No, We Were Not Running a Pot Smoking Orgy in the Mountains…

January 5, 2021January 4, 2021 / Curt Mekemson / 19 Comments

In my last blog-a-book post about the Sierra Trek, we survived day one. Barely. Hiking over the mountain from Squaw Valley, our Trekkers had numerous gear problems, especially the witch. I arrived at our first campsite to discover that no one was there and had to hike on another two miles. Charlie, Lisa and I rounded up our slowest, most tired participants and pushed them down the trail. Eventually, we arrived at Hodgkin’s Cabin. We had survived day one. I could hardly wait to see what day two might bring.

Years of backpacking and wilderness travel have taught me that a burbling brook makes an excellent sound maker to lull you to sleep. It’s even more valuable when you have noisy companions that like to party late or a sleeper whose snores could make the ground shake.

Steve, Lisa and I set up camp on the opposite side of a small stream from our Trekkers at Hodgkin’s Cabin. I am not sure why. Maybe Steve and I were subconsciously escaping from what we had created, but I suspect we just wanted a good night’s sleep. The Trekkers were noisy and the burbling brook served as nature’s sound maker.

I made my evening rounds before turning in. We had divided the Trekkers into food groups of four and I went from group to group checking for problems. Overall, people seemed in good spirits. There were a few sore ankles and knees, but blisters were the problem that elicited the most complaints. I dispensed sympathy and mole skin. I also gave everyone a preview of the next day and warned that it was going to be tough. Really tough. My last words were to remind people that 9:00 PM was quiet hour. I wanted everyone fresh for the next challenge.

If there was noise, we didn’t hear it. We were zonked out from exhaustion. Early the next morning we were up in the dark, wolfing down our quick breakfast of instant oatmeal, instant coffee, and apricots. I was putting my pack together when Charlie arrived. He looked serious.

“We have a problem, Curt,” he started without preamble. God, I hate those words. My vivid imagination had a stove blowing up, or a Trekker cutting herself, or one of Steve’s migrating rattlesnakes finding a warm sleeping bag. Or maybe the IRS had arrived to grab Charlie or the FBI to bust Bob and we were to be held as accomplices.

“What’s up?” Steve threw in, cutting short my growing list of possible disasters.

“We had a doctor from Sacramento come in and camp next to us last night,” Charlie reported. “He says he is going back to Sacramento and tell the press that the Lung Association is running a pot-smoking-orgy in the mountains.”

“Oh hell,” Steve said. My words were much more colorful. A blown-up stove I could deal with. A cut I could bandage. A rattlesnake I could chase off, and frequently have. But what do you do with a physician who has infected his butt with his head? Beg? It took absolutely zero imagination to figure out what the Trek’s future and my career with Lungland would look like one day after ‘pot-smoking-orgy’ made the headlines.

“I tried to reason with him but it was impossible,” Charlie threw in as if he were reading my mind and wanted to dash any hope I had. Just then Orvis came tramping into our camp. Uh-oh I wondered, is the other shoe about to drop? Orvis could backpack at 70 because he had never consumed alcohol or smoked in his life. He was almost as pure as his white beard that decorated his chest. I couldn’t imagine him being very tolerant of misbehavior.

“The man is lying,” Orvis said angrily and forever earned my undying love. “I was there the whole night and no such thing happened. If he goes back to Sacramento and talks to the press, I’ll go back to Sacramento and talk to the press and we’ll see who they believe!”

I wasn’t quite as sure about Trekker behavior as Orvis. It was the seventies after all and we had recruited some interesting characters. I had heard the teenagers giving each other a hard time the night before during my rounds.

“Hey Suzy, why don’t you come over here and check out my sleeping bag?” But the response had been, “Why don’t you take your sleeping bag and stuff it?” I had also had a discussion with our younger kids about the Trek not being an appropriate place for tobacco. Who knows what the doctor had seen or had thought he had seen? My guess was that he was irritated because the noisy Trekkers had kept him awake.

“Look, I have an idea,” I said to the small crowd that had gathered around our cook stove. “I want you to go back to the camp and tell everyone to gather near the rock which is about ten yards away from the Doctor’s camp. Tell them I am going to read them the riot act and I want them to look dejected and apologetic, whether they feel that way or not. It’s show time.”

My helpers dispersed to do their job and I carefully thought through what I was going to say. At the appropriate time, I marched over to the rock looking like my dog had just been run over and climbed up on the rock. It was Sunday morning and ever after my lecture was known as the ‘sermon on the mount.’ Sixty-one expectant but properly humble faces looked up at me. I could see that the doctor had also stopped his activities and glued his attention on what we were up to.

“Last night we made a serious mistake,” I started, making sure the doctor could hear me. “It has come to my attention that there was misbehavior in camp which may have included the use of marijuana. I want to apologize to all of you for not being in camp myself and to let you know I will be from now on. I also want you to know that such activity jeopardizes not only this Trek but the possibility of any events like it in the future. I know that you have all worked hard to be here and that you have worked hard to raise money to fight lung disease and support medical research. I want your word that no such further activities will take place on this Trek.” I’d decided that throwing in the bit about raising money for medical care and research made a nice touch.

