travels extensively, works with refugees, and she is a champion and an empathizer for those seeking asylum away from the injustices on their home countries. I am a proud mother.

One officer shouted at the man under the shower curtain and shook him until he stirred a bit and moaned slightly.

Thank goodness he’s alive, I said.

Finally, he came to from a deep coma-like sleep and sat up blinking his eye in an inebriated stupor. Two officers helped him up and one kept her hand on her gun as they escorted the interloper outside into the dark spitting rain.

The cops, apparently unconcerned about the fate of the drunken man or taking a statement from us, left to fight bigger crimes.

Anna looked at me. That’s it? They kick him out into the rain? They won’t take him to a shelter or someplace?"

This is horrible, said Nancy.

He could have stayed there if we’d known he was sleeping off a bender, said Anna.

But we didn’t know, I said. We thought he might be dead or crazy.

Now I feel like a wine swilling, heartless, aristocratic bitch.

We might be wine swilling, but we are not heartless aristocrats, said Nancy. Life is unbelievably cruel sometimes.

In many ways women traveling in foreign countries can be as vulnerable as immigrants. Survival is inherent and that has nothing to do with race, sex, or privilege...it’s simply a part of being human. You might be an adult, but I am still your mother bear. My first instinct will always be to protect you—whether you like it or not.

I’m glad you had your mighty spoon to protect us, Mom. I felt really safe.

We had a good laugh.

Glad that’s over. OK, Mom, let us eat cake.

OK, Marie Antoinette, I said.

I looked at Nancy and Anna and read the same attitude in their eyes—our festive mood had dimmed considerably.

That was a buzz kill, Anna said. And a waste of good wine.

Not a great way to end a birthday party, said Nancy. I’ll make some tea.

Let us eat cake tomorrow. Happy birthday, Mom.

YEH MON

Massive jowly dogs, led by armed, uniformed authority figures, slopped through the rain-drenched field sniffing and slobbering along the parked cars in each row.

Our driver Leonard explained to us while searching for a place to park, They are looking for weapons, drugs, and alcohol.

A pang of fear swept through me.

It is a clean concert, Leonard continued while he searched for a spot to park. The Rastafarian way of life does not allow meat to be eaten so the food is vegetarian. They have respect for all living things. He pulled into a spot and killed the engine. The entrance to the festival looked dark and ticket booths shut down.

Mark looked at him. The doors aren’t opened yet. It’s 6:30. The website said the music started at noon.

Yeh mon, welcome to Jamaica. Things are not the same as your country. Leonard smiled. This rain is passing. We can wait in the car. The gates will open soon.

When the rain subsided, Leonard, Mark and I, and our travel mates Dennis, Sue, got out of the car. The waft of ganja clouded the parking lot.

I raised my eyebrows to Leonard. I thought this was a clean concert.

"It’s clean except for ganja. Ganja is the Rastafarian way, you know?"

"Is ganja legal in Jamaica?"

"No, not at all. But authorities ignore smoking if bribes are honored and unwritten rules are followed. This is a common system throughout the world, you know. Ganja crops are good for Jamaica’s economy."

I’d rather be in a crowd of stoners than a crowd of drunks with guns.

This is true. Leonard agreed.

Where I’m from marijuana recently became legal.

He smiled. That will put many growers out of business.

Yes, the government finally woke up to the profiteering involved with legalizing marijuana.

The gates have opened. I am going to find my friends. I will find you inside later. Leonard left.

We lined up with the other attendees to buy tickets for this annual event, the Rebel Salute 2014. Once inside, we found food booths offering an array Jamaican cuisine. We selected lobster bisque, a pile of callaloo (a spinach dish), akee (a vegetable), and coconut/vegetable curry with rice, and then we found a picnic table to sit at while we shared samples of the food. While we ate, the ever-present waft of weed permeated the air.

Afterwards, while waiting for the music to start, more sheets of rain flushed the crowd to seek refuge under makeshift tarps in the surrounding vendors’ booths. Mark, Dennis, Sue, and I crammed together with hordes of devotees who kindly made room for us.

A man next to us asked, Frah wha pawt yuh deh? He dressed in Rastafarian colors: red jeans, green high top sneakers, a sharkskin gold-colored blazer lined with black lapels over a black tee shirt splayed with a large green silhouette of a ganja leaf. A collection of gold-chained pendants draped around his neck and on his head he wore an oversized dreadie tam crocheted in geometric shapes of the same vibrant colors. His ensemble pulled together into an artistic flair. Dreadlocks of different lengths frizzed and coiled down his back—some of them reaching beyond his knees.

Pardon me? Mark replied.

Frah wha pawt yuh deh? Where you from, mon?

The United States. Washington.

Where da President Obama live?

No, the state. Near Seattle.

