Alexia Raidho (or Alex, as she prefers) searches for self and soul as she travels along a literal and cerebral journey.
Through diary entries and fiction writing, Alex reflects upon past accomplishments, exploits, and failures, and speculates whethe...
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A desire to spend time on terra firma, to feel pebbles and foliage beneath my feet has prompted me to moor the boat by a large, rotted, mossy stump. Hopefully, it'll hold. It's been two days, maybe three, since weighing anchor and shoving off from a campamento (I've acquired a few words to add to my personal Spanish dictionary). I've been blessed so far; all people so far met have been kind and generous. Gracías a Díos.
The most strenuous work in this serene South American sanctuary is catching fish and preparing meals, weaving, writing and reading. To reveal the precise location of this idyllic place and the other Edens recently stumbled upon would be unfair. These worlds are still pure and simple, untainted by accelerated progress and the voracity of mankind, and I've no desire to be the one responsible for changing that.
I have no qualms about traveling alone or being "conveniently" lost. When I'm ready, and Destiny lights a trail, I'll find myself amid urban sprawls again. For now, my own company suits me just fine. That's not to say there aren't moments of doubt, vexation or apprehension—such as the time a young scheming couple took me for a ride. Like when Jesus—no, not that one—decided he liked me way too much. And the time I took a very wrong turn.
Faith in guardian angels provides an edge . . . as do strength and defense capabilities provided via boot camp and boxing classes. Holly Holm or Christy Martin I'm not, but I've got a solid left hook. And a switchblade and spear could prove intimidating should a thug or villain cross my path. The switchblade, as an FYI, was purchased after a nasty beating but, to be honest, I'm not comfortable with it and, hopefully, there'll never be an incident where it will be put to use.
I have a rumbly tumbly. Funny. I haven't thought of those words in years. When A.G. was into Barbie and beating up boys, she'd gripe about a "rumbly tumbly" whenever hunger called. It's time to fill mine. I've become pretty adept at foraging and fishing, thanks to people befriended on this journey. I've learned to locate turtle eggs, spear fish, and prepare decent ceviche with seafood at hand. I can even pluck poultry. The not-keen-on-eating-meat part of me takes no pleasure in the chore, but I can't imagine the most carnivorous of folks would revel in it.
Who'd have ever imagined Alex S. Raidho with a thrusting weapon clutched in a determined hand like an Olympic javelin thrower, stealthily pursuing a scaly/spiny meal? A.G. would have laughed uncontrollably. Julie R? She'd probably cheer. Mother would roll those cobalt-blue eyes and sniff with contempt. And what would Al (known as Allende Jimnie to a doting mother) have done? Well, not helped, that's certain. He'd have been more inclined to sit on a flat rock by the water's edge, gaze up at a peacock-blue sky, and expect God (or some pelican perhaps) to drop a fish sandwich, heavy on the mayo, onto his slim lap.
