Paula - Meanderings

Howler Monkey Club, Slothfulness and O Canada!

There were 17 travelling companions – 12 Canadians, three from the USA, one tour guide and one driver. We were on a one week safari followed by one week at La Costa Resort in Costa Rica.

Off the plane in San Jose and there is our Tika Tour guide, the beautiful Patricia, our driver Manuel and our bus. We are not staying in San Jose so luggage stored, we are on our way to our first safari stop Manuel Antonio Park then to our lodge the Costa Verde. We stop at Biologica Carara Park for snacks and are surrounded by these squawking, extremely loud monkeys. Patricia tells us these are howler monkeys and they are found all over Costa Rica, can be quite mischievous and will spit at you. They emit a loud, grunting cacophony.

A group swings near and I grunt back trying to ape their sound. Our group follows suit and hence was born the Howler Monkey Club. For the next 14 days we started the day with a howl, ended it with a howl and howled at every howler monkey we saw.

Costa Rica abounds with exotic wildlife, enumerable birds unbelievable flora and fauna. It is all there and accessible. You will get a front row seat, or choose a back row, to observe mammoth crocodiles, huge iguanas, beautiful hummingbirds, toucans, macaws, armadillos, snakes and more snakes and more.

Our driver stops abruptly and points up into a tree. Ah! There is a sloth! Here is the confirmation that slothfulness is in truth a deadly sin. The sloth was going from one limb to another a distance of maybe two feet. Manuel parked so we could watch it. We watched, and watched, and watched. We howled at it. No change just s l o w as molasses movement, almost undetectable. The sloth had moved maybe ten inches after 20 minutes. He had not rested. Watching its slow progress was painful and awesome.

Every day of the safari was memorable. Every day the Howler Monkey Club got friendlier and more connected. Every day we perfected our howl and soon Patricia was sending word ahead that she had the greatest group of mostly Canadian tourists who had become Howler Monkeys. We were not shy going into the next lodge or inn and howling to all and sundry. It was obvious that we were a happy bunch and that happiness spread. Soon everyone was talking about the group of happy Canadians who were Howlers.

Then the group split with tears and laughter and hugs and promises to keep in touch as The Howler Monkey Club. Addresses exchanged, I was given the complete list as First President. Our three single ladies were spending the next week at a bird watching sanctuary, others were on safari only and eight of us Canadians were on to La Costa Resort. We howled our farewells.

Patricia had called ahead to let our tour representative at La Costa know the ‘Club’ was on the way. We were greeted with a banner: “Welcome to the Howler Monkey Club.” We needed no encouragement. We did our howling with gusto to the delight and no doubt the horror of some guests. We had the usual introductory talk and bought tour tickets.

The resort was wonderful and at dinner we declared that this was the kind of camping we liked. We had had an incredible experience roughing it on safari and would not forget the amazing sights but were ready for a bit of sybaritic vacation living.

After a long day of boat riding and barbecue we were eating pizza and having beer. Our guide told us the next stop would be at the Pirates Cove a new restaurant and inn. The owners greeted us and we discovered they were Canadians and the business was opened only two days. Our tour guide had added this stop knowing we were all Canadians. Instead of howling, I started to sing O Canada and all the Howlers joined in. The owners cried as they and their two young children sang along. They were from Vancouver, had visited Costa Rica, fell in love with the country and sold everything they owned to buy the bar and inn.

We wished them luck. Hugs were in abundance. Next stop Cocos Bar, and then back to La Costa where we closed out the disco.

The Meander: Travelling is freeing and full of surprises. The Howler Monkey Club existed for about five years. We are still in touch with the young honeymooners. Some years ago I read the obituary of one member and sent a card to his wife. She wrote back a lovely letter reminiscing about our Howler Monkey Club. We travel for moments like these.

Iguanas and Me

If you travel in Central and South America it is almost a given that you will meet upon an iguana or two. I have met a few.

Bert was behind the wheel in Venezuela. It is one of our favourite adventures: rent a car, look at a map and choose a path not yet travelled to see what we may find. We were assured that roads leading from Puerto La Cruz were all well maintained, even the unpaved ones. We headed out and it was a beautiful secondary road that wended its way through high grassland, rolling hills and forests. We passed some tiny villages but were looking for a particular one which, according to the road signs was having a fiesta and rodeo.

We rounded a bend and there in the middle of the road was a magnificent iguana. It was huge and brown. It calmly turned its head as Bert braked and looked at us. It spread its dewlap which to me looked like a menacing warning flag signalling: “Beware!” I looked out the window and said: “Shoo”. Brilliant! Obliquely staring back at me with an insouciance that seemed scornful, the iguana just stood there. Bert could not go forward, had no room to go around so we just sat and looked at the iguana. Bert blew the horn, I continued with my awe inspiring ‘shoo’, we threw it a half banana which it sniffed, ate but still it stood motionless. We too sat immobile.

