Safety First

Later today I fly to Peru, but before I explain the Peru trip and how I almost missed my flight to Lima over 72 hours before its scheduled departure, I´d like to return to Isla Mocha and recount the adventure of that flight. If you´ve ever driven in a midsize automobile close to the end of its life, all you need to do to imagine this "plane" is add wings and a propeller. That is not a joke. The smell and condition of the interior remind me of the Chevy Celebrity my friend Brian drove in high school. Everywhere things are cracked, peeling, faded, missing. In many places, gaps in the cream-colored synthetic material expose the metal structure of the airplane underneath. Amid all sorts of fascinating gauges and meters, there is a rectangular hole in the dashboard where something used to be or perhaps never was, as if Mario - the pilot - had decided not to spring for the CD player when he was airplane shopping. My favorite details are the sun visors, which are exactly as in any car, and the "BLASTER" switch. I swear the plane actually has this. Located just above the pilot´s left knee, the "BLASTER" switch is the only red switch among countless white ones. At first I think it might be purely decorational, a relative of the black switch on my 1996 Saturn that theoretically activated the turbo booster or some nonsense that might exist in a Porsche but definitely not in a car whose primary claim to fame is being made out of plastic. To my surprise, and Batmobile-loving delight, the red switch seems very important indeed. It is engaged initially, and then when the engine doesn´t roll over on the first try, Mario disengages and re-engages the "BLASTER" as if hoping for an extra burst of power. It works and the propeller starts to shake everything. I understand why the interior looks weary.

The plane takes off. The plane takes off. Are you kidding me? I look behind me at the cargo we´re carrying: boxes on top of boxes of solar panels, enormous sacks of potatoes and onions, and my backpack. I remember how heavy my backpack is. I can carry it a few hundred meters before I need to rest. I hope that the plane won´t need to rest. As we reach the edge of the continent, my mind decides to wonder which would be less horrific: a crash over land or a crash over sea. It chooses a sea crash, and then questions the utility of the seat belt I´m wearing. From the window to my right, I look straight down. The pathetic sight of the little donut tire of the plane hovering over the immensity of the Pacific is a thrill worthy of Six Flags. My stupid-faced gaze shifts between the sea below and the cargo behind. It´s a magic trick, an outrageous, arrogant magic trick. And Mario looks bored. What is he doing with the cell phone there on his right knee? Is he sending a text message?! Isla Mocha appears. It is larger and taller - is that the right word? - than I had expected. Like a fat piece of burnt toast popping out of the toaster, a forested central ridge is surrounded by a skirt of beaches. The green of the ridge is so deep, so dark that it approaches the color of chocolate, while the beaches are coffee with a generous amount of cream added. Hence Isla Mocha. That´s my explanation, and I should admit that this "mocha" is pronounced with a soft "ch" like "Chile". The plane begins to descend in preparation for landing. I look for a runway and don´t see one. The plane continues to descend. Where is the runway? I should see a runway now. I see cows. We are very close to the ground now, close enough that I could jump out with a chance of survival, and I don´t see a runway. Boom. The wheels hit the ground and we are landing on what I had assumed to be cow pasture. Mario drives to the end of the runway, looks both ways before crossing the road, and guides the plane into his driveway, where he parks it next to a yellow jeep. Welcome to Isla Mocha.

I am nervous about Peru. There are plenty of things to be nervous about - altitude sickness, food poisoning, bad guys (I´m sure many of you saw Cusco in the news last month for events that I hope to avoid). I guess what I´m most concerned about though is change. In his latest e-mail, Jeff - the American shaman organizing the trip - confirms that this is normal and to be expected, "We realize that as you move closer to departure, the ego-mind might have all kinds of false concerns and questions. It should... it is about to be released from the proverbial driver´s seat - little by little, with faith and deep trust we release into the Heart." Oh no. Not the Heart. Kidnap me, kill me, but please don´t make me go there. The e-mail also makes liberal use of the terms "energetic transmissions" and "the Winged Ones"... so when people ask me what I´m doing in Peru, I think I´m going to say "bird watching". I really don´t know what to say because the truth is that I don´t know either. I do know that I will be sleeping under the stars at 15,000 feet in the Andes, participating in ceremony and receiving "energetic transmissions" on the 21st of March, which happens to be the full moon, the equinox, and Good Friday. Clearly, it´s going to be something special. And I am supposed to be there. How else to explain how I didn´t lose my passport on Tuesday. It almost defies explanation.

