Paula - Meanderings

Earthquake! Terremoto!

February 27, 2010 at approximately 3:35 a.m. the bed rocks. I wake up. I put my hand out to Bert: “Did you….” The walls shift to the right. The bed rolls …”feel that?”

Bert leaps straight from sleep and grabs the 21 inch T.V. from its stand. It is as if it was only a toy.

“It’s an earthquake,” I scream. He slams down the T.V. on the bed and races into the living room.

The gut clenches. Fear is a building that moves and shakes and trembles and floors that undulate. We are on the topmost floor, the sixth. The ceiling seems to be moving in concert with the walls. That seems good, somehow.

Pure terror grips me and I know viscerally that we will die. Extraneous thoughts intervene: Wills are made and our friend Maureen, knows that if something happens to us, to give the envelope to Harry. Oh son, oh darling, your parents are going to die here in Santiago. We love you. We love everybody!

Crash. Sounds of breaking glass. Bert cannot find his footing as the floor does another dip and shimmies as it falls back in place. He bellows: “We have to get out.” There is a complete discrepancy of feet as the floor rises, falls, dips and jitterbugs in a danse macabre. More sounds. This time an eerie cacophony as the entire building screeches in protest. The curtains race to the left of the track then race back. The lights go out! Another crash! Terror made more terrible in the darkness. There is bewilderment as the building seems to belch while steel and concrete rolled then shifted and I know it will crack wide open. Another heave. A waltz of death. How long can this last? A lull, but no peace nor release from fear.

Shouts. The security guard is knocking on doors. Terremoto! “Get out, get out”. We open the door and he screams at Bert: “Put on your pants”. It is all in Spanish.

“What is he saying?” Bert asks.

“He says you are to put on your pants and we are to leave the building”.

“I told you we should get out. Come on.”

Confusion. Is this a dream? I seem to watch myself put on a robe. I want to go back to bed but Bert grabs my hand. We get to the door and use the light from my cell-phone to go down six flights of stairs.

People are milling about. Some are crying, some are swearing never to go back indoors, all are bewildered and frightened. Pandemonium reigns. We go across the street to the hotel lobby to look for three Canadians we met at breakfast.

“Go outside!” is the shouted instruction. We obey. “There they are”! Our new best friends were looking for us as we were looking for them. Jim is off to the left near an unoccupied home which is said to belong to the Allende family. Why? He thinks it is low enough so when it falls he will not be under it! We join him. Wife is nowhere to be seen. We ask for her. Jim tells how she wanted to be properly dressed. Then even as he panicked she declared she had to brush her teeth. He told her to go ahead but when they came for him to identify the pieces and asked him what happened he would just tell them: “She had to brush her teeth”.

Then mother in that ‘Mother’voice that was a mixture of love, fear and exasperation for a recalcitrant child said: “Can you imagine, as I rushed towards the stairs I saw her brushing her teeth!” We roar with laughter, the merriment heightened to near hysteria fueled by the recent panic and still present fear. Linda appears. Teeth brushed, dressed, clutching her toothbrush and cosmetic bag.

I hear one young woman telling her husband in no uncertain terms that she is not returning to the apartment. When he tells her she had to return she says: “After what just happened I do not have to do anything I don’t want to ever again”! It sounds funnier in Spanish.

Still no lights. Sound of a bullhorn. Providencia (our community) Security is giving information about first aid stations, social service help, medications as needed and to watch out for thieves and vandalism. Amazing as this is within a about 15 minutes of the earthquake. We are outside. We are told to wait for at least two hours before going back into the building.

We mill about, we talk and decide we could go back even though it is only one and a half hours since the big quake. There are no strangers tonight, only people sharing a traumatic event. I look around and observe that people wear the weirdest things to bed or dress in a most amazing assortment when panic strikes. Then I look at myself. I am in a very nice area of Santiago, on the street, in a Chinese silk robe over a cotton nightgown, two different shoes on my feet and oh my goodness, no bra. Bert who combs his hair at least fifty times a day has a lock falling over his eyebrows and tufts of hair at the back that looks like a backwards cock’s comb, kitty corner to his left ear.