Charlie, Steve and company had done their work well. “We’re sorry.” “It won’t happen again.” “You have our word on it,” and similar statements were heard from all sides with everyone looking more serious than I have seen any Trekkers look since. I then dismissed the group to break camp.

As I walked away the doctor made a beeline for me and held out his hand.

“I am Doctor so and so,” he announced. “Although things were out of control last night, it appears you have them under control now and probably won’t have any more problems. Good luck on your trip.”

I thanked him for his concern and breathed an audible sigh of relief. He wandered back to his campsite, undoubtedly pleased with his power and influence while I moved away to avoid expressing my thoughts about his ancestry.

A bullet had been dodged. The next challenge was how we were going to get our Trekkers through the day. It promised to be a doozy— sixteen miles with very limited water. It left little time to contemplate what might have happened had the meddling medic carried out his threat.

On Thursday: Peggy and I take a trip to Cape Arago on the Oregon Coast and watch monster waves come crashing in.

On Tuesday: After surviving the doctor and his ‘pot smoking orgy,’ day two of the Trek goes from from bad to worse as our Trekkers face a long day with limited water, one of our 11-year-olds kicks dirt on a six foot timber rattler, and a Trekker goes missing.

The Art Of Burning Man 2014— From Praying Mantis to LOVE

October 7, 2014January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 41 Comments

Giant praying mantis at Burning Man 2014. Photo by Curtis Mekemson.

This giant praying mantis was one of many art works featured at Burning Man 2014.

The praying mantis appeared out of a dust storm with wings flapping. He was one big guy. Think humongous. Think scary. Peggy and I had to go check him out. It was art— and art is our primary reason for attending Burning Man.

When you arrive at Burning Man, the greeters give you a map that shows where most of the art is. The 2014 art map showed 233 installations scattered across the Playa and throughout Black Rock City. Since weather had delayed us by two days, there was no way we could see it all. So we decided to go “random.” We would wander around and check out whatever caught our attention. Following are a few examples.

Bird with wings lowered and raised by pedals. Photo by Curtis Mekemson.

Much of Burning Man art is interactive. This bird immediately attracted Peggy. She climbed up the ramp and into its stomach. The bird’s wings were designed to be raised or lowered by pedal power. Peggy went to work. A crowd urged her on.

Large bird sculpture at Burning Man 2014. Photo by Curtis Mekemson.

Another view.

Geometric sculpture at Burning Man 2014. Photo by Curtis Mekemson.

The geometric lines of this sculpture caught my attention.

Geometric Sculpture and Man at Burning Man 2014. Photo by Curtis Mekemson.

Shooting from a different angle, I caught the Man in the background.

Much art at Burning Man incorporates a sense of humor. I called this guy big ears. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Much art at Burning Man incorporates a sense of humor. I called this guy Big Ears. He was wired for sound. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Love letters in the dust at Burning Man 2014. Photo by Curtis Mekemson.

Love is big at Burning Man. (grin) The Embrace sculpture can be seen in the distance through the E.

Peggy caught this interesting reverse perspective on the love letters. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Big O in Love sculpture at Burning Man 29014. Photo by Curtis Mekemson.

The big O in Love was hard to resist.

This sculpture reminded me of a Hollywood set piece.

Climbing up a sculpture at Burning Man 2014. Photo by Curtis Mekemson.

Burners love any sculpture you can climb. Often, as in this case, climbing is encouraged.

Wind operated kinetic sculpture at Burning Man 2014. Photo by Curtis Mekemson.

Wind operated this kinetic sculpture.

These cubes created the illusion of climbing far into the sky. (Photo by Don Green.)

Alien at Burning Man 2014. Photo by Curtis Mekemson.

For the past several years, strange alien creatures have been found far out on the Playa near the perimeter fence.

NEXT BLOG: Wandering around Black Rock City.

Athens and A Splitting Headache: Greek God Style… The Mediterranean Cruise

February 15, 2013January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 4 Comments

The massive Temple of Zeus located near the base of the Acropolis.

We like our gods to have a touch of humanity. The Greek gods had more than their share. They would party on Olympus, chase after the opposite sex, and constantly intervene in human affairs. They could be jealous, revengeful and petty but they could also be generous and protective. It was good to have one on your side.

The replica of the Parthenon in Nashville, Tennessee has a replica of what the statue of Athena located in the historic Parthenon may have looked like.

The replica of the Parthenon in Nashville, Tennessee has a fully sized model of what the statue of Athena located in the historic Parthenon may have looked like. I think the spear alone would have given Zeus a headache.

Each Greek city-state would choose a god to be its special protector. With Athens, it was Athena. Both the Parthenon and the Erechtheion on the Acropolis (featured on my last blog) were built in her honor. Athena, according to Greek mythology, sprang fully grown and armed from the head of Zeus. Not surprisingly, Zeus had a massive headache prior to her birth. You might call it a splitting headache. His son, Hephaestus, god of the forge and blacksmiths, took his mighty chisel and split opened Zeus’s head, thus releasing Athena and relieving Zeus.

