The Nightmare Begins

　
Ship of Dreams, Nightmares and Delusions, Part 2

Not a review of a cruise or a certain Rock Band, but my own personal experience of these particular few days.

The Nightmare Begins

I had been shoved fairly violently the night before, at a concert, not deliberately, I hoped, but still, painful. The pain started in my upper abdomen, then began to throb and ping and sting and stab in my lower left abdomen. I kept quiet, not wanting to ruin, or invade the happiness of my traveling partners, but I really hurt. Pain pills did nothing for this pain, I was hoping it was gas, or something I ate, and I tried to sleep that night. I felt like crying. I wanted to cry. I cried silently.

I woke up Friday morning, Jamaica out my window. We folded up my bed back into a sofa, and opened our balcony doors. The water was a lovely blue, the ship was smooth, and we looked forward to our day. My travel partners had opted for what they thought was a benign day of sight seeing, I had spent a lot of money to be thrown from trees, yes, I decided to do the Zip Line. I figured I was about to turn 50, and how often does one get to the Jamaican Jungle? I was feeling weak, and still had that odd belly pain, but toughed it out, I am old, fat and out of shape, what's an odd belly ache, I probably just needed to eat better.

I watched the passengers disembark, and walk the long pier to the shore, as my excursion was for later in the day. It was a lovely view until I used the telephoto lense, and saw that beyond the port, and the resorts, the city was unattractive, and run down. I go to the appointed meeting point, feeling a bit light headed, and short of breath, attributed to the humid weather, and follow instructions. Get on this bus, no this one, no this one, hand over this ticket, no, the wrong ones take this back, etc, as our guide and bus driver decided how to run this excursion. Not the most reassuring start. We then drive through town, into the suburbs, and past the resorts, into the local area, given a narrative of the area. We learn that all the overgrown areas used to be plantations worked by slaves, and that they are now overgrown fields, no longer in sugar cane production. Or any agricultural use. We see a lot of goats grazing in these fields, and people on the sides of the roads selling fish and fruit. Then we go off road. The bus teeters and tosses us about, the gears grind, and we go up hill, on a barely paved road. We are informed that the government refuses to pave the roads unless there is an election pending. And there is no election pending I vote for paving. The air continues to press in on us opressively, despite the thick green leafy canopy overhead, and with a final expensive sounding grind to the gears, we stop. Our bus is on an incline, requiring an uphill climb to step out.

We now are informed that we must remove all our hats and glasses, have shod feet, and lock all belongings, including cameras into paid lockers. One of our party purchased a locker, and graciously allowed as many of us as could fit our belongings into the locker. Thank you.

The young, fit, beautiful Jamaican boys and girls assigned to assist in throwing us from trees present themselves to us, and we begin to gear up, with harnesses, ropes and metal hooks strapped to our torsos, helmuts secured to our heads, and gloves, thick leather gloves, given to all. As we each one of us get fitted and kitted out, we see the previous group limp in. They are smiling, but limping, tell us that it was fun, while surruptitiously looking at each other, and limp onwards, to doff their gear. We also smell lovely barbeque,Jamaican Jerk chicken being grilled up nearby, and my stomach lurches, not a good sign, as I usually love barbeque.

I am heartened, that limpers can do this, as I am a limper, having taken my anti inflammatory and analgesic medications, and ulcer meds prior to beginning this adventure, I have no worries about completing this event, as it was not rated as being of a high exertion level in the cruise guide. And our group, being of an age of not quite sprite, also perked up, seeing the survivors saunter back to headquarters.

We are now told that we are to take our kitted out, jangling and roped selves to another transport vehicle, and open sided transport jeep. Wow, the seats are hot, the metal handles are hot, and we smoosh in very close together, very well loaded vehicle, and begin to go further up the side of this mountain. The poorly paved roads give way to non paved pitted and rutted mud paths that our gear screeching vehicle bumps up, over and around. The lovely Jamaicans hold on to the sides, and we passengers moan, ohh and ahh, and occasionally squeal in shock as the vehicle tosses us around, bumping our thankfully helmutted heads on the hot metal supports, we slide into each other on the hot vinyl not very well upholstered or padded benches, and are amazed that this is even a road. The Jamaicans laugh, we don't. The vehicle never slows, and we go at such a steep angle that midwesterners begin to pray. At times we lurched from side to side so quickly and sharply, that being on two wheels briefly is not an exaggeration. And then we stop. Dead silence, and perhaps a whispered curse word, or prayer is heard. We are at the top of the Mountain.