After perhaps thirty agonizing minutes the iguana waved its head from side to side and with one last supercilious look strolled across the road and disappeared into the bushes.

Our visit to the Galapagos Islands was taken with immense anticipation- Darwin, Origin of the Species, huge turtles, wildlife endemic to the islands. WOW! We scrambled over some rocks and came upon an imposing marine iguana just lying there, basking in the sun. It resembled its prehistoric dinosaur ancestors. The guide was saying this was the only lizard that can live and forage in the sea and is found only in the Galapagos. He also said something about them sneezing salt but I did not hear much as I was just gazing at the fantastic creature that seemed to hold the patent on looking seriously bored. Soon he had had enough sun and so abandoning his warming ritual he slid into the water and soon was out of sight. He was ready for lunch and had gone to feed on the algae that grew on the rocks in the sea.

Now it is some years later and we are Colombia. We were admiring the peacocks, amazingly beautiful parrots, macaws, swans and flamingos. What a show this was. We kept finding more and more beautiful birds with different coloration. Far up in a tree there was a rustling. We looked up and there was the mother of all iguanas calmly jumping from one branch to another. This was a green iguana. They call this the ‘common iguana’. Nothing about it looked common to me. It seemed that it was much too large to be jumping from branch to branch which swayed as it landed.

As I looked up, the huge lizard jumped DOWN to the ground. “Jesus, Maria y Jose.” I thought I would die. The guide calmly told us they can do that kind of jump without injuring themselves. Forgive me but I was not concerned about any injury but thinking about one landing on me. I noticed the only calm one was the guide. I saw one fellow putting his wife in front of him. Some knight! Many in the group looked up to see three more calmly eating the tender shoots seemingly oblivious to the stupid tourists gawking at them in fear and trepidation.

The first iguana I ever met I ate. It tasted like chicken? It was being digested before we found out we had eaten iguana. We were High School students from Jamaica in Mexico City at an International Youth Conference. We were busy most of the day but had lots of time for sightseeing and cultural visits arranged by the conference organizers or by our host families. This night we were to be taken to an authentic Mexican restaurant for a fabulous dinner. The meal was absolutely delicious and we tasted many different dishes. We all loved the meat enchiladas.

On the way home we asked our driver about the great tasting enchiladas. Our driver did not speak English and was rather silent but suddenly he spoke with animation and very fast but we all heard ‘lagarto’, ‘ muy grande’ ‘delicioso’. I had stopped listening at ‘lagarto’. Iguana is food. I asked: “Iguana?”. “Si, si. Iguana. Es muy delicioso.” There was a collective gasp. One fellow threw up immediately. That was good as we concentrated on the clean up and not the iguana meal.

The Meander: When I consider other culinary delights I have tasted on our travels this is by far one of the least strange though it headed the list for a long time.

Incidentally, the fiesta and rodeo featured a few heads of cattle for auction, some sway-backed horses and a girl of 14 years old who had the voice of an angel. Her family surrounded her and collected tips as she sang. We could have listened to her forever.

Alone But Not Lonely

When Ross Weber came on board he was a hirsute, grizzled, denim clad man who seemed rather diffident and cautious in his approach to people. Soon the whispers and rumours began. Our floating village was abuzz.

“Did you hear that the lanky, grizzled man is a multi-millionaire?”

“I heard he owned an island that he sold for $32 million.”

“He has never worked in his life.”

“He was a hermit and is just coming out into society.”

It was like a game of Gossip. In fact that $32 million had grown from $7 million in about three days. I was fortunate to be among those who got the truth from Ross himself.

I had not paid much attention to Ross except for the usual pleasantries in passing. Then one night he asked a friend about my origins and she invited him to join our group which met to talk out on deck or in a cozy lounge almost every night. He came but still does not know much about me as we were too interested in his story. He opened up to us, speaking in brief sentences and then he said:

“I have two tapes. They are documentaries about my life. They have been shown in New Zealand and Australia on T.V. If you can arrange it you can see them.” We surmised he was either tired of talking or did not want to go into any details. He was very shy.

Our Cruise Director was most accommodating and set up a viewing for the next sea day. We told a few people and it was also announced through the ship’s public address system. We garnered quite a crowd.

So here is a synopsis of Ross’ story. Ross had a dream to own a farm. Farmland on the mainland was very expensive. At 27 years old he was able to buy his farm and a boat because his farm was the very picturesque Puangiangi Island off the coast of New Zealand’s South Island in the beautiful Marlborough Sounds. Most small islands resemble a cup turned down in a saucer, Puangiangi however, seems to undulate in the incredibly blue waters of the Sounds. Ross shared his island with his flock of 60 sheep and the local birds. The sheep provided meat, which he dried as he had no refrigeration and he grew vegetables. He also grew his own herbal teas and grapes from which he made wine. After 47 years he sold his island and was cruising around the world for a year. The interviewer tried to get him to divulge the selling price of his island but was not successful.