Zeus was also honored in Athens with a massive temple located near the base of the Acropolis. In addition to being the king of the gods and father of Athena, he was a notorious womanizer. He married his sister Hera, who was constantly trying to thwart his womanizing ways. One of Zeus’s more famous trysts was with the renowned beauty Leda. Zeus seduced her in the guise of a swan, so the story goes. It was a favorite subject of Renaissance Painters. One result of the seduction was that Leda went home and laid an egg, from which the even more beautiful Helen of Troy was hatched.

Our guides took us to see the Zeus temple and then on to visit site of the 2004 Summer Olympics. We stopped off to watch the changing of the guards in front of the Prime Minister’s official seat of government and hurried on to a very expensive restaurant that our guides had selected. I assume they received a handsome kickback. Sadly, our time was running out and we returned to the ship. Other sites would have to wait for another time.

A side view of the Temple of Zeus in Athens looking grey against grey skies.

Another photo of the Zeus Temple in Athens. This one features the upper part of the columns with their Corinthian tops.

Another photo of the Zeus Temple in Athens. This one features the upper part of the columns with their tops decorated in the Corinthian style.

In 1852 a storm topped one of the massive columns from the Temple of Zeus and it has remained there ever since.

We watched as guards high stepped their way through the Changing of the Guards at the Prime Ministers seat of government. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson)

I found the choice of shoes, um, interesting. At least the guards were guaranteed warm toes on a cold night.

The site of the 2004 Summer Olympics in Athens features a statue of a discus thrower winding up to throw.

One of several courses from our expensive Greek lunch.

Peggy and I and pose with our two Greek guides.

NEXT BLOG: We journey to the enchanting Greek Island of Corfu on our Mediterranean Cruise adventure.

Athens… The Cradle of Democracy and Unrest… The Mediterranean Cruise

February 11, 2013January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 7 Comments

The Acropolis with its graceful Parthenon shown above is probably the wold's most famous historic site.

The Parthenon, standing proudly on the Acropolis in Athens, Greece, is probably the wold’s best known historic site.

Athens was grumpy. Several years of extravagant spending by the Greek government and its citizens had come home to roost with the worldwide financial crisis of 2009. The European Union had required steep austerity measures in Greece as the price of a pulling the nation back from the brink of fiscal chaos. Nothing was sacred from spending cuts including social services, wages and pensions. A massive influx of impoverished immigrants and a nascent neo-Nazi movement added to the country’s woes. Everyone was expected to make sacrifices to help solve the crisis.

Since sacrifices are best made by someone else, there had been massive strikes and violence in the country.

Standing near the Temple of Zeus, we watched as yet another group of protestors hit the streets of Athens.

We didn’t know what to expect but had decided to see Athens on our own. Tours offered by the cruise line were very expensive. It helps assure a healthy profit margin. There is neither encouragement nor support for independent exploration. No handy-dandy sheets are handed out saying this is what you should do if you want to see such and such on your own.

Normally our self-guided tours worked great but Athens proved to be challenging.

From the moment we stepped off the ship, taxi drivers offering tours inundated us. Tourism had dropped with the fiscal crisis and was dropping even farther with the end of the tourist season. The air of desperation turned to rudeness when it was discovered we were planning to use public transit. Finding the right bus stop and the right bus turned out difficult, however. When we finally did find the bus it was pulling out of the bus stop. Out of frustration I turned to a taxi driver. We were able to hire two taxis for an all day tour for the six of us that was substantially less than the cruise tours.

Was it worth all the hassle? Absolutely.

Much of who we are in the West evolved from what happened in the City State of Athens between 500 and 350 BC. We visited the cradle of democracy and walked where Socrates, Plato and Aristotle had walked. We climbed up the Acropolis and admired the Parthenon and other buildings that have been a major inspiration for Western architecture for 2000 years. We watched the changing of the guard at the Prime Minister’s residence, visited the site of the Athens 2004 summer Olympics and concluded out tour with an expensive but excellent Greek meal.

If you are a history buff, as I am, having your photo taken with the Parthenon as a backdrop is a true privilege. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson)

This corner shot shows one of the few statues that remain of many that once decorated the Parthenon. (Many can be found in the British Museum.)

A close up of the corner shown behind me above features one of the few statues that remain of many that once decorated the Parthenon. (Many can be found in the British Museum.)

Extensive renovation work is being done on the Parthenon, as well as other buildings on the Acropolis. ( Photo by Peggy Mekemson)

A full-scale replica of the Parthenon as it would have looked like originally can be found in Nashville, Tennessee. We stopped by to check it out after our Mediterranean tour while visiting with our daughter Natasha and her family.

My grandson Ethan provides an interesting perspective in this Nashville photo on the original size of the Parthenon.

Another impressive building on the Acropolis is the Erechtheion. An olive tree decorates the front of the building.