We walk a bit on the rutted pathway, to a cabana, with a sign warning us that if we need to relieve ourselves, we should have done it down below. Nice to know. We are given a very brief rundown on the and use of our equiptment, and how to brake and not spin around, and off we go. So, where are the platforms? we go down some wooden stairs cut into the side of the mountain. My bad right knee goes sour fast, overwhelming the pain meds I had taken earlier in the day as preparation for strain, for the low exertion level activity I had signed up for, and we continue downwards. I attempt to bypass the widely spaced and steep steps, to try the pathway next to the steps, and I slide several feet downwards, screaming pain in bothKnees, and the now familiar yet funny belly pain quickly increasing in intensity, from the accidental, I hope, shove, I had received the night before. So I continue going down the stairs right leg first, to spare my now clicking and grinding right knee, and my left screaming hip and thigh, and the buzzing (?) yes buzzing pain in my lower left belly.

And we continue down wards. I lose sight of the group in front of me, but hear grunting behind me, a hearwarming grunt of someone else's pain, I was not alone, left behind in the jungle. And on wards, and downwards I continue, now with palpitations, and an itch developing in places I was unable to scratch.

We (I) finally arrive at the first of 9 platforms. and one by one, our safety lines are secured, and we shuffle out onto a ricketly appearing platform. This platform looks so cobbled together, that a scout master would ask the troup to try to rebuild it safely. I talk myself into believing that we are safe, that these lovely smiling Jamaicans would not risk our safety with shodily constructed platforms. I don't believe a word I say. It is now my turn, I am hooked to the line, and told to "GO Go." So, I GO. Wheeeeeeeeee this was fun, no fear once the initial jump is made, feeling very secure in my harness, holding on to the line as so very briefly instructed soo long ago, and the so short zip is over, I lift my legs to land on the platform, and into the arms of a smiling, handsome young man. Probably one of the last times I will ever have someone that handsome at least pretend to look happy to hug me. And I am unhooked, spun around, rehooked to another safety line, while standing on a platform attached to a few trees, with a grate like surface, I can see below, and there is no forest floor visible. The platform is less than 2 feet wide, and we are hustled, and shuffled along to the next zip. I see that this one is a bit longer than the first, and I jump off with glee. And zip along. Very fast, I can hear the pulleys singing on the line above me, and I see the smile on the handsome young man at the receiving end fade, and he yells "brake brake." So, as instructed, I lift my right arm, and grab the line, and stop. Mid line. I was supposed to slow down, but I came to a dead stop. Dead stop. Mid line. No visible forest floor below me. And everyone on the excusion looking at me.

I lift my arms up, as instructed, and try to pull myslef along the line to the platform, but my arms begin to tremor. I am not nervous, this is some weird muscle twitch, and my hands go numb. I continue to try to pull myself, but I keep going the wrong way, further from the platform. "I need a rescue" I call out, and the no longer smiling, not overly glad to see me handsome young man zips to me, unhooks me( zowza) and pulls me to safety. The unhooking before my feet were firmly on the rickety platform was the most unnerving aspect of this event. I was not anxious at all, and felt a calming wave wash over me, as I surrendered to the event. I was able to bury the horrific pain in my stomach and lower abdomen, the right knee screams, the left thigh muscle twitches, and the now numb hands into some deep part of my brain, where I can deal with all this at a later time, as these symptoms are now frightening me more than the zip line. I know that there is no way out of this but to go onwards, and since the heights and danger of this zip line are the least frightening aspects of my current situation, I segment my mind, and bring up a happy place, and continue. Our next zip is straight down, and was my favorite.

We continue for a few more zips ,then the stairs resume. My muscles are on fire, the numbness in my hands now goes to my feet, and I can't even feel the surfaces below me. I twist and skid a few times, stumbling, but never falling, and the pain in my belly worsens, with a funny vibrating buzzing feel, and I feel weak, and in the one part of my brain not segmented off into either my happy place, or the suppressed suffering and horrified place, I make a mental memo to make that appointment with my doctor, as I think my issues go way past needing antidepressants and exercise. I continue on, downwards. The zips get easier, more exhilarating, and I am very proud of myself for doing this. The platforms are smaller, more rickety, and we are hustled along, no time to stop, unhooked from one line, spun around, hooked to the next and told to GO GO! and we go.