We go back to the apartment still in the dark. There are constant tremors. No T.V., no lights, no water. At 5:05 a.m. the lights flicker on and then off again. Fear makes you do strange things. I know there is broken glass and in fact I think all the dishes and glassware must be lying broken on the floor, but Bert gets busy in the kitchen. I plead with him to come back to the bedroom where things are all in their places except the T.V. which is askew at the foot of the bed where Bert dropped it.

Bert is reporting from the kitchen: “There’s no glass on the floor. Oh, here is a tomato” “Ah! I’ve found three apples.” “There is another tomato and the plantain and a banana…….”. All this he is doing in the dark crawling on all fours. He says he has a headache and he is giving me one as I remember the terrible crashes I heard. I think he is not going to die under a heap of rubble but from loss of blood when he steps in the broken glass. It is unreal.

Finally at 6:15 a.m. the lights come on, the water is on and the living room T.V. comes on. The earthquake is the news wherever you look. This is the ultimate breaking news. I reconnect the bedroom T.V. after my personal Superman puts it back on the stand and now we have both televisions going. Bert is right, the crashing sounds were two wine bottles on the living room bar falling and breaking, some bottles and the flower arrangement falling in our bathroom and the pots and pans crashing against each other as the building rocked and rolled. Everything else is intact. I can hardly believe it as I notice the wall to wall mirror in the bathroom is totally whole. Not a crack in it.

It is now 7:30 a.m. so we decide to get properly dressed for the day. The building does a shake, rattle and roll and Bert shouts: “Oh *#^! It’s another one. Don‘t tell me I have to walk down and up those stairs again!” I am thinking I need to put on a bra. It is a big aftershock. We shower and dress.

Our Brazilian friend got through at 8.a.m. He has been trying to reach us. Finally his cell phone is working. He tells us how he and his wife, were terrified and are still shaking. We have a hysterical laughing fit as he tells of a co-worker living in his building who ran down 15 flights of stairs, scaled two walls, leapt over a fence, ran around two swimming pools only to get to the front lobby and realize he had left his keys in the apartment and he was naked except for very tight, tiny briefs. He was the comic relief for the crowded foyer as they opened the door for him. Then there were the four who were driving around Santiago and when asked where they were going said: “We don’t know. We just want to go home to Brazil”!

Bert, a Chilean, a Peruvian and I, all guests, acted as restaurant crew, setting out trays of food as the chef fills them and clearing the dishes. The restaurant staff is en route trying to get to work using any means available. They do get in and in no time have everyone settled and eating, all of us extraordinarily grateful to be doing that so very normal, everyday thing – having breakfast. There are no strangers here. Only friends.

I feel the earth shake. The hotel receptionist calls it a tremor. I look at her with sarcasm dripping from every pore. Soon comes a news report that there has just been a 5.6 aftershock. I look at the receptionist with an “I told you so” look. I am to learn that I have become a human seismograph. I feel every tremor, every aftershock. I feel the slightest movement of the earth! I am to learn that there were 17 tremors in the first 24 hours but I felt 21. My number is the correct one, I am positive.

I breathe. I am breathing. Life is good!

A few facts

The epicenter was in Central Chile approximately 100 Kms south of Santiago

It was measured at 8.8 on that famous Richter Scale (Hah! More like 8000 on my scale)

Sadly, approximately 500 died most near the epicenter.

The tsunami warnings were issued but did not turn out to be as devastating as feared.

Massive infrastructure damage of bridges, overpasses and highways. The airport was closed.

It was felt as far away as Buenos Aires and Sao Paula (Poor those engineers fleeing to Brazil). It lasted approximately 3 minutes. Eternity is three minutes long. Who knew?

The meander: I have a great admiration for President Michele Bachelet. Within half an hour of the earthquake she was helping to staff the Central Emergency Post, calling for calm, being a leader and reassuring her people. Chile has one of the highest anti earthquake building codes in the world. Our friend the engineering expert tried to explain how the buildings are on rollers or some such thing. Some things you do not need to know, right? Oh, yes. In 2011 we spent the winter in Chile again.

Gratitude art

Gratitude Art.

I cannot draw to save my life. Even my stick figures look rather strange. It is so bad that in high school when it was discovered that Latin was a particular challenge I was encouraged to take art as an alternative. I was happy. How difficult could that be? Also I liked art from a spectator’s point of view. Three weeks into the artistic experiment I was back to Latin with a note which indicated that I cannot be as bad at Latin as I am at art.

