“Kinda pretty…” I thought as the scaled tube slid over my foot. The neon green of its back washed in to a vivid red- like a fire truck that had crashed nose-first into a leprechaun convention. Pico seconds had been stretching into days since I’d first felt the punch on the outside of my sneaker and I was using the distortion of time to generate memorable words I could utter as I gazed up into the middle-distance, sinking to my knees stricken by a deadly snake.
All that bullet-time contemplation was completely useless though- I wasn’t going to die. Somehow I’d forgotten a kindly old medicine ma had taken a razor to my shoulders, and, with some crushed, burnt leaves, made me immune to snakes. Black marks on the shoulders of others I’ve seen protect them from witch guns, sways, and poisoning. But since I carry a lime in my pocket, have money to remove a sway, and already had built an immunity to poison via my university’s cafeteria, I wasn’t concerned about those. A trickle of blood down both arms, three vertical marks, and one dizzy-head later, I was feeling safe as a snail.
And so, it was only after I had formulated my earthly exit words did I realize the 7’ long, pop-can thick snake was only sliding over my paralyzed foot to pay homage. Nevertheless, after that the hills I was hiking in seemed to harbor a few more dangers than I had calculated before.
The sun had laser-rayed its way through clouds earlier that morning to illuminate myself and a jolly band of travelers. We were on phase-1 of our spring break fiesta. Having been chained to an oar through university, doing daily doubles instead of drinking doubles, I decided my two-week break from school this time would be forcibly strangled, assertively wrung, and gently milked of whatever adventure it was pregnant with.
Phase-1 hiking was by far the most potent prescription that adventure could’ve written us. Conscious the ink in all my pens isn’t sufficient to catalogue the events of that trip, I’ll paraphrase. Cows can be terrifying. I won the closest-to-death award three days running. Iodine tastes like Iodine. The view from the top was great- now I know what Mufasa felt on top of Pride Rock. Thanks to Dylan for bringing jerky and Brian for bringing the Crème. I will never voluntarily make that hike again….barring amnesia or offers of large amounts of money.
Anyway, surprised at our still-living, not-dead state and completely wrecked from Phase-1, a faction of our mountain conquering regime fled for the far side of the country to the maternal, comforting arms of the Peace Corps hostel and associated white sand beaches. At this point my break adopted the hue of an American vacation- relaxation being the sole goal we toiled towards. Thanks to our work ethic and our steely resolve, we managed to enjoy ourselves. The denouement of phase-2 was the genesis of the much more productive third phase.
Phase -3 was a lifeskills workshop. It was good and stuff. Then I went back to Mambolo.
Right, so time is being pushed along, experiences are being had, strange foods are still being eaten, rain clouds are forming, and bored bloggers are abusing the passive voice and ignoring parallelism. I sure hope all y’all are taking care of yourselves and summer finds you quickly.
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