Finally, we come to the end, and it was my favorite zip of all. Not because it was over, but because it was long and swooping, and I was able to lift my legs and land on the 3 x 3 foot wooden box without needing rescue (that was only once because they told me to brake) and without seeing the horrified look on the Lovely Jamaican's face as I came booming along.

Now, we are told we walk back to the rendezvous place, where we began. I remembered the faces of the previous group, and off I go, limping along, trying not to succumb to my pains, and look weak. We go onwards, and downwards some more, remembering the long climb upwards we had done in that jeep, over the non roads and ruts, and I see the path we are taking is similar in texture. Dodging puddles, mud slicks and rocks, we OOH and AHH over the 20-30 foot bamboo thickets, and the 10 foot high plants that I have tried growing at home as a house plant; plants that gave up life after achieving 6 inch height. And we keep going. We reach a lovely lawn, and some shack like outbuildings, we have arrived! No, we haven't. We keep going on, and my limp worsens. The pain in my right knee is fading, as my left thigh and left lower abdomen take over, leaving me without a leg to stand on, and me feet feel like they are swelling in my shoes, my hands are swollen, and I have an itch all over. And we keep walking. Finally we reach the starting/ ending point, and the four steps I need to climb to reach the taking off our gear place is the hardest four steps I had done all day, and after three hundred steps down, and a mile walk through the jungle, that is an obstacle I can not over come, so I have no memory of how I made it up those steps, but somehow I must have, as I am not wearing any rope and pully gear, or a helmut and work gloves. I am so shakey, and in so much pain, that the barbeque jerk chicken has no appeal to me, I get myself a soda, and go to the gift shop, purchace a CD of pictures that I still can not find, and, after finding the very nice people who allowed me to share their locker, I collect my glasses, camera, passport, etc, and find my bus, try notto squeak or cry out with pain as I climb those steps, and I sit.

A bumpy ride several miles back, with out guide again pointing out overgrown fields, and singing Harry Belafonte songs, we finally arrive back at the port, and I see our ship. I have to walk that long dockway back, and I have no recourse but to do it. I do not see the wheelchairs I had seen earlier in the day, for hire, and I am stubborn, and I fight with myself to keep going. I feel terrible, my hands and feet are swollen and numb and tingling, my abdomen is giving me sharp pains, all my muscles are twitching and sore ; I can barely walk, but I keep going. Don't want anyone saying I gave up, don't want to embarrass myself by fainting and collapsing, but that is how I felt, light headed, and just wanting to go home. My real home. I felt in a dream state and was wishing myself instant transport home, or to wake up from this nightmare. I really did have fun, but every moment of pleasure had another element of severe pain and the pain was taking over. I show my bag to the inspectors at the ship, they beep me back on board, and I make my way to the cabin, again, I have no memory of doing this, must have been on auto pilot.

I am supressing tears, and I arrive at my room. My travel mates tell me their tale, and will tell it to you if you ask nicely. Maybe. I change my clothes, apply Gold Bond powder to the rash I acquired somewhere 30 feet over the Jamaican Jungle, and take one of each of my pain pills. Actually I carry them up to the cafe, where I take them, with a large amount of juice to hydrate and replace the electrolytes I lost during the day, and we go hear the end of the Zombies Concert, as, once again, I miss something on the cruise that I had looked so forward to hearing.

And this is the end of part two.

Ship of Dreams, Nightmares, and Delusions

Ship of Dreams, Nightmares, and Delusions

I would like to thank all the people who extended me a kindness during my recent health crisis. As many know, I spend a large portion of my recreational time in pursuit of the perfect concert. I developed symptoms while away enjoying this activity, and am still recovering.

It began with my feeling very tired all winter, unable to work as much overtime as I wanted, I was just unable to function after several hours awake every day, and had trouble getting out of the car, and climbing a half flight of stairs to get home at the end of the day. I was sleeping 9-10 hours a night, and felt depressed. I tried vitamins, and exercise, and only felt worse as the days continued. I had seen a few hints on my eventually diagnosed condition, but had been assured that I was being an alarmist, and that my pain complaints were out of proportion with the problem, that I was having cramps of the female type.