While viewing the tapes, my interest peaked when I noticed the number of books in Ross’ rustic home. The walls were lined with books. There were books in boxes and other reading material everywhere. Ross said he spent more than $1000. annually on books and magazines. Ross showed his watch which he had got with a magazine subscription. It had no wristband so he carried it in his pocket. He found no need to get another because: “It still works.”

As Ross fielded questions we learned more about him. He said he was never lonely; that loneliness was for those who had nothing to do. He said he worked hard and sometimes through the night caring for the sheep, battening down during bad weather, tending his crops and doing the myriad chores necessary for one man, living alone on an island.

Ross was adamant that you should not call him a hermit. That he was not. He had yachtsmen and deep sea fishermen visiting him to walk the trails on his island. A few became friends whose arrivals he anticipated each year.

“They brought me practical gifts and had tea with me. I had friends. I had books”.

His conversation was current with a broad view of the world. He did have television in the last few years and one room with electricity powered by solar power, but the books were what kept him informed. They were his constant companions.

He was asked about needing companionship. His response was that he met some very nice women but they had other interests, jobs, relatives and did not want to live on his island. He ended with: “I just didn’t find the right one. However, I could always find the right book.”

There were those on board who wondered how soon some unscrupulous person would try to separate Ross from his money. Those were the ones who did not sit with him and see those wise blue eyes look steadily into yours and see beyond the surface. When asked what would have happened to him in an emergency with a look of surprise he simply said: “You just take care or you die.” That was literally true as for the first 10 years he had no telephone.

The Meander: Among the many fascinating people we have met on our travels, Ross is one of the most interesting. He is living proof that you can live your dream. He attests to the fact that the best non-human inanimate companion is a book. As he so often affirmed: “I had my farm. I had my books. I lived alone but was never lonely.”

Note: A version of this post first appeared in the summer 2005 Access, a journal of the Ontario Library Association.

Fishing Among Baby Alligators in Venezuela

“Hi. Have you picked another tour as yet? We are looking at this Life on the Ranch – Gaucho Day tour. It looks interesting.” Our Canadian pals greeted us at the tour desk

“That’s a coincidence. We booked that one last night. We are here to find out about rental cars as we want to drive around the countryside before going hone.” I answered.

“OK. We will book the Gaucho tour too. That should be fun.”

Highlights of the tour were fishing with baby alligators, horseback riding, watching and learning about mechanical milking of cows, a ride across the vast ranch and a fabulous barbecue lunch at a Gaucho camp. Bert was ecstatic with the fishing. I was skeptical. After all if there are baby alligators then where are the mamas and the papas? I posed said question to the tour representative who laughed. In my mind I am thinking, he who laughs last laughs best.

It is going to be another long day but we are up for it. Our guide tells us that we will be taking a scenic route to our base camp and he will point out areas of interests while the driver will give us opportunities at designated areas for photos. We settled into our seats. Drinks were distributed. On the outskirts of the city we started a sing-a-long.

The drive was scenic. We had started out at 8 a.m. and were parking at the base camp just before 10.a.m. The camp was a very large covered area which included the kitchen, a large dining area, lots of easy chairs and woven hammocks hanging from the uprights. Gosh, they looked really comfortable. My Goan pal and I immediately grabbed two side by side and deposited our paraphernalia in them. We both had brought books as we were not into fishing, especially with baby alligators.

Two aluminium boats with outboard motors were on the shore of the lagoon. Nearby were four handsome Venezuelan Gauchos each leading two horses. The plan: half go fishing, half go horseback riding and then a switch so everyone had a chance at the activities. Eight opted for fishing, six for horseback riding and my pal and I settled into our hammocks with our books. We were offered a tall mixed alcoholic drink by the cook who told us refills were always available or we could ask for something else. She was mixing up a sauce which smelled so very good. Ahhh, life is good!

Not one hour later there was a commotion on the shore. I said: “Oh my God, I hope they did not disturb a mama or papa alligator.” We left our hammocks and were met by swearing, wet, mud covered men and women. Bert blurted out the story. The boat in front had engine trouble and his boat went to their aid. Fishing lines still trailing one look down saw an alligator which was definitely a parent not a child. She screamed, another stood up in the boat which tipped it dangerously, another uttered some choice words which were not ‘Gadzooks’ or ‘Zounds’ or even ‘Jumping Jehosaphat’.

Afraid the boat would tip everyone else shouted at the boatman and guide to leave the stranded boat, take them back to shore and come back for the dead boat. No doubt uppermost in mind was self preservation. Fortunately, in the melee, attaching a tow line to the sick boat was accomplished and both came back without fish, without a few lines, without two sunhats, one pair of sun glasses but with fingers and toes intact, bruised egos, wet clothes, muddied feet and shoes and a stray weed or two here and there.

As the fishless fishermen tried to come back to a semblance of normality (the tall dinks and beer helped) we heard horse hoofs coming. “I hope they got a good ride and are coming back happier than our men.”