I am glad I conquered Latin. However, I still loved art enough to do some art appreciation courses later on. Also, I know without a doubt that I am vital to art and artists. My reasoning is as follows: If everyone was an artist who would appreciate the art? I am definitely in the art appreciation camp. I revere those who can and am first in line to show appreciation.

Fast forward many years and as a result of Alzheimer’s my art has been hung in an art gallery. I can claim to be a curated and hung artist. Will wonders never cease?

I do know my limitations but when it comes to my Bert there are no limits so off I went gallantly with him to art therapy. It was interesting to attend as it was held in a historical home and museum. After the usual tour and tea the project was to create a work that illustrated gratitude, or something for which we were grateful. I decided I would help Bert with his idea and interpretation rather than show my ineptitude. That was not to be. I was told everyone had to produce something.

Bert did not need my help. In no time he had drawn something that looked like a house with a figure in it. He told our wonderful art therapist that it was me at home. He told her that meeting me was the best thing that ever happened to him. Awhh. That’s my Bert.

However, remember I cannot draw period, so I could not return the compliment. I went the modernist route to create a ‘thought’. Yes!

We had paints, canvas, dowels, string, shiny buttons, sequins. My creation was a wall hanging using mixed media. I used a pretty crystal studded button and if you look carefully the squiggly thingie in the middle is embellished with sequins. Yes, even I have trouble with an adequate description of this masterpiece.

So here it is followed by the ‘artist’s note’.

My Gratitude Hanger.

This represents a positive attitude and sunny disposition. The colours are bright, happy, and sunny with sparkly embellishments to represent certain intense moments of happiness.

Friends and family have spoken of my happy outlook. Many have told me that when they are feeling down they call me and know that they will have a brighter outlook afterwards.

Look and you will and see the tears, but they are dominated even overwhelmed by HAPPY and reach upwards to become the streamer of a kite? A bird? Wings?

It was in middle age that I finally realized that this quality so obvious to the people I meet was a wonderful gift. Now I recognize that as a fact and I am immensely GRATEFUL!

Come on stop laughing! It’s not that awful. Maybe it is. When I proudly presented it together with the catalogue, which also featured my work and photographs of the exhibit to our son, he looked at it made a noise that sounded like “Huh!” and said: “Mom, you are a better writer than artist”.

OK, I’ll take that! “Huh!” Everybody is a critic. “Huh!”

The Meander: Look at my big grin and the proud stance of my Bert. Priceless!

Elvis is alive and well…

Elvis is alive and well and living in Israel. At least he was on Monday September 4, 1989.

We were excited to be going on this Mediterranean cruise as we were visiting both Egypt and Israel for the first time. We met up with Elvis on the road to Jerusalem. Our ship was docked in the Port of Ashdod and we had to get up very early as the tour we booked took in both Bethlehem and Jerusalem. We were in for a long and full day.

Security was tight and each of the tour buses was accompanied by two Israeli soldiers carrying machine guns. A few guests said they were AK 47 but since I have no interest whatsoever in guns they could have told me they were medieval slingshots and I would have just nodded. However, the serious demeanor of the guards and the easy handling of their weapons inspired either assurance that we were in good hands or increased our trepidation. Take your pick.

Bert and I were on Bus #4. We had a knowledgeable guide, a most convivial driver and the regulation two security guards on board. We did not find the road to Jerusalem from the Port of Ashdod particularly scenic. To pass the time we started a sing-a-long and everyone was shouting out their favourite song as we all joined in the singing. About forty minutes into the trip our guide announced we would be stopping at a cafe for a washroom break, coffee or soft drink and to stretch our legs before we resumed the journey into Jerusalem.

Soon we were turning into a parking lot. We got down from the bus. Elvis Presley greeted us at the cafe. No kidding. There was a life sized cardboard cut out of Elvis at the entrance and the human version, the owner of the establishment, was right behind with a welcome complete with the voice, dress and mannerisms of Elvis. He had a big smile, flicked an errant curl from his pompadour and in an uncanny imitation of Elvis said: “ Are you surprised?” Talk about an understatement.

The walls, the roof, the salt and pepper shakers, the plates, the tables, the chairs, the counter, everything channeled Elvis. There were Elvis glasses, place mats, coasters, souvenirs, recordings. None of us had ever seen so much Elvis paraphernalia in one place. To enhance the Elvis ambiance, heaven help us, the juke-box played only Elvis hits.