So, I pack my bags, consulting with my friends, and off I go, on a new adventure. I had never been a fan of cruises, but not having been on one, I was slightly less closed minded than I pretended to be. I didn't see the point of going in a big circle, and staying in a small room night after night. Now having done a cruise, I still don't see the point, I have been told I am missing the point. The room was small, and this was the deluxe balcony room, and there is not enough room for everything, and we are very experienced packers, and have all been in European hotel rooms, so it was not culture shock. And what is the point of all the food? You can't eat everything, and yes the offerings were vast, but after the second night, redundant. I chose and ate my favorites, never went hungry, or overstuffed, but a remarkable display is just a pretty sight, like the food halls at Harrods. Not 5 star by any stretch, and for the amount of money my companions and I spent, we could have stayed at a 5 star resort, in a glamorous locale, and dined well, and had concert package seats, and left over cash, for the same amount of time. Many people complained about the pricing, but as long-term concert chasers, we can say that this is how much it costs to travel well. We were less upset with the price than with the accommodations.

It was pleasant to see friends and distant acquaintances, to greet, hug and kiss all the nice people I have met along the way, and it was not nice to see people who made faces, wrinkled and turned up their noses, or pointed and whispered when they saw someone not on their friend list. I was surprised by all the people who greeted me, stating that they knew me by my picture. I must have missed that email, I didn't get any passenger identification photo memo. But as Happy as I was to be present, I was missing that fire in my blood, that burning and tingling feeling I get when living a Rock Tour. I initially thought it was because this was an unusual situation, but my spirit was willing, my flesh was growing weaker. I secretly made a note to myself to see my doctor when I returned home, for some antidepressants, as I felt sure my problem was chemical. I was on a cruise, so many friends and family had been condemning my European Vacations, telling me that the Caribbean was the place to go, that I had been going on the wrong vacations. I am not one to follow convention, nor do I adhere to trends, perhaps I was avoiding cruises to be oppositional, and I was not having fun just to be difficult. But I was having fun, why did I feel so poorly?

 

I would like to add that my special cruise luggage tag was laminated and attached to my suitcase with several staples, dropped off at the assigned spot next to the ship, along side my room mates cases, also with stapled  tags, yet, when we went to our rooms, my bag was not delivered. It did not arrive until late that night, and without its tag. How fortunate that I did not need anything that had been packed in this particular bag. One of several small unrelated events that occurred during the cruise.

 

I was so weak and tired, I missed several of the concerts I had so hoped to attend. I spent much of the cruise plopped in a seat, observing, conversing, and listening. That first full day, we sat down near the stage, waiting for the Band to appear for a Q&A. There were several folks already in place, we found a great seat, and staked out our claim. As the time neared, and as we suffered through the extremely egotistical chef honk his own horn a bit too much, more people arrived. A few of our friends came by, and found seats on their own near us, but it was the total strangers, whose rudeness stands out. I was sitting on the bench surrounding the pool. The pool in front of the stage was covered for the cruise, as a dance space, but was fenced off at this time as they were painting the logo on the floor, so this entire area was unavailable. Poor timing, in my mind, for such a big event. Well, a lady of advancing years, typical for this Band, came by. She was not very nimble limbed, nor was she petite, neither of which made her unusual in this crowd. She asked us to move so she could climb over our bench, we suggested she try the stairs 10 feet away, and she then told us she was sitting here, and plopped her very non petite bottom where two of us had been sitting for 2 hours, in the sun. We politely pointed out that we were already here, and she really needed to find herself another seat, and she told us she wasn't taking up too much room. Now her one behind was taking up more room than the two of us together, neither of us famous for having bony butts, and we pushed back, she really did not want to take no for an answer. Her voice got higher pitched, and more fake sickly sweet, but we didn't fall for it, and she finally moved. I think she did finally curse us, also, but we had been there for two hours, had towels to sit on, water bottles, we were dug in good. I am no amateur. I turned and said to my other travel partner, the one not getting butt checked out of her seat, "and so it begins."

Sal, the interviewer, and our cruise MC, was a weasel. Not only were the questions irrelevant, and redundant, even the Band looked bored. Please do not paint them as disinterested, ask questions they may want to answer. Sal the weasel also constantly told everyone that he was a fan of the band and a great friend of theirs, which raised eyebrows by said Band more than once. He also needed to tell the audience that he was older than he looked, before and after every other question. He was on my list of people not to invite back, there are other DJ's out there more versed in the Band's history, and who are true fans of the genre and period, better than this weasel.