A woman was the first off her horse and she rushed to her fisherman husband and almost in tears said: “Please get the damn ticks off me”! The kitchen help got busy with tall drinks and beer. They also provided cotton and what smelled like kerosene with the advice to: “Just put a bit where they are and they will drop off.” Even my pal and I and our fishermen husbands were employed to help though the ticks were sometimes in places best administered to by a spouse or very close companion.

My Pal and I could not look at each other. We were being very solicitous until Bert said: “You two got the best of this deal, no alligators, no ticks, just getting drunk, reading and sleeping.” We laughed, and could not stop. We were not the most popular persons.

Lunch saved the day. It was a fantastic barbecue and it seemed they expected us to eat like a Gaucho after a day herding cattle. Good food can be a panacea. The grumbles were few, the drinks flowed, the chatter increased. When it was suggested that it was time to switch activities there was a loud, collective and heartfelt; “NO!” Instead, we had a fine siesta. Most had to be shaken awake to go for the ride on the ranch that would end with the milking of cows.

Yes, the ranch was huge. Yes, it was a bumpy ride but a scenic one and yes, we all looked on in awe as a huge herd of cows were milked all at the same time. We were as placid as the cows as we got back into our minivans for the long ride home. It was a shorter ride as the highway driving though dull, was so much faster than the scenic route of the morning. As we dropped off the first group of four the tour guide apologised and said she would ask her company for some kind of restitution for the aborted activities.

“Nah, don’t worry. I bet by the time we get home everyone would have caught a big fish, saw a ten-foot alligator and ridden across the fields like a real Gaucho. Right guys?” Everyone agreed.

The Meander: What I did not tell you? Both my Goan pal and I had not been to the bathroom all day. Why? When we asked for the key to the main lodge which was designated for our use, the cook added: “Please walk in the centre of the path, as there are sometimes a few small snakes around and their bites though not bad can hurt a bit.” I finally found something else in common with my Goan pal. We both have snakes phobias. “Snakes, did she say snakes?” We handed back the key. We no longer wanted the bathroom and the mind is so mighty we never did want it again the rest of the long day. We just NEEDED to go. At our drop off we left the social niceties to our knowing husbands and high tailed it to the bathroom. How do you spell relief?

Angel Falls

Before bucket lists became the flavour of the month Bert and I visited Angel Falls, Venezuela, the highest waterfall in the world. If one can back track on creating bucket lists then this is one adventure we would have included on our list.

Angel Falls is located in Canaima National Park which covers an area the size of Belgium. My book and brochures told of a place sacred to the indigenous Pemon Indians who had built camp accommodations for tourists who came from all parts of the world to see Angel Falls, though at the time of our visit you were not allowed to go to Angel Falls but could view them from boats, helicopters, light planes or take a six day guided hike to the base of the falls.

The trip from our hotel to the Simon Bolivar International airport would be about one and a half hours. The tour included the flight from Caracas to the airstrip at Camp Canaima during which we would view the falls. After refreshments at the camp we would take a two hour hike over a mountain, speak with a hermit, if we were lucky, gaze at spectacular vistas and get back to the camp for lunch. We could swim, fish, have a siesta, watch some craft making, shop for souvenirs and generally relax until our plane came for the return trip. We would again see the falls from a different perspective on the way back.

We spoke to a young Canadian couple, she from Goa he Canadian born. All were excited to be going to see Angel Falls.

At the airport, our tour guide led us quickly to our waiting area which was quite a trek from the entrance. As we walked to the waiting area Bert looked out the window and saw a small, somewhat decrepit airplane sitting on the tarmac.

“With our luck, I bet that will be our plane.” He said with amazing prescience. We laughed and one German guest said: “That is a DC 3 which is one of the safest and best airplanes ever built and though old I would trust it more than some of the newer ones. You can trust a DC 3 to get you where you are going.” Obviously an airplane buff he told us more than anyone wanted to know, but it was a paean to the craft so all positive.

That was our plane. The stewardess placed an empty beer case on the ground. That was our step up into the body of the plane. She had an upturned orange crate for a seat placed between two straps for her security. The plane took off with a loud back fire. The pilots seemed to be sharing a joke. Oh, did I reveal that there was only an open curtain between the cockpit and the cabin? The plane rose and settled with a sound that was reminiscent of a buzz saw. I looked around. The German seemed to be praying. Our Canadian couple was a study in contrasts. He was slightly green, echoing Bert’s new hue while his Goan wife was eagerly looking out the window, bursting with curiosity. The tension was palpable.

We leveled off and immediately our intrepid stewardess came around with beer, juices and water, all part of the impeccable service. She never ceased serving the entire two hours it took to get to our destination. Throughout the flight the two pilots joked, listened to the radio and only interrupted the cabin chatter and prayers to announce that there was heavy fog and we would not be able to see Angel Falls on the way in but we would on the way back. Speculation as to which was the better side to see the falls became the new topic of conversation.