I will attempt to reconstruct the event as if I had witnessed it myself, though, in truth, I was hardly there. My body boarded the metro sometime around 3:30 on Tuesday afternoon in critical condition. Having slept very little on the overnight bus ride from Tirúa to Santiago (I slept for long enough to have a nightmare that the bus caused a terrible accident at 120 km/h) and having consumed neither food nor liquid since 9 am, I do not take well to the conditions underground. Due to the trapped heat and the density of human traffic - seven people per square meter is the norm (if you happen to have a meter stick and six non-claustrophobic friends on hand, try this at home) - the metro has been known to cause death by asphyxiation. Aboard the car, I find myself entirely surrounded by bodies. Nearby, two youths in school uniforms, presumably not allowed to make out at home, take advantage of the lack of parental supervision. Two friends mock their intimacy by pleasuring the stagnant air with their tongues, which lap so close to where my hand is holding a support pole that I can feel their warmth and wetness. To call the situation uncomfortable would only demonstrate that my vocabulary isn´t quite rich enough to find the proper word, which would mix two tablespoons of discomfort with one tablespoon of disgust, a teaspoon of shock, and a pinch of arousal. Searching desperately for another place to put my hand and finding nothing, I opt to test the balance I have theoretically developed as a yogi. The metro provides a smooth, if not comfortable, riding experience and human bumpers protected me on all sides from severe fall or injury, so the lack of hand grip doesn´t concern me too much. The man to my left twice offers me a piece of his handle, and the second time - not wanting to appear rude or ungrateful - I accept. I reach up with my left hand to take hold of the handle which hangs from the ceiling.

Music streams directly into the brain through earphones. I am somewhere else. Curled up in my sleeping bag, I am alone on an island in the Pacific ocean. Splashing in the surf, I scoop up handfuls of salt water and pour them over my nearly bald head. The sun is just breaking over the ridge, and my knife slides easily into a perfectly ripe nectarine. Such a smooth stroke the nectarine feels almost nothing, but... what was that? Did someone just bump me? Wait. Why did he offer me the handle twice? The train is slowing down. We are approaching a station. People push past toward the door. A wave of confused, tangled bodies is crashing around me, over me, past me... like a group of sprinters who had been playing Twister while waiting for the gun to go off. Why is my heart beating so fast? I look down at my fanny pack. Is it more open than it was before? It looks more open. How open was it before? I don´t know. I didn´t measure. It looks very open now. The doors of the car slide open. My hands plunge into the fanny pack like divers performing a search and rescue. There´s my Moleskine and my iPod and my sunscreen... keep looking. Come on. Where is it? I don´t feel it. I don´t see it. The people around me are gone. I rush for the door and reach it just as it´s closing. I hear people behind me gasp, maybe someone laughs. I don´t feel pain and I don´t feel embarrasment, and there is no way in hell this door is closing on me. It can´t close because my neck is propping it open. With whatever strenth I have left, I force the door open and stumble onto the platform. I see the man who offered me the handle. He is halfway up the stairs already. I run. What am I going to do when I catch up with him? There´s no way he has it. The jostle came from the right. He´s the accomplice though, right? I don´t know. What am I going to say to him? Excuse me, sir, give it back please. Oh, I think you do know what I´m talking about. What´s in that bag there? Then tell me who. Who has it. Why did you offer me the handle? Why did you offer me the handle? I felt something. I´m sure I felt something. From the right. And then you all got off the train. How many of you are there? Yes, I know it´s what I deserve for wearing a fanny pack. And for listening to music. And for not being present in the moment. And I appreciate the spiritual lesson, really, but I need it back. Just give it to me. Take the money if you like, but I need the passport.

Above ground I catch up to him, the man who offered me the handle. I am walking right next to him. He is to my right and we are walking quickly, matching stride for stride. He has a duffle bag and I wonder if the piece of black leather that holds my life is inside it somewhere. He notices a person walking with him and looks up. What is that look? Recognition for sure. He recognizes me. And maybe something else. What else? I keep walking. What am I going to say? A noise grabs me from behind. It´s that noise that only Chileans can make - a cross between a whistle, a yelp, and a shout of "hey!" I turn. A man is walking toward us. Is he walking toward me or toward him? In his right hand I see something black and wallet-size. Before I can react the stranger is placing my life back in my own hands and I am thanking him and shaking his hand and offering to buy him things. He refuses and tells me that he found it... what does he say? It´s a critical detail I don´t quite catch because my mind won´t slow down to listen. He says I dropped it in the subway. Does he specify where? In the car? On the platform? I don´t know. I check the contents. Everything is here: passport, debit card, cash. Why is everything here? Did I surprise him in the hand-off? Was he following me or the man with the duffle bag? Was I just in the right place at the right time? Did he say that I dropped it in the car? That can´t be true. I was without a doubt the very last person off the car. Or did he say I dropped it on the platform? Was I in such a hurry to catch the man who stole my passport that I dropped it in the pursuit? I´m like 95% sure that wallet was not in the fanny pack when I decided to get off that car. Really? 95%? Well, maybe not 95%. But what about the man who offered me the handle? And the bump I felt? And the zipper almost totally open?

I am still confused. Did I create the entire drama? I foolishly left my fanny pack almost completely open and unattended, then panicked when I couldn´t find my wallet right away, almost killed myself in the door in my haste to get off the car, and then - fanny pack still open - dropped my wallet in the mad pursuit of a man I thought might have created the opportunity for an accomplice to pick my fanny pack? In this scenario, I met two saints - a man who offered me a piece of his comfort on the subway and a second who returned my most important possessions to me without taking anything or accepting any reward. Or did I notice an attempted robbery just in time to get off the subway car superhero-style, chase down the perpetrator, and intercept the hand-off. In this case, I met two thieves and put myself in just the right place at just the right time to thwart their heist. The only thing I know for certain: I am incredibly blessed to be able to fly to Peru today. Oh, and be careful with fanny packs. More than a fashion faux pas, they are like tasty candy around the waist of a gringo.