Only two young and beautiful Israeli women in army fatigues seated near us did not have an Elvis theme. Bert, being Bert latched on to them to find some variety or distraction from the dominant motif, I supposed. He began talking to them asking many questions, wondering where they lived to be in that cafe in the middle of the road in such a nondescript place. He asked their names. He was voluble and they answered not one word. They just sat, looked at us, the bus and around the cafe. Bert decided that they must not be able to speak English. That did not deter him. He told them they were beautiful in at least seven languages. He told them he too had to do military service in The Netherlands. No response.

Our guide was smiling as she called us back to the bus. We stood, and so did the two women. Bert’s mouth opened and it took a minute or two for his jaw to come back up from the floor. Now he was the mute one. All of his seven languages had deserted him. The two women had pushed aside the table and chairs and there, ready for any contingency, were their weapons. We gave a collective gasp. One of them approached Bert, smiled at him and in perfect English said:”See, we are here to protect you. We are on the job. We hope you have a wonderful tour and a great time in our country, and by the way we love you too.”

The Meander: We have been to Israel four more times and each time this Elvis interlude with the two beautiful Sabras coupled with Bert’s loss of speech comes back to me. A moment like this is one of the joys of travel.

Note: Elvis died on August 16, 1977

Chinese to me or a good read.

In Do Not Say We Have Nothing by Madeleine Thien, the 2016 Giller Prize winner there is a paragraph about the Chinese dictionary explaining how words are formed and get their meanings. It says that in Chinese there is a ‘root’ word or ‘radical’ that becomes the building block for other words. As example, a certain character means gate but it is also a building block. Place the character that is ‘sun’ or ‘light’ to shine through the gate and the new combined character becomes ‘space’. If the character for horse is placed inside the gate, then it changes to ‘ambush’. I paused as I looked at the drawn character and my mind immediately segued into the Trojan horse story perhaps the greatest ambush in literature.

The stream of thought did not stop there as I then remembered the great Canadian scholar Northrup Frye who taught English Literature at the University of Toronto. His classes in criticism were always full and his book The Educated Imagination was a standard text. I remembered listening to him and forgetting to take notes. He posits that literature encompasses or has its roots in the ancient myths and legends, the Bible and the hopes and dreams of all humanity.

Sitting in awe of erudition had happened before. Professor Love, whose passion for English Literature was displayed in every class made me know I had been right in choosing to follow my own love of literature as my chosen field of study in preparation for my career in Librarianship. When I took his class, there were another five more years yawning until I finished graduate school but with enthusiastic anticipation the light towards that end shone big, bold and bright.

Then there was Professor Allen who introduced Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities in the first class of the semester. He began the lecture by analyzing the very first paragraph. The entire class was spellbound as he laid out the whole story, including the historical context, the social impact, the record of an entire era by just analyzing that one paragraph. When he said: “Now next week…” we all came out of a collective trance, looked at the clock and realized that the class was over. Two hours had sped by. My friend Kay looked at me and in unison we exclaimed: “My God”! It was both in awe and in the fervent hope that he would not expect such erudition from us come exam time. It was the beginning of what for us could be the best of times or the worst of times.

In Thien’s novel it was the worst of times and the best of times held together by what I consider a very important character: Music. Music was the ultimate communicator, historian, reporter and refrain. It raged, it soared and was the glue cementing lives and generations. It was both conqueror and the vanquished yet always providing solace within the chaos.

The Meander: I knew I would enjoy reading the book. Reading literature brings all the world to you. It not only entertains but will send you to places of stored memories, to the past, to joy, to sorrow, to now, to the future and to think.

Los Cararoles: The journey in pictures

During our winter stays in Chile we would invite friends to come and stay with us. I am perhaps the world’s worst photographer but thanks to my friend, June, I can display a few photographs of the journey.

This does look like the trails of a snail – Los Caracoles!

Construction happens. Seems to be on-going and necessary too. The sign reads: Welcome to the Republic of Chile.

The lovely Mendoza River meandering beside the highway.

Snow capped mountain in the Andes. Breathtaking scenery all the way.

Yes we go through tunnels and tunnel-like structures that are specially built to allow rain water and melting snow to escape. Thank goodness for that!

