A Modern Quest for an Ancient Remedy....
If you enjoy a fast-paced read, Five Weeks in the Amazon is the book for you. It's an honest story filled with peaks of humor and valleys of despair. Author Sean Michael Hayes has written a book that many wou...
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TUESDAY, OCT. 30
9am, Angel Hostel, Miraflores district of Lima, Peru
My bags were heavy and the immigration officer scowled at me when I shifted my weight. When he asked me how long I was planning to stay in Peru, I told him five weeks. Satisfied with my response, he slammed a stamp into my passport, handed it back to me, and said, "Welcome to my country."
When I walked outside to smoke a cigarette, a police dog came and sniffed my leg, then continued to patrol the airport. I was unsure what to do next.
Luckily, standing outside an airport is one of the few social situations where being a smoker is a benefit. Rather than stress out inside, I can enjoy the opportunity to stand back from it all, leaning against the wall enjoying a fine American cigarette. I'm casual, cool, without a care in the world—at least, that's how I want to appear. Pathetic, I know.
Taxi drivers shouted English phrases to anyone who looked like me, a tourist. 'Taxi,' 'Cheap hotel,' 'Good price,' they called. In a kind yet stern way, I denied their initial offers. It would be foolish to rush into a transaction with the first driver who approached me. I made that mistake a few months earlier in Prague. It was my own fault. When I got off the plane, I assumed I could trust the taxi drivers. Halfway through our drive, I wasn't sure whether to laugh or get angry when I saw the meter spinning faster than it should have been. I ended up getting an overpriced and late-night street tour of where the hookers worked. Cute Eastern European girls, but not my thing.
I stepped away from the wall, entering the swarms of people, and felt a tinge of hesitation. Am I excited? I thought. Am I nervous? Is there a difference between the two?
"Necessita un taxi?" A short, smartly-dressed, and old-faced man walked up and asked me. I could only understand the word 'taxi.'
This was day one of my self-taught, "learn by doing," Spanish program. I devised this strategy to save me time and effort. I wanted to make learning Spanish more fun than when I studied French in school, so rather than waste my time with textbooks, I was going to learn by doing.
"Habblasse English?" I sputtered pathetically.
He grinned, and his coffee-colored cheeks folded into an accordion of skin. The color of his face contrasted greatly with his bright teeth and his wrinkles reminded me of the ones my dad has. You only get wrinkles like that when you've spent the better part of your life smiling.
"No hablo Ingles, pero no es necesario," he said. Again, I barely understood what he said, but it was obvious I needed a ride, he had a taxi, and we just had a friendly exchange. I took the final drag off my cigarette and flicked it from between my fingers onto the curb.
"Ok," I said, and reached for my bags.
"No, no," he said as he stepped forward and pushed me aside with a gentle hand. He prepared himself to lift my big pack, the one I call "Big Red," and I stepped back. It would have been easy for me to carry both of my bags, I thought as he prepared himself to lift Big Red. He was so eager to help, though, I thought it would be rude to deny him.