It was a relief to land. Comments varied. The Pessimist: “I just hope we can get back. We are in deep jungle here.” The optimist: “Well, if Mr. Angel and his WIFE (his emphasis) could make it down from the top of the falls then we can get out of here too.” Me: “Yes, but it took them 12 days and by that time I would have missed my flight home.”

The scenery was breathtaking! We were climbing up a ridge overlooking the lagoon. We saw the hut, but no luck. The hermit was not at home. The local guide told us he was from the USA and that he could be around but not wanting to receive visitors today.

We rounded a bend and the guides brought out large strong plastic bags.

“Please put your bags, cameras, anything you do not want to get wet in these. We will be walking under a waterfall. Also we would like you to walk in single file and stay close to the mountain.”

Carrying the bags and armed with waterproof flashlights, we were led over large wet rocks and boulders, on no defined path, a watery screen on the left, wet craggy outcrops as hand holds on the right, and a sheer, extremely hazardous drop to the lagoon, if you make it. The worst possible walk for anyone with acrophobia (read Bert! We followed instructions closely except for our Goan pal who was scrambling all over the boulders, peering through the falling water, standing on the edge exclaiming about the views. Her husband meanwhile had joined the praying group.

“Were you not concerned when your wife leaned over the edge of the cliff?” I asked.

“Oh, no. She is a mountain goat. She does this all the time. She is really adventurous.” He laughs. She laughs. I shudder.

The hike continued. Wonderful vistas all around, but I was happy to see the Camp and lunch and the plane sitting comfortably on the tarmac. Lunch was very good.

Our languorous, supine selves are rudely aroused by repeated back fires. Smoke billowed from the undercarriage of our aircraft. The stewardess beckoned. No one rushed to board.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the weather is beautiful for our flight and views of Angel Falls.”

The views of Angel Falls are spectacular. Unforgettable. We were being flown though an opening between two hugs mountains. We flew in one way, turned and flew the other way. The pilots did some dips and turns and gave us spectacular views from all sides. At times you felt you could touch the sides of the two mountains on either side of the aircraft. A green Bert soon exclaimed:

“That’s enough. Let’s just get the hell out of here.” Both cheers and groans are heard when the pilots announce the last sweep.

The stewardess continued her beer rounds. We are invited to see the cockpit. There are quite a few takers, including me. The pilots are great. I accept the invitation to ‘fly the plane’ while they announce: “We have a new pilot flying the plane”. Such fun.

“Did you really fly the plane?” Bert asks. All around answered: ”Yes.” We laugh. We are more relaxed. The gambit worked.

We are back at Simon Bolivar International airport. We find our waiting minibus. On the way in it was quiet, on the way out we cannot stop talking about our wonderful adventure.

The Meander: I would not want to go to Venezuela now. I am grateful we have been there, done that!

On our way home we changed aircraft at La Guardia. We went from an airbus to a DC 3. Updated, of course. Serendipitous?

Lifeliners Friendship Songs

Recently, it seems every Lifeliner was experiencing something a little beyond the ordinary. (See Post: My Lifeline) I opened my inbox and there it was in very large and bold print: LIFELINERS THEME SONG. Jay had sent it with a beginning note that just said: “Have to share”. The message contained the entire lyrics of “Thank you for being a friend.” Immediately The Golden Girls television show came to mind but what resonated was that as I read, the words took on a very special meaning. They seemed created for us, this little group of Lifeliners. It was the perfect theme song. Through the marvels of the internet we adopted it in minutes and were emailing each other saying we were singing as we wrote and signing off with thank you for being a (or my) friend.

In replying to Jay I wrote “…that’s what friends are for and, thank YOU for being a friend…” Seeing the juxtaposition of the two songs I smiled to myself. I could picture all of us holding hands and dancing as we sang our newly minted Theme Song. We do like to dance. Then I wrote suggesting that we should put together a list of songs of friendship that was illustrative of the special friendship we share. I am not sure my finger was off the ‘send’ button when Jay responded with a list she found at the following URL: https://www.thoughtco.com/top-friendship-songs-3248289

It was an interesting list as it did contain almost all of the suggestions made by us for our Lifeliners song of songs. Here is a NOT a playlist but a compilation of Lifeliners friendship songs. The collection ranges from a 1927 song to Bob Marley, Frank Sinatra, Rihanna, Bill Withers and more. Perhaps, if you are interested you can find out for yourself who sang what if it is not already included in the above URL. Here goes:

I am “Tongue tied” as my Lifeliners “Stand by Me” through thick and thin. We know “Everybody hurts.” I know that “Anytime you need a friend” a Lifeliner will say “You’ve got a friend in me”. I am never lonely as “I’ll be there for you” yes, “I’ll be there” is the assurance from each Lifeliner. “With a little help from my friends”, “I believe I can fly”. Sure, “The road is long” and hard but, “That’s life” though none of us have any intention to lie down and die. Rather, on dark days when it is raining tears we will gather together under the “Umbrella”. When we say: “You’re my best friend”, we say it to each one and also to the group who singly and together are the “Wind beneath my wings.”