You have amazing dreadlocks. I said to the Rasta man. His face widened in a smile that framed and accentuated rows of white teeth.

Tanks. He laughed with his entire body and as he did his dreads bobbed and pendants clanged. He held up his fist to me indicating he wanted me to do the same, so I did. We bumped and slapped and grasped fingers and fumbled through a complicated Rasta handshake. In Jamaican patois that I barely understood, he explained the meaning of each gesture ending with, Reespek, Madda.

Did he just call me Mother?

Ya know da Rasta way, Madda?

Just a bit.

Lemme ‘splain. De colors, dey important. De black is for Africa. De red is for the blood of all living tings in the world. De yellow is for all of da treasures in da world. De green is for da earth dat people walk on. Love, dis de mos’ importan’ ting. We all one people, dat’s true, yeh Madda?

I nodded in agreement.

My new friend turned to Dennis. Welcome to Jamaica, mon. He handed Dennis a joint.

Oh, gee...uh, thank you.

That be one tousand dollars.

No thanks. Dennis gave it back to the Rasta.

Dat be only ten American dollars.

No. You offered it to me as a gift.

The Rasta man snatched his gift, scowled, and then turned away.

Welcome to Jamaica indeed, I whispered to Dennis. "I guess we made a cultural faux pas."

I guess so.

Friendly, angry, entitled, I thought, and then immediately wondered if these thoughts were of a racist nature, which of course, is a horrible thought for a liberal idealist who tries to live by the principles of promoting peace and love and equality for the entire human race. I am a protégé of the nobler values of the flower child generation, and I am ashamed of the blight of slavery once allowed in our country. I had the urge to apologize to Rasta man for what my ancestors did to his ancestors—many of them who had escaped from slavery to live freely in Jamaica. My white girl guilt follows me wherever I go.

The great spigots in the sky switched off as quickly as they’d switched on, and the dampened crowd emerged from under the covers into the tropical balm. We ambled through the open field toward the stage to stake a territorial claim and to prepare for an evening of shuck and jive and dance. Good music can be a unifying force and can turn skeptics into believers of a greater mystical entity.

It was now 9:00 p.m. A full moon and stars shone through the misty clouds and the sounds of the surf slapped the coastline while we waited for the music to begin. Still weary from being flung partway across the world, dropped onto this tropical island, and two days of travel, we stayed toward the back of the crowd knowing we’d never last until sunrise the following morning when the last and the best of the bands finished their sets. This immersion into the Jamaican culture and listening to a slew of lesser-known reggae musicians’ opening acts provided plenty of mindboggling entertainment for us.

Spectators meandered among ambulant vendors walking throughout the venue selling umbrellas, pendants, cooked sweet potatoes, tee-shirts, bananas, coconuts, plastic horns, flags, hats, plastic rain covers, peanuts, CDs, lollipops, chairs, gum—a mishmash of wares stacked neatly on heads; some displays lit up with party lights. Others walked before us carrying large bouquets of dried flowers waving them in our faces...trying to make a sale. It took me a while to realize these flowers were fat buds from pot plants. This scene, edgy and intriguing, was way beyond our normal.

Many vendors pushed heavy rustic machines through the crowd. They had Seussian quality about them—looking like a cross between a homemade go-cart and a lawnmower made from plywood. Some had a pushcart style and others had a small steering wheel to maneuver the apparatuses. Dented, rusted metal barrels or metal boxes blew steam upward from a pipe making shrill whistling sounds in wailing discordant pitches. Were they espresso machines? Were they vaporizers? I would not have been surprised if The Cat in The Hat walked hand-in-hand with The Sneetches among this gathering of Rastas, Jamaicans, a dozen or so white folks, and a few Asians. The spectacle reminded me of barn parties and elaborate costume parades hosted by our friends on Halloween.

The four of us tried to look cool and act worldly and be open-minded; looking as though we blended in...as though we knew exactly was happening...as though we hadn’t arrived days earlier from the snow-covered foothills of the Cascade Mountain Range in the state of Washington, U.S.A.—the land of the free, home of the brave.

At last the stage lit up. A Rebel Salute logo in Rasta colors flashed on a large LCD screen and lasers beamed and blinked and zinged a lightshow outward and upward across the horizon and sky. In a roar of appreciation the crowd waved flags and blew on horns as good cheer rippled out and beyond. Canned music calmed the crowd as Bob Marley’s voice sang his classic tune "Is This Love?

Still, we waited for the first band to begin.

Around 10:00 p.m., flamboyant musicians appeared on stage.

The lead singer boomed into the microphone, Welcome sistren and breddas to Rebel Salute 2014! An explosion of plastic horns squawked and flags waved from the audience to encourage the start of the show. Finally, live music blasted and thrummed a beat reminiscent of Bob Marley’s style—although it sounded more pop than reggae. The strut and showmanship of the