Another important building on the Acropolis is the Erechtheion, which includes the Porch of the Caryatids, lovely Greek maidens who have been turned into graceful columns.

the Erechtheion includes the Porch of the Caryatids, lovely Greek maidens who have been turned into graceful columns. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson)

A close up of the Elechtheion, windows, and an olive tree representing Athena's gift to Athens.

A close up of the Erechtheion, windows, and an olive tree representing Athena’s gift to Athens.

This is a shot looking upward at the end of the Erechtheon opposite the Porch of the Caryatids.

This is a shot looking upward at the end of the Erechtheion opposite the Porch of the Caryatids.

Looking upward at the Temple of Nike on the Acropolis.

A final view: The Temple of Nike on the Acropolis.

NEXT BLOG: We continue our exploration of Athens with a visit to the huge temple of Zeus, see the site of the 1904 Olympics, watch guards do the kick step and eat fish and moussaka for lunch. Note, in order to make more time for other writing projects, I will be blogging on our Mediterranean Cruise Adventure on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

Petros, the Magnificent Pelican of Mykonos… The Mediterranean Cruise

February 6, 2013January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 9 Comments

"What a wonderful bird is the pelican, whose beak can hold more than his belly can." Pelicans are my absolute favorite bird and I have never met a more impressive specimen than Petros of Mykonos.

“What a wonderful bird is the pelican, whose beak can hold more than his belly can.” Pelicans are my absolute favorite birds and I have never met a more impressive specimen than Petros of Mykonos.

One sight you are almost guaranteed to see when you visit the Greek island of Mykonos in the Aegean Sea is Petros, the Great White Pelican. He’s easy to locate. Look for a large flock of camera-pointing tourists.

I googled Petros to see what I could discover about this magnificent bird. Sorting through the various “facts” was challenging. Here’s what I learned. In 1954 or 1955 or 1958 a fisherman found a wounded or exhausted Pelican and nursed it back to health. He then freed the bird so it would return to his wild ways of summering in Europe and wintering in Africa. The pelican, however, had discovered that life in Mykonos was quite sweet. Why spend all that energy flying thousands of miles, swooping over the waves, and diving for dinner when he could waddle around town and have people toss him fish? He decided to stay.

The Mykonosians fell in love with the big bird and named him Petros after St. Peter or maybe after Petros, a popular World War II Greek hero. Once, a neighboring Island stole him. It almost caused a war. In 1986… or there about, he was run over by a car. The driver was lynched. (Actually the driver wasn’t lynched. I just made that up. But look at it my way. With all of the misinformation floating around on the Web about Petros, how could one more piece hurt?) Anyway, Jackie Kennedy Onassis felt for the grieving Island and found them a new pelican that was promptly named Petros. Or, more likely, Jackie contributed a mate for Petros before he was run over and the Hamburg Zoo in Germany provided the replacement (or two, or three).

Whatever the truth about Petros, there is no doubt that the Mykonosians love their mascot, that he continues to enjoy his life of leisure, and that tourists flock to take his picture. In fact Petros has become a major tourist attraction in his half-century on Mykonos and a community that depends on tourism can never have enough tourist attractions. Petros is worth his weight in gold, or at least Hungarian Goose down.

Petros seemingly enjoys cool water dripping down onto his beak.

Petros playing ghost? Or possibly drying his wings cormorant style. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson)

Ah, that feels good. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson)

A final cose up of Petros, the White Pelican of Mykonos.

A final close up of Petros, the White Pelican of Mykonos. If you have enjoyed these photos of Petros, I would highly recommend that you check out the blog of my friend FeyGirl at Serenity Spell out of Florida who is producing some of the most beautiful bird photography to be found on the Web..

NEXT BLOG: Continuing our exploration of Mykonos on our Mediterranean Cruise adventure, we get lost in the town’s confusing, narrow streets, find windmills, and discover a church to match the beautiful churches of Santorini.

“Psst, you want to buy a fine rug?” Kusadasi, Turkey: The Mediterranean Cruise

February 4, 2013January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 7 Comments

Dozens of Turkish rugs were scattered on the floor in Kusadasi, Turkey, thrown out in a frenzy of encouraging us to buy.

The rugs were flying, quite literally, and landing on the floor in front of us. Twenty minutes earlier they had been neatly rolled up at the back of the room. Now five Turkish Rug salesmen were expertly flipping them out onto the floor, a new one every ten seconds. We had been wined; we had been dined; we had been educated. Now the final push was on, the push to get us alone in a room where more multi-thousand dollar rugs would be thrown at us and we would eagerly pull out our credit card with the highest limit.

Part of the show was an interesting demonstration on how carpets are made. Hundreds of hours are involved.

Part of the show was an interesting demonstration in the craft of carpet weaving. Fine rugs can take over a year to complete.

Peggy was ready. The falling rugs had hypnotized her. Her eyes were glazing over and she was levitating out of her seat as a handsome dark-eyed Turk wooed her with fine words. The last time I had seen that look we had ended up with a timeshare in Mexico. This time I was fortified, however. When the salesmen was passing out drinks to soften us up, I was one of two from our tour group of 30 who ordered arak or raki, the unsweetened Middle-Eastern anis drink with the smell of turpentine and the kick of a mule.