We travel this road “Side by side”. We support each other, we share, we care because “That’s what friends are for.”

Lifeliners theme song is “Thank you for being a friend”. What a precious gift we give to one another. We are grateful that we can share this giant, amazing “One Love” that lightens the darkness of our unique night and makes us feel alright.

The Meander: In writing this I realized how closely aligned friendship and love are. I realized that friendship is the amalgamation of Agape, Filial and Eros those major columns of love. Friends have been very special all my life. The best friends just are, no subterfuge no wearing a face. That is the power of friendship. Friends choose to be friends. You love them, you like them; you are in communion with them. To all my wonderful friends: Thank you for being a friend.

I Looove Lettuce!

It took this snowbird fleeing our Canadian Winter to make me realize I love lettuce. The year was 1996 when we fled to Indonesia to spend three unforgettable months in Bali.

We lived in Sanur village within walking distance to the beach and its many famous restaurants. Kuta Beach, only about a half hour away, is the more famous one. Crazy nightclubs crowded streets, restaurants, shopping, tourists, and the place to party and have fun. Sad to say Kuta Beach was also the site of a terrorist bombing on October 12, 2002.

It was in Bali that we met our Dutch son, Duncan (See post: A Most Unusual Birthday) and together we discovered Bali. We had some remarkable experiences among which were:

Attending a funeral rite including the burning of the body;

Visiting Pura Besakih, the Mother Temple, while an important religious ceremony was in progress;

Being served tea on the beach in raised, open, luxurious Japanese tea house tent-like structures at the magnificent hotel in Nusa Dua;

Getting a spontaneous invitation to an afterbirth ceremony and family celebration;

Getting up close but certainly not personal with a Komodo dragon on Komodo Island;

Watching the amazing carvers in Ubud bring out the most intricate art from pieces of wood;

Dining on fresh caught fish at Jimbaran Bay.

Our travels took us everywhere. Duncan was our intrepid driver, bobbing and weaving among the multitude of motorcycles carrying entire families on one small scooter.

But back to lettuce. When we had arrived in Bali we were given brochures full of information for foreigners. They stressed drinking bottled water and not using ice that was not made from purified water. In fact, in our apartment, though there was a fully functioning bathroom, we were brought pitchers of boiled water every morning to brush our teeth.

In Balinese culture there are the sacred elements of which water was perhaps the most revered. It was the lifeblood, the cleansing power, a major highway to Nirvana.

Every rite involved water. Everything was done by, in or near the water. Everything!

All three of us, as seasoned travellers had not drunk any water nor ate anything that was not peeled, boiled or cooked. Sure there were ‘western restaurants’ and very upscale hotels which we frequented.. However, even in those establishments I could not and would not eat anything raw. Thus for three whole months I did not have a raw salad. You can cook tomatoes, pickle cucumbers and boil all kinds of vegetables but, as far as I knew no-one yet had discovered a way to boil lettuce.

We had arranged to stop in Hawaii for two weeks on our way home. The plane landed. We got to our hotel and as we registered I asked about restaurants with a salad bar. Hotel receptionists are used to a variety of interesting questions. I was told that there were quite a few restaurants in Honolulu with salad bars. I smiled politely and told him that after unpacking we would come for directions to one of those restaurants.

After a 12 hour flight from Denpasar to Honolulu we were tired and hungry so it was not long before we were ready to go out for dinner. We went to the Reception. There was someone new at the desk.

“Hi. Would you direct us to a restaurant near…”

“Oh, yes, Ma’am….

“Excuse me. It must have a salad bar”

A curious glance then: “Sure, ma’am. Do you want seafood, a steakhouse or one with local specialties?”

Bert: “We are not fussy. Any of those will do…”

“But it must have a salad bar”, I interjected.

The look has gone beyond curiosity. “Should there be anything special on the salad bar”?

Now I am wondering about that question but decide that maybe she thinks I am a vegetarian.

“It must have lettuce.” The woman behind us giggled. The Receptionist’s eyes blink, no doubt to contain her own laughter. I reviewed the whole conversation in my head and thought perhaps they would decide to ask this crazy woman who seems to have an abnormal fixation on lettuce to vacate the premises.

I laughed and said: “I have not had lettuce in three months and have discovered that I really do love it. There was an undertone of relief as with a smile she said: “Then we must get you to a salad bar right away.”

The Meander: Prior to our Bali winter lettuce was just lettuce. I ate it. It was a triviality. However no food has ever tasted as good as that lettuce on that salad bar. We take so much for granted that sometimes it takes loss for us to appreciate what we have.