We had our concert that night. A surprisingly large amount of people were able to attend both shows, and managed to complain anyway. We had very nice seats near the front, but when the gentleman in front of me sat in his seat, it gave way, and he landed in my lap. So, that seat went empty for the night, giving me an unobstructed view, except whenever someone tried to sit in it, so most of my concert consisted of a head, and a security guard shooing the head, and the rest of the body, away. And across the aisle from me was another empty seat, one in which the security guard initially monitoring the area allowed someone to sit, never checking her tag for seating assignment. Meanwhile, twice before the concert started, other security guards were sent to my seat, asking me to show my credentials, my seat assignment, one guard even tried to tell me I didn’t belong there, until I pointed out that my seat number matched my tag. This has been happening to me on a very frequent basis at all these concerts, almost as if someone was telling security to check me out, pointing me out specifically. I was very polite, I looked around, wondering who thought my seat might have or should have belonged to them. We were asked by a few folks how we got these seats. We got them the usual way. How did you get yours? I wanted to ask, but I was ever so polite.

The seat across the aisle? A very enthusiastic lady manages to stay there for much of the show, bothered the folks behind her, as they felt they paid to sit there, and she didn't. I will never condemn anyone for dancing to any song at a concert, but do it in your own seat. And the people complaining were more disruptive than the dancing. Now, good manners in concerts dictates that when confronted by security, and asked to leave the seat you didn't pay for, you do the walk of shame, and slink back to row L Hell, or worse. But she was relentless, and declined to show her tag, or leave the first few times she was asked, She had to go back to her room and get her tag, to be let back in, making me wonder how she got in at all, as I had to show my tag several times, even when I was talking to Band Staff. I was doing nothing wrong, so I wasn't upset until I saw all the tags on folks from the previous seating in this concert. At the end of the concert, I was shoved quite hard while I was standing up, applauding, so hard in fact, that I got knocked into the broken seat, and spun around, bumping the gentleman in front of me, I apologized, he said no no, you were pushed, and he helped get me right side up again. Well, several of the people that ended up in front of the folks in the front row, had the other tags on, a few were from this night’s show. It was not the peace loving aging hippy crowd that some were professing, it was more a contact sport. And in my incredibly weakening state, I was losing, and I wasn't even in the competition. I even saw one person passed out, with a bit of moisture out the side of their mouth head bobbing down into their chest during the show. Why was I looking around? Because of the empty seats next to, and in front of me. From the second half onwards, there was an ongoing parade of people trying to sit in either or both seats, with the increasingly ineffective security hustling them away. Very disruptive, and the Band noticed. The Show lost a bit of heart with all these antics. I felt bad for the Band, me, and all the fans out in the audience who had no idea what was going on. I did not feel for the ones who were disruptive, rude, pushy and ill mannered in general. We all paid money to be there, some more than others, but it was voluntary, no one held any guns to any heads forcing them to spend the higher amounts, there was a choice.

Another event was the VIP reception, where we were informed that we were to meet and mingle with the other VIP's, and the Band was to make an appearance. This was changed from the first early advertisements promising a reception with the Band, and it was a victim of its own popularity. Nowhere did I see official reference to any sort of meet and greet, autographs or photo ops. Nor did I infer this from the description. But many did, and ran with it, planning out conversations, presentations, and other assorted fantasies of what they wanted to happen. I have been along with this Band for many years, and while I say never say never with them, I was fairly sure there would be no contact with the Talent. The line formed up for entry, and we all had our tags checked, though some were seen in the line who didn’t have the correct tags. As it happened, Sal the Weasel was there, and no Band, they cancelled. We were asked who went to the most concerts. I know who has been to more than me, and they weren't there, so I won. Not that I was competing. It is just a fact. There was the usual grumbling from the same people. Hey, it is not like I knocked anyone over the head and stole their tickets, or spent disability funds, or child support, or didn't pay my bills to be there. Or lied about how many shows I have been to, like some have. Because I have been to over 300 shows, and many of my friends have been to almost that many, or more, we know who has been there, and who has not. Yes we do indeed. Well, Sal the weasel had a few people tell their stories, one lady said she just discovered the Band, went to one concert, and wanted to know if they had her gift, thanking them for over 40 years of music. That math doesn't add up, how can you thank someone for something you had no part in? And, shocker, she wants to start a petition to place them in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Did she not listen to them say it doesn't matter? More than once? Sal the Weasel didn't, kept at it until I was embarrassed for him, and I didn't like him. Hint, if you want to be a hard core fan, invest some time in exploring the Band's history before spouting off, makes you look ridiculous. And so ended our VIP reception, which I spent mingling with the few VIP's I enjoy spending time with, even when we are common folk, on land, at concerts, or on trains playing with red balloons.

 

 

End of part one.