I admit the rugs were beautiful works of art, but I was arak strong. Our cabin in the woods of Southern Oregon did not need a Turkish carpet. “I’m sorry,” Peggy explained to her new best friend. “My husband doesn’t want a rug.” I was truly the bad guy in this scenario and the salesman gave me the look to prove it before he sidled off to corner another victim… oops I mean client.

Buying a rug in Kusadasi is reputedly the quintessential Turkish experience and a whole industry is set up to make sure you have it. The cruise industry is a major partner in this endeavor. Lectures on bargaining and quality are given on board the ship before arrival. Lists are provided of safe, preferred shops (i.e. those that share their profit with the ship). Our tour guide hurried us through ancient Ephesus sergeant-like to make sure we would make it to the shop on time. Tours are tightly scheduled. Each tourist needs the opportunity to buy a carpet. Everyone profits. For the cruise ship this can mean a 50-60 percent kickback.

I hurried Peggy out with the promise of lunch and the opportunity to buy presents for the grandkids. Her brother John and his wife Frances stayed to buy a carpet, however, and ended up with two. Later we celebrated with them in their rambling Texas home as they rolled their children’s inheritance out on the floor.

Dozens of small shops were located in a modern Turkey bazaar near the port. It was touristy but fun. Since we were one of the last ships of the season, we found true bargains.

Dozens of small shops were located in a modern Turkish bazaar near the port. It was touristy but fun. Since we were one of the last ships of the season, Peggy found numerous bargains to make up for carpet we didn’t buy.

I was amused by this shop that offered genuinely fake watches... truth in advertising.

Truth in advertising. (grin)

As we wandered through the shops of Kusadasi I was attracted by the rich colors.

As we wandered through the shops of Kusadasi I was attracted by the wealth of colors.

This plate was another example of the rich colors found in the shops of Kusadasi.

This plate closeup is another example of the rich colors and intricate patterns found in the shops of Kusadasi.

Francis unrolls John and her new silk carpet in their Texas home.

Frances eagerly unrolls John and her new silk carpet in their Texas home.

A closer look at the carpet. It really is beautiful and John assured me they bargained for a good price.

A closer look at the family heirloom. It really is beautiful and John assures me they bargained for a good price.

NEXT BLOG: We visit the Greek Island of Mykonos on our Mediterranean cruise adventure and meet the island’s famous Pelicans up close and personal.

Chapter 32: Goat Soup, Greed and Everyday Life

January 12, 2013January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 8 Comments

After a day of teaching at Gboveh High School, I would follow jungle trails to surrounding villages and farms. This picture features a Kpelle farmer I met along with his three boys and young daughter. Harvested rice is piled behind the family.

In some ways our everyday life as high school teachers resembled our everyday life as elementary school teachers. We would crawl out of bed at 6:30, eat a quick meal and walk to school. Shortly after 1:00 we would be home downing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the school day finished. Our nap was next.

The new location encouraged wandering. After siesta, the dogs and I would disappear into the jungle. This continued a tradition of hiking in the woods from my earliest childhood years. I explored the surrounding village trails going farther and farther afield. Sometimes I would take my compass so I could draw primitive maps and figure out where I had been. Tribal folks were surprised to find me out in the bush but were always friendly.

I discovered where the cane fields and whiskey stills were, found a primitive but well-built wooden bridge across the river, made my first acquaintance with Driver Ants, and avoided the numerous poison snakes.

Sometimes Jo Ann would join me and on occasion I would take Sam, other Volunteers and Peace Corps staff along. The hikes provided an opportunity to explore aspects of tribal life not normally found in Gbarnga. They also served as a major part of my exercise program. I became svelte, or maybe just skinny.

A Kpelle woman and her daughter take turns pounding palm nuts in this 1966 photo taken near Gbarnga, Liberia.

Jo Ann holds an Eddo or Taro leaf. The tubers of this plant are used as food throughout the tropics.

Hidden by palm fronds, I climb up a Kpelle ladder I discovered on one of my jungle hikes. Notches in a trunk serve as rungs.

Hidden by palm fronds, I climb up a Kpelle ladder I discovered on one of my jungle hikes. Notches in the trunk served as rungs for the primitive but effective climbing device.

Peace Corps staff member Dick Hyler and his wife Maureen join me on a hike through the jungle.

Our social life was nothing to write home about. Unlike single Peace Corps Volunteers, we had each other for amusement. We did maintain our friendship with other married couples. Occasionally students or teachers would drop by. Sam was always hanging around, even when not working. I maintained an ongoing chess game with the minister of the Presbyterian mission. We would send our house boys back and forth with moves.

The largest social event we hosted was a goat feast for our fellow teachers from the high school and elementary school. Between finding a goat, having it slaughtered and making soup, it turned into a major project. Three women teachers from the elementary school came over to help with the cooking chores. They wanted to make sure the goat was properly cooked. The soup along with rice was delicious, and plenteous. No one went home hungry, or sober for that matter. I’d bought two cases of club beer and one case of Guinness Stout to accompany dinner. Drunk driving was not an issue. No one owned a car.