June reminded me of the scream I let out at the bus driver as he was attempting to overtake another vehicle on a switchback. In fact, it was not an attempt. He did, but I did not see it as my eyes were tightly closed. You tell me. Is this a good place to overtake another vehicle?

I remember writing after our first Andean crossing that going over the Andes was a great adventure that you do only once in a lifetime. Well I lied, because this journey with June was the fourth. On one prior crossing with our friend Mary Lou, there was some excitement as we headed towards Los Caracoles, those switchbacks. All of a sudden there was great hullabaloo as people on the right gesticulated and shouted ‘Esta Abierto’! ‘It’s open’ and we found out that as the bus took a turn, the compartment with the suitcases had opened and a suitcase had fallen out. We turned around and there was a battered and broken suitcase with contents spilling over the road. The driver was relieved that it was one of theirs and not belonging to a passenger!

The scariest part? Turning around on a postage stamp sized lay-by overlooking a fearsome gorge with a swift flowing river at the bottom.

The Meander: I have not crossed the Andes in Winter. That will not happen. Yet travel allows you to dare. To attempt the improbable. To face your fears.

Los Caracoles here we come

The intrepid ones have crossed the Andes by bus! What an adventure. These are not hills. How to describe them? Majestic? Absolutely! Stupendous? Sure. Verdant? Not on this Chilean side. They are so bare in places you can see the seams of minerals that abound in them, beautiful in their own way.

We watched the birth of rivers from the snow capped mountain peaks become rushing white waters that morph into dirt coloured roaring rivers carving their way through the crags and fissures of the mighty Andes. The views are magnificent with numerous waterfalls, huge craggy outcrops bereft of sediment, and snow capped vistas so close you think you can touch them.

We were on our way from Santiago, Chile to Mendoza, a city in the Andes in Argentina. This mountain pass called the Paso Los Libertadores climbs through the Andes to an elevation of approximately 10, 500 feet to a plateau where sits the Customs and Immigration centre at the Chilean/Argentinean border. We had left Santiago where the temperature was 28C nearly four hours prior and now it is 15C. That is fine. Food is scarce, snacks only. That’s fine too. The line at Passport Control is long as there are six buses ahead of ours and you must first officially exit Chile then join another line about twenty paces to the right for official entry into Argentina. This is frustrating but you remain calm as you can’t do anything about it in any case. Also, it gives your stomach some time to settle as it is the getting to this point that is troublesome, which is the understatement of any year.

Before you can get to this border you would have travelled through a section of this main road called Los Caracoles, the snails. This road has been designated one of the most winding roads in the world. If you should see it from an airplane it would resemble the coils of a refrigerator. The hairpin turns turn on themselves. It is a hair- raising journey.

I am not sure what the signs that indicate the number of the curve you are negotiating are supposed to do. Will you need to tell a friend to meet you at curve number eight up the Andes Mountain? Are they to tell you how far you have come? That may be a possibility except I am convinced that the curve counters cannot count. I was getting dizzy as we climbed and I was certain we had negotiated at least a few thousand curves when I looked out the window and saw a sign reading ‘curva 21’, curve 21. Impossible! Where did they begin their count? “Those are just Los Caracoles”. So they say. Even more harrowing is the fact that there are no guardrails. I found I was drawing myself up whenever another vehicle approached, as if that could help. Bert, he who is afraid of heights, kept his eyes closed while I prayed.

After three days in Mendoza it was back on the bus. I would like to tell you it was easier. Not at all. The Argentinean side of the mountain is quite different from the Chilean side. The road meanders beside the Mendoza River and there are grape arbours, farms and many sightings of old abandoned mines. It is a nice slow climb. However, this is just the calm before the storm as you have to face the downward journey to Santiago.

If you are unfortunate enough to be sitting on the right side of the bus you are treated to seeing the front actually hanging over the edge of the mountain as you hope that the wheels will remain on the road. Take a peak downward and you see a convoy of snails, trucks, that is, snaking down. Their cabs are also over the cliffs as they make the turns. Breathe, just breathe.

We have spent some winters in Chile and have dared to do this round trip journey five times. It is still terrifying.

The Meander: At the border, I noticed many of us were looking at the seven meter high bronze statue of Christ the Redeemer of the Andes while others looked back towards Aconcagua, the highest mountain in the Western and Southern hemispheres. It seemed as if we were suspended between heaven and earth but I did not know which was which.