Alzheimer’s World

The first time I heard the phrase Alzheimer’s World I was sitting around a large table at the Alzheimer’s Society office. It was a mixed group of persons with Alzheimer’s disease and other dementia and their caregivers. We were learning about the disease, its progression and available resources. What they could not teach us was how to live in that alternate world.

Caregivers have no choice. They do live in two worlds, the everyday one we know as the real world and the one that is Alzheimer’s world that our loved ones live in. If we are to be successful caregivers we must learn to also live in that other world.

It is difficult. Alzheimer’s world is a backwards world because your loved one is on a backwards journey. Right now my Bert is 85 going on four. A different puzzle is presented each and every day which only you, the care giver, can solve. Today he puts on his shoes one brown, one black. There is an easy solution to that. You make a joke, point it out and he changes them. He picks up a slice of bread and calls it cheese. No problem, you correct it or you say: “that is strange looking cheese.” That brings on a laugh and: “Did I call it cheese?”

Alzheimer’s world is one of anxiety. You can empathize. What if you wake up one morning look at your toothbrush and had no clue what it is, what it does but know you use this thing every morning? Today you look at a banana and call it steak, even though somehow you know that is the wrong word? How about getting up to go to the bathroom and being lost in a condo? Would you like to look at a washcloth, while sitting in the bathtub yet completely at a loss of what to do with it?

It gets a little more complicated, of course. These little slips are unimportant in themselves when they happen once but when they become habit it is a signal that the disease has gained a tiny bit more ground. Then the caregiver steps in. You take the washcloth and prepare it and explain or show by gestures how it is to be used. Every day I say to my Bert: “Here, start at your face and work your way down.” He gets to work. He now knows what to do and knows why he had that piece of cloth in his hands. More important he is doing it himself. Dignity is maintained.

Alzheimer’s world is suspicion, anger, feeling lost as well as a loss of control. It is confusion, dependency, a vast expanse of bewilderment. It is a loss of time, place, space, skills. It is disorienting as your entire world becomes narrower and your trust is placed in that one who is always there that you ‘shadow’, that you trust.

The caregiver cannot stand outside in the real world and look in awe or dismay at Alzheimer’s world. You must enter it, you must live in it. Empathy is your power, patience is your tool. The brain is still a mystery. We know in part only. As a caregiver no matter how bizarre that alternate world seems you must suspend your disbelief and go with your loved one into that world. You ask yourself: “What is it like to be so confused you have to give up your autonomy to someone else?” Then and only then can you serve with understanding and love.

I look at my Bert and when he cannot find the words or gets lost between the kitchen and the laundry I wonder what is happening in his brain. Does he feel as if he is trying to swim in tar? Does he feel he is in a vacuum? No wonder dementia patients get angry and lash out at the ones nearest and dearest, the ones they trust implicitly. We are there, easy targets and maybe this is the way they have a bit of control. They are engaged in a battle of heroic proportions to stay ahead of an incomprehensible disease. They wage a daily battle just to BE.

The Meander: No one can have a desire to live completely in Alzheimer’s world. It is too awful to contemplate. Yet, as bizarre as this sounds, there are times when you look at what is happening in the ‘real’ world and it is a relief to step into Alzheimer’s world and just focus on your loved one.

The Drop Sheet

Bert had me smiling at breakfast. He has kept his sense of humour and makes me laugh. That is a saving grace as we make our journey through Alzheimer’s World.

My Bert can be a messy eater. You can tell where he sits at the dining table because of the many crumbs around the chair. The usual napkins are not doing a good job, so I take out some extra large dinner napkins and tell him that from now on we would use those. I place one on his legs tucking the ends into his belt. It completely covered his lap. Bert, giggling, looked down and said: “ I have a drop sheet.” We just roared with laughter.

Was Bert remembering the painting business he owned long before I met him? That reference, plucked from the recesses of his mind was so apt, we laughed together and started the day and the week off on a happy note.

At lunch Bert seemed to be waiting for something although everything was on the table. I said: “Is everything alright?” He answered: “Where is my drop sheet?” Another big laugh. I guess from now on a napkin will be a drop sheet.

In Alzheimer’s World the past is more real than the present. I know by dinnertime he may just spread the napkin on his lap and remember nothing about his paint business, drop sheets or our conversation. For now, I savour the moment.

…

There is a knock and I answer the door. The delivery I expected has arrived. I take the package and sign for it.

“Where is the ticket?” Bert asks.

“Er…umm which ticket?”

“You have to get the ticket. I have to bill the customer.” The penny drops. He is back to being CEO of his courier service.

“No, love, the man delivered to us. He takes the ticket back to his company.”

“Why did another company do the delivery?”

“Because that company does deliveries for the one sending me the package.” There is still a puzzled look but no more questions.

Two days later. “It is forty-five dollars.”

“ Um, forty-five dollars.”

“Yes, that is the charge for the delivery. You have to collect it”

“Oh, alright, I will collect it tomorrow. No problem. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Oh, Yes. That would be good.”