Even with everyone stuffed, there was ample goat chop left over to feed the dogs for a week. It lasted a night. Liberian dogs always ate like they were on the edge of starvation, even fat Liberian dogs. Somewhere in the midst of the four-legged feeding frenzy, I heard a yip and went outside to find that Brownie Girl had shoved a goat bone through her cheek. The medical emergency was minor; her real concern was being knocked out of the action. The other dogs and Rasputin were gobbling down her share. I pulled the bone out and Brownie Girl jumped back into the fray. It was pure greed. Not a scrap was left in the morning.

One of my favorite pastimes was to sit outside in the late afternoon, drink a gin and tonic, and watch the incredible tropical lightning storms. We found a jeep seat somewhere that made a comfortable couch for our porch. On occasion the sky would turn an ominous black and we could hear the storm as it ripped through the rainforest. The impending mini-hurricane would send Jo and I scurrying to yank clothes off the clothesline and batten down the hatches, i.e. make sure doors and shutters were firmly closed.

Dark storm clouds like these over Gbarnga suggested it was time for Jo Ann and I to quickly take in the laundry and shut up our house.

Every month or so, we would visit Monrovia for a touch of city life. Eating at the French restaurant by candlelight, spending an hour in the air-conditioned super market, hanging out in a book store or seeing the latest movie did wonders for morale. It almost made up for the three to four-hour harrowing taxi ride. We even took Sam with us once for his ‘birthday.’ He really didn’t know when it was so we declared it was during the trip. He still uses the same birth date.

Our really big break from teaching was a one-month trip to the big game parks of East Africa. In my next blog I will feature facing elephants and lions and water buffalo in a Volkswagen beetle, Oh My.

Chapter 31: Minced Green Mamba

January 10, 2013January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / Leave a comment

Welcome to “The Dead Chicken Dance and Other Peace Corps Tales.” I am presently on a two month tour of the Mediterranean and other areas so I thought I would fill my blog space with one of the greatest adventures I have ever undertaken: a two-year tour as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Liberia, West Africa. Every two days I will post a new story.

When I have finished, I will publish the stories in digital and print book formats.

Tropical rain forests are home to numerous species of snakes. A large boa lived in this lake, which was just down from our house in Gbarnga, Liberia.

Another denizen of the rain forest that receives considerable press is the snake. As a youth I had become aware of their treacherous ways by reading Tarzan comic books.

We encountered a number of the wily serpents in our two years. They came in a myriad of sizes, shapes and colors. I already mentioned the tiny orange snake in the driver ants’ nest. “Very poisonous,” Sam had said.

I also found a black one coiled up in our flower garden and another poised in a tree above my classroom door. One dark, rainy night Jo and I were walking home from chaperoning a high school dance. Our flashlight was on the verge of dying. I looked down and found my foot three inches away from landing on top of a snake that stretched all the way across the road… which was just about the distance I managed to hop on one leg.

The Liberians assumed that all snakes were poisonous. We decided while in Liberia to do as the Liberians did. The only good snake was one with its head chopped off.

The most poisonous was reportedly the cassava snake. This ugly pit viper was about as long as your arm and twice as thick. It was supposedly sluggish; you had to step on it to get a reaction. When you did, it was all over though. Sluggishness disappeared. It whipped around and struck causing instant death. On my jungle hikes I always encouraged the dogs to go first and watched them closely. Like Rasputin, they were snake-wise. They detoured; I detoured.

Of all of Liberia’s snakes, the Cassava Snake was the most deadly.(Google image)

We even had a giant boa constrictor hanging out in the neighborhood. It lived in the reservoir just down the hill from our house. Town folks would spot it occasionally slithering through lake like the Loch Ness monster. I started calling it Nessie. Whenever a local dog or cat disappeared, it was assumed the snake had eaten it. My thoughts tended more toward a hungry Liberian, but this didn’t discourage me from suggesting to Boy the Bad Dog that he go play in the lake. He refused.

Soldiers eventually drained the lake in an unsuccessful attempt at finding the boa. Maybe it had developed a taste for Guinea Fowl and moved up the Superintendent’s compound.

The green mamba was an even more feared snake. It was said to climb trees, leap from limb to limb, and chase people. Jo Ann and I assumed that the Liberian who told us this story had been sipping too much fermented cane juice.

At least we did until we looked out the window one day and saw a green mamba climbing our tree. Faster than I could say, “Let’s sit this dance out,” Jo had grabbed our machete and was through the door. The mamba saw her coming and wisely made a prodigious leap for a higher limb. It missed.

Down it came amidst a mad flurry of machete strokes. Not even the three musketeers could have withstood that attack. It was instant minced snake. After that I learned to have more respect for Jo Ann when she was irritated.

In a slight reversal of roles, a snake did manage to ‘tree’ Jo once. I was happily ensconced in my favorite chair when I heard a scream from our outdoor bathroom. Talk about primitive male instincts. Hair on end, adrenaline pumping and blood rushing, I grabbed the machete and charged outside.