WWWW means Wonderful, Wild and Wacky Wednesdays

Wednesday mornings are wonderful. We laugh. It is one big inside joke for ten people.

In 2014 my husband was diagnosed with Dementia. I was given a host of print resources, contact information for various support agencies and groups. I contacted the local chapter of the Alzheimer’s Society. I got more information and schedules for upcoming seminars that could prove useful. It all seemed overwhelming but I knew this disease was not to be taken lightly, so I just decided to take things slowly as I learned and raged against the unfairness of it all.

We were told of a new programme called Minds in Motion. Funding had been secured for an eight week session every Wednesday morning from 10 a.m. to 12 noon. The first hour would consist of gentle exercise, mostly while seated and the second hour was for socializing. There would be games, puzzles, talking, telling our own stories. Minds in Motion is a direct response to the proven scientific fact that social interaction and exercise is vital for dementia patients to help them to keep their brains and bodies functioning for as long as possible. In fact that is a requirement for everyone. Minds in Motion is a programme for both caregivers and patients. Perfect.

I signed on, and so did 12 other couples. Minds in Motion was such a success, the only negative feedback was that we needed more sessions.

Minds in Motion created a community. As another series drew to a close we wanted some continuity. We had found a common ground and wanted to stay in touch. One suggested we all go to lunch after the last session. We did and at lunch we spoke about how valuable the sessions were and hoped they would continue. Another wondered if we could meet for coffee on Wednesday mornings since we already had that time reserved for Alzheimer’s activities. There was general agreement. It would be purely voluntary. Anyone who wanted to would meet at a nearby coffee shop on Wednesday mornings.

Five couples showed up. Thus was born WWWW Wonderful, Wild and Wacky Wednesdays. This day is sacrosanct. Wednesday is reserved for our couples activity, either Minds in Motion or coffee time and only missed for priorities such as illness, medical appointments and laboratory tests. It is a lifeline in a world turned upside down, a bridge between our two worlds, the real and the one known as Alzheimer’s world. It is my lifeline. Wednesday mornings make the insane, sane.

The Meander: Five couples showed up. Five couples, nearly strangers now best friends. Five couples connected by a dread disease. Five couples who together try to outwrestle dementia. Five couples who support each other and have magically found solace and laughter. Every caregiver needs a lifeline like this.

Bonding with elephants.

Bonding with elephants

“Can I touch her?”

The handler came alongside as I held my hand out to pat the baby elephant. I marveled at the texture of the trunk and snout. I petted it and then the handler tells me not to make any sudden movement. I turned my head and there was this huge elephant ambling up.

No need to tell me not to make sudden movements. I froze. Was this the mother? What would happen if she was angry because I was touching her baby? Where was Bert? Still feeding a baby? What could he do really except die with me? My fellow tourists were calm, still wanting to touch the babies. My open palms were suspended in air. I could not move. The handler was softly speaking to the big mama and the baby gave me a little push with her snout. I prayed.

I turned fully and looked at mama elephant and my fear, the pent-up terror was released in a breath. She looked at me. Elephants are magical. No one could be afraid looking at those eyes so full of kindness. Eyes that spoke of knowledge beyond human ken. Instead of thinking about instant death I wondered instead if she knew I was a mama too. She made a snuffling sound and elongated her trunk. I opened my palm and she breathed gently on it. I smiled. Her baby snuffled too at my palm. I only had eyes for mama. Emotion welled. Then she curled her trunk around her baby. She had finished sharing. I slowly backed away still looking into those wise eyes. Eyes that knew the futility of asking ‘why’?

The ship was docked in Colombo, Sri Lanka and the tour was Kandy by Motor Coach. It was a full day tour departing very early and returning late. The tour talk on board ship made it sound very interesting and a ‘must do’ especially when we were told we may be able to feed baby elephants at the Pinnawala Elephant Orphanage. At Kandy the great attraction would be a visit to the Temple of the Tooth!

After a two hour drive we arrived at our first stop at Pinnawala. Feeding time is around 9 a.m. and although I did not feed milk to a baby elephant it was so amusing to see them inhale a bottle of milk in a second. We listened to the lecture, learned about the orphanage and the work being done and went to view the real feeding. Leaves, fruit were already at the feeding station and we watched as the elephants came up from the river and went directly to eat. We had just learned that most of their day is spent eating, bathing, playing and frolicking in the river.