“I want one too. Put on the kettle please.” He goes to the kitchen and I say: “You can deliver it to me too.”

“Ok, but you will have to pay me.” He glances back with a look that says clearly: “Gotcha.”

Bert sold his company in 1995.

….

Dinner is finished, dishes done and Bert is doing his last chore of the day – closing the shutters. The guest room is last as usual and he spends more time there than it takes to close those shutters. I know what he is doing. Soon, I hear a chuckle and out he comes.

“I just finished talking with Moeder (Mother). I told her I did the dishes and put them away. She said she hoped I washed them better than the mussels.” We laugh.

Bert ‘talks’ to his mother’s photograph every night. The mussels is a reference to the war years. He has told me he and his mother would wait two or three hours at dawn to get a pail of mussels.

Sometimes she tells him not to ‘fall off the sacks’ which is another war memory. He and his mother would go to farmers and ask to pick up any stalks of grain left on the field. After receiving permission it might take them the entire day to pick up a full sack of grain. On one particularly good day of garnering, Moeder tied two full sacks to the back of her bicycle and told Bert he would have to walk beside her as she could not take him as well. According to Bert, as she started to pedal slowly so he could keep up he took one flying leap and was atop the sacks of grain. Moeder was amazed, terrified and worried about him falling off all the way home. He would end with: “It was hot, I was tired. I was not going to walk home.”

The Meander: Bert demonstrates his love for me each morning he sits across from me and watches me eat my oatmeal. Bert does not eat anything that resembles ‘pap’ (porridge) or even cereal. Ask why and he will tell you: “That’s all I had during the war.” Not quite true but it is mussels, yes, porridge no.

There is a poignant exigency to hold on to Bert’s memories. How long will he remember? I have heard them hundreds of times. When he forgets, I will remember for him.

How do you do it? Alzheimer’s Society Help.

Once the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease was confirmed my first reaction was: Oh my God, what do I do now? I think this is the usual reaction. Bashing your head against the nearest wall (bad headache), tearing out your hair (pre-mature baldness), screaming to the high heavens (how uncouth)or jumping off the nearest cliff (splat) may come to mind but none of that will work

So, what do you do? Find help. In some cases that may be easier said than done but fortunately in my case, living in Canada and in a City with a high senior population and services gave me an edge.

Once you have confirmation, if you just go on your computer and start a search for dementia or Alzheimer’s disease you will be able to build that cliff from maybe just one percent of the information you see and it would still take you a while to hit ‘splat’. Once your eyes uncross and your mind un-boggles find the home page of your national Alzheimer’s society, www.alzheimer.ca in Canada. Help is immediate as you will get direction to your Provincial and Regional and Local offices. You may be tempted to linger and start reading right away when you see the Quick Links. Don’t. Go directly to your local office. You will thank me when a quick call results in an invitation to visit accompanied by a brief conversation on the kind of services provided.

Why stress ‘local’? On my very first visit I received information about current programmes, workshops, seminars, activities for both loved one and caregiver, jointly and separately. First Steps and Next Steps are just two seminar series that help you get a grip on the disease, the impact on both partners and future considerations. They are exactly as stated. What to do and expect first, what comes next including making a will, financial issues, medications control, real estate, funereal funeral considerations, all done by the appropriate professionals. Your local office is connected to resources and services. No need to wonder why all this is important. Let’s be practical, some things had better be done before your loved one has lost too many brain cells to know what is happening. The legal ramifications alone can be beyond horrendous. Also, as long as your partner can function well, I know that two heads are better than one.

But, best of all I was connected to a counsellor. I could call the office ask for a particular person, tell her/him my issue and be guided, helped, and given information so that I could make informed decisions about my Bert. Local also meant that the places I needed to go, the services I needed to access were all within easy reach. My local office had not just a description of the service and address, they also had a name. I could ask for a person. They also made some calls on our behalf.

The people in my local office are extraordinary. They will help you to curb your attempt to take every brochure available, explaining what should come first. They are professional, caring, experienced and excellent listeners. They are the biggest boosters of caregivers and remind you to take care of you first, so you are able to take care of your loved one. This is one of the PhD courses at my Alzheimer’s University. It is so difficult to do this. Caregivers need to be reminded and your counsellor will do the reminding..

This was my first stop and it is still a most important link. If I have not connected with my counsellor for a while I will get a call just asking how things are or to give me some relevant information. She is aware of my Lifeline, the wonderful support group, as all we Lifers are connected to our local Alzheimer’s office. She applauds that. She knows that the Lifers connection is very important.

The Meander: Sometimes we find it hard to ask for help. Being a caregiver will soon cure you of that. You cannot do it alone. You cannot do it alone. Ask for and take any help you can get. We all need it. My Lifeline family and my Alzheimer’s Society local office are two of my companions on this journey. I am well served and blessed.