I threw open the bathroom door and there was Jo Ann, standing on the toilet with her pants down. Meanwhile a small black snake was merrily slithering around on the floor in hot pursuit of the little toads who considered our bathroom home. It had crawled under the door and across Jo’s foot while she was sitting on the pot. Had it happened to me, I might have been on the toilet, too.

Needless to say, I quickly dispatched the snake and saved the day. What a man!

Chapter 30: How to Fly Rhinoceros Beetles

January 8, 2013January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 3 Comments

When I have finished, I will publish the stories in digital and print book formats.

An African Rhinoceros Beetle. (Google image.)

Most of our bug encounters were less traumatic. Indeed, some, such as our interaction with rhinoceros beetles, we classified as entertainment.

These large bugs were a throwback to ancient times. In addition to being a good three inches long, they were coated with armor. The males had a huge horn projecting up from their noses; thus the name. They are reputedly the world’s strongest animal and can carry up to 850 times their own weight. Liberian children would tie a thread around the horns and fly the beetles in circles.

When we went outside after dark with a flashlight, they would sometimes dive bomb the light and crash into us Kamikaze like. It hurt. The buzzing noise made by their wings meant that we could hear them coming in time to flinch.

One of my more unique discoveries was if you put several of the big males down next to a female, they would become quite excited. Before long one would sidle up to the female in what was obviously an attempt at beetle foreplay. Permission granted, the male would them mount the female. It had all of the grace of two Sherman tanks going at it.

I know, get a life Curt.

Another insect of note was the sausage bug mentioned earlier as doggy treats. These guys were large flying abdomens. They would buzz in lazy circles through our house at night flying so slowly that Jo and I used them for badminton practice, knocking them out of the air with our rackets. Afterwards, Do Your Part would be invited in to clean up the carnage.

The best action by far was on the big screen, our screen door that is. Here we witnessed the law of the jungle in action.

The bright lights of our house guaranteed a hoard of small juicy insects would be attracted and clamor for admission. The opportunity for a free lunch quickly attracted a crowd of gourmet bug eaters. It was the bug-a-bug feast all over except the players were different and less greedy. There was a lot more stalking and a lot less gobbling.

Knobby-toed iridescent tree frogs would suction cup their way across the screen at a glacial pace and then unleash a lighting fast tongue on some unsuspecting morsel.

An eight-inch long praying mantis was a regular visitor until Jo Ann did it in, wrapped it up and shipped it off to her old zoology instructor back at Sierra College. He reported to Jo that the monster never made it. I suspect someone in the Monrovia Post Office opened the box looking for treasure. Surprise!

My favorite predators were the bats. They would fly circles around the house and pick a bug off the screen with each circuit. I could have my face inches from the screen and not disturb the hunt. Whoosh, a bat grabbed a bug for dinner. Zap, the pinkish white frog tongue unfurled and reeled in dessert. A night at the movies was never better.

Chapter 29: The Invasion of the Army Ants

January 6, 2013January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 4 Comments

When I have finished, I will publish the stories in digital and print book formats.

A trail of army ants snakes across a road outside of Gbarnga, Liberia. Large soldier ants provided guard duty…

Even more than termites, driver or army ants are appropriate subjects for jungle bug horror stories. There’s a reason. These guys are ferocious.

My first experience with driver ants was when I came upon a line of them crossing a trail. At first glance they looked like any other group of respectable ants negotiating a path and minding their own business. On closer inspection, however, I found myself facing a tunnel of knife-sharp mandibles, each one wide open and wanting to crunch down on something. The big soldiers had linked their hind legs and were facing out, creating a tunnel for the other ants to crawl through.

Always up for a challenge, I took a stick and applied it to the middle of the line. Chomp! I pulled the stick back. The whole line of linked ants came along and a high-speed foot race commenced. I was both the finish line and first prize.

Or at least I was supposed to be. I gave the ants a free flying lesson. It’s possible they are still searching for their lost comrades.

Army ants are noted for their bite. In some parts of West Africa they are reputedly used as sutures. Once their jaws clamp shut, they are locked. I can attest to this since one managed to get at me through a hole in my tennis shoe. They are also noted for eating anything that can’t move fast enough to get out of their way. I watched as they gobbled down an unfortunate mouse. Their squeaking dinner simply disappeared under a sea of black.

Villagers clear out of their huts when the ants come to town. The ants go through, eat all of the bugs, mice, occasional snake and anything else alive, and then move on. It’s a good deal for the villagers and the ants. My attitude about our house being invaded wasn’t nearly as positive.

It all started on a quiet tropical evening. I was working my way through a James Bond novel, Jo was being good and preparing lesson plans, and Sam was glued to our phonograph, still trying to get Charlie off the MTA. Since bugs were such a central part of our lives, we normally ignored them. It was the hoard of tiny insects hopping and crawling under the screen door that caught our attention.

“Ants,” Sam said.