The handlers had sticks but they seemed to be using them as guiding wands, not hurting the elephants in any way. We were told we could approach them. The path was muddy but that did not matter. We were all bonding with these magnificent creatures. Then came my moment. Yes, I could touch them but I was the one touched.

The Meander: This happened on my birthday in March 2004. I will never forget it. What I will also not forget is December 26, 2004 as I watched the Indian Ocean Tsunami that damaged countries from East Africa to Thailand engulf parts of Sri Lanka. I immediately thought of ‘my’ elephants. The news reports were unending and then I heard and saw the elephants at Pinnawala who had started to move upwards away from the low lying lands hours before the tsunami hit. They were all safe. Elephants are magical.

Perpetual Calendar

Today I updated my special occasions calendar.

You know the one,

The months and days are listed

But not a year.

You note your special events, birthdays, anniversaries.

Some call it a perpetual calendar

But it is not.

As I added six new birthdays, two new anniversaries

I also deleted ten names

They had died this year, too many.

Yes, they are gone I thought

But only from the perpetual calendar

They remain in my heart.

Have a Madeira M’dear…

Have a Madeira. M’ dear…

…and oh boy did I need it. My insides were scrambled. I was scared and my legs were shaking as I gingerly climbed down from the toboggan that had just brought us down from the Botanical Gardens in Madeira. I glanced at Bert and he was peeling his fingers one by one off the bar that he had gripped as he turned a paler shade of white as we descended. But let’s start at the beginning.

We were on a Transatlantic cruise from Barbados to Malaga, Spain. We had had a problem on board ship with the water and would be in Madeira earlier and longer than scheduled. The ship docked at tea time and the island looked so inviting a few of us decided to have dinner ashore.

Four of us were lucky to get Fernando. My journal says: “taxi driver is Fernando, about 4 ft 2 ins. and very enthusiastic about his island”. He was funny, garrulous, a walking encyclopedia of what to see and do on Madeira. He recommended a restaurant DAVINAS and took us there with a promise to come back for us. This was a seafood restaurant and wonderful, I wrote. I made note too that we had Madeira wine both as aperitif and after dinner drink.

We made a date with Fernando to pick us up next morning for an all day island tour.

The island of Madeira is an autonomous region of Portugal. It is small, very mountainous, flowers always in bloom. However, if you love the beach then do not go to Madeira. Rocks, cliffs, craggy outcroppings, wonderful hiking routes on the levadas (irrigation channel found only in Madeira) with amazing views are what you will find in abundance but no good beach.

Fernando was magnificent as he took us around the island and showed us all the sights while peppering us with a running commentary that took in history, social mores, politics and everything in between. At Our Lady of the Mountain in Monte church we saw the tomb of Charles the 1^st of Austria. We had drinks at a restaurant in a Pousada which was located at an elevation of 6000 ft. in the clouds. Literally. We stopped for lunch at Marico, El Padrilo which was surrounded by bougainvillea and where for the first time I tasted passion fruit liqueur.

Fernando then sold us on going up to the Botanical gardens by cable car and coming down by toboggan. We were game. He would be waiting for us halfway up the mountain where the toboggan ride ended to take us to Madeira wine cellars for a talk and tasting. Sounded good and off we went. Bert was not too enthusiastic about the cable car as he is afraid of heights but if I am going then so is he and he was looking forward to coming down on a toboggan. That would be fun he said.

It was this ‘fun’ toboggan ride that scrambled the insides and resulted in the death grip. The toboggan is actually a wicker basket guided by two men in boaters, white pants and special shoes…think of the gondoliers in Venice but on dry land with you in a basket hurtling down a steep hill of many curves with two mad people running behind. All you can do is hold on for dear life and pray. It was wonderful to reach the stop and see Fernando trying desperately not to laugh. He did not say much as he drove us to the cellars. Wise man. We tasted and tasted and after enough Madeira we agreed the toboggan run was sort of ‘fun’. My journal says we bought four bottles of Madeira, two bottles of passion fruit liqueur and two bottles of Vinho Verde. I wonder now if my insides had settled enough to drink any that night. I doubt it.

The Meander: We have been back to Madeira three or four times, and have encouraged others to do the ‘run’, but for us once was enough. Travel to discover, to explore and sometimes to dare.