“No, Sam,” I said, assuming my teacher role, “these are not ants.” I was rewarded with an exasperated ‘I know that’ look from Sam.

“They are running away from ants that want to eat them,” he jumped in to interrupt any further explanations on my part. He was right, as usual. I turned on the porch light. Anything that could hop, crawl, walk or run was seeking sanctuary in our house. Behind them came the ants. They weren’t organized in a neat little line this time. They were spread out across our yard and coming on like a tsunami.

Jo and I held a hurried council of war. It was time to bring out the big gun, SHELLTOX. Shelltox was one of those marvelous nerve gasses created by the pesticide industry that was so potent it was banned in the US even though this was still a time in America when DDT was considered as important to controlling six-legged life as butter was to making food taste good. The tiniest spurt of Shelltox and a cockroach rolled over and begin kicking its little legs in the air. We used it liberally.

Each of us armed with a can stomped off to war. The stomping was serious; it kept the ants off. Back and forth along the enemy line we marched, cans firing, filling the air with whatever odor Shell incorporated into its brew to let us know we were poisoning ourselves. The ants died by the hundreds and soon by the thousands. But still they came on. Our cans begin to sputter. Exiting stage left was rapidly becoming an option.

I pictured us packing up the cat and descending on the Peace Corps Rep like the ants had descended on us. First we would eat all of his food and then we would tackle his liquor closet. Unfortunately, the ants blinked first. Their buglers blew retreat. We had won the battle but the war was far from over.

That night, visions of monstrous ants visited me whenever I closed my eyes. Every hour we arose from bed to check if the attack had been renewed. Happily it hadn’t. By morning we were allowing ourselves to hope that the ants had figured out we were dangerous adversaries and moved on to easier targets. The ants had another plan. Mr. Bonal was wandering around outside so I went over to tell him our invasion story.

“Ah, let me show you something, Curtis,” he said. He walked me over to an old pile of mud bricks buried in the grass twenty feet away from our front porch. I looked down and all I could see was a moving black mass. The area was carpeted with a layer of driver ants several inches thick. There were zillions of them.

“Welcome to the ants’ home,” John explained. “They have moved in for the rainy season.”

The Bonals, it turned out, had been invaded the week before when Jo and I were in Monrovia. Again it had been a night attack but this time the ants made it into their house without discovery and found the baby. The baby, objecting strenuously to being a one-course meal, had started screaming. That brought the Bonals on the run. The baby was saved and the ants repulsed.

John assured me that the ants would be back to visit us again and again until they moved on.

I decided to remove the welcome mat. But first Jo and I had to restock our ordinance supplies. Off we went to town for umpteen cans of Shelltox, five gallons of kerosene, and a box of DDT. (Years later after I became a certified greenie and read Silent Spring, I would occasionally have twinges of guilt about the DDT.)

Our plan was to attack the home base with the kerosene, disorient the troops, destroy the barracks, and send the army packing. Of course there was a chance that the ‘packing’ would be toward our house rather than away from it. In that case, our first line of defense would be to mount an all out attack with Shelltox like we had before. As a fallback position, I scratched a narrow ditch around our house, translate that moat if you are romantically inclined, and filled it with DDT. The ants would have to crawl through the stuff to get at us.

Then I went to work. Reaching the nest without becoming ant food was the first challenge. Having grown up in red ant country, I remembered how sensitive ants are about their home territory. The slightest disturbance brings them boiling out of the ground in a blind rage. As a kid I used to pour water down their hole to watch the action.

The Apaches were reputed to have used the red ants’ proverbial ferocity as a means of torturing favored enemies.

I rightfully determined the driver ants were meaner, bigger and faster than their distant cousins. They would be on me and up the inside of my pants leg in a flash, a fate to be avoided at all costs.

The initial strategy of removing vegetation was relatively safe. Sam and I stood several feet away and tossed two gallons of kerosene on the nest. A carefully cast match created a raging inferno which proved quite effective in defoliating the area.

The first part of the campaign was to burn the vegetation away from where the ants lived. Two gallons of kerosene did the trick. Sam helped me while two neighborhood boys looked on. Gboveh High School is up the hill.

Digging into the nest was much more dangerous; I would be operating behind enemy lines facing thousands of steel jawed troops on a hunt and destroy mission. My solution was to draft a galvanized steel tub Jo and I had used for bathing at our first house. It provided ample standing room and the ants couldn’t crawl up the side. I tossed the tub next to the nest and leapt in.

Sam tossed me our shovel. Several minutes of dedicated digging brought me to the mother of all nurseries. Eggs covered an area at least three feet across and several inches deep. Right in the middle was a finger sized, bright orange snake.

“Very poisonous,” Sam said. I figured it had to be pure poison for the ants to leave it alone. We decided to take a break and let the ants and the snake work out their relationship.

After our standard lunch of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich washed down by orange Kool Aid, we went out to check the results of our handiwork. Success! Long lines of ants, many dragging eggs, stretched off into the distance away from our house. The siege was over. There was no sign of the snake, by the way. Maybe the ants had stopped for lunch as well.