FIELD NOTES DECEMBER 17, 2015~ Is that a house cat in the emergency room?

FIELD NOTES DECEMBER 17, 2015~
Working, living, loving and dying in the third world!

Is that a house cat in the emergency room?

      I am writing this I am looking out a small window that foreshadows over a landscape of food waste, discarded plastic bottles, rotting boards, the occasional dog with mange, and a little creek of black, human sewage flowing towards the river.  All this and I am being watched over by a flock of big, black, buzzards in yonder trees.  It is hot; I am sweating like two rats screwing on a wool blanket. I am about to wear out my Republic Of China made plastic flyswatter, all the time wondering why I do this. I had just gotten over my second round of stomach flu, aka "please, just let me friggin die," only days ago.  I have never understood why this perplexity of lower-bowels dysfunction seems always to hit you in the middle of the night. Once more, the second 'run in,' (a play on words) lasted for three days, and I was not able to get to a medical doctor. This one time I played the clock out eating charcoal from the fire pit, some juice made from pulverized oregano leaves and the occasional sip of mystery soup fed to me by a woman here in the village.  As a side note, I do not eat soup of any kind, unless, I am so sick, I can not walk, crawl, or drag myself to solid food. Sick in the jungle is bad enough, but to get sick and not have modern medical help can sometimes be fatal. However, let me tell you about my first bout of "that crap doesn't look like sliced bologna to me."

       Waking up at oh-two-hundred hours in the morning and thinking I needed to relieve my bowels. While sitting on the porcelain thrown, it became abundantly clear that I was on the verge of something very unpleasant. I was able to lean forward and drag a plastic five-gallon bucket of water across the floor and position it in front of me. I immediately started splashing my face, neck and head with the fresh water; I am not sure where the water came from, all I wanted to do was cool down as my body was quickly becoming a burning furnace. I felt my stomach churn, I moved the five-gallon bucket out of the way and tried to stand, hoping to make the stool with the first spewing. I was too weak to stand and keep my balance, I slump unceremonious back on the thrown, and the floor in front of me caught the stomach discharge. I continued to heave; finally, there was nothing, but now I am sweltering, burning up.  I am on fire! Sweat is pouring from every pore. More water on my face, neck, and head. I think I passed out, then again maybe I just went to sleep.  I do not know, all I know is that I am now sensing that my legs are asleep.  Once more I try to stand, more heaving, my stomach is empty, but the spasms still come. More fuzziness, more psychoneurotic dreams of dying.

      Slowly I can stand, rinse my mouth with some of the water in the five-gallon bucket and ricochets off the walls while trying to make it down the hallway to my bed. Laying down I felt another hot rush come over my body, I was sweating profusely, my stomach once again begins to churn, so I decided to make another run for the head. I fought the good fight until morning but by this time I was utterly exhausted and too weak to die. This life and death struggle went on until the morning when I was sure I was getting ready to meet my maker.

      As luck would have it, a woman, whom I knew came by to check on me and said I needed to go to the hospital. I declined the offer but was overridden by a five-feet-four-inch, one-hundred and eighteen-pound gorilla who forced her way on a sick man. The hospitals in many South American countries are free. However, you pay for the medicines, needles, tubing, plaster cast, saline or whatever is needed. This system I am sure is the forerunner if not the model for a more controlling, privacy invasive and highly overrated 'cluster-fuck' called Obama Care.

      When you show up at the hospital, you enter a large room with rows of hard, plastic chair. You get in line at the admissions desk to talk to a 'nurse' or person that is acting as a nurse; I never could figure out who did what. Once they saw you, and you explained your problem, the first call of action was to give you a list of what you needed and either yourself or someone with you goes outside to one of the pharmacies near the front entrance and get your supplies. Everyone seemed to have the exact prescription regardless of their ailment. Once a needle and a bottle of Saline is purchased you come back inside and give the package to the 'nurse' at the desk, This desk is right next to the first desk you waited in line at, and she, and or he will in time call you into a small alcove. At this point, the needle is stuck into the back of your hand, and the bottle of Saline leaked into your body.  A Cotton ball soaked in rubbing alcohol is given most everyone to sniff the fumes. I took a baby sniff and threw mine in a 55-gallon barrel that was supposed to be the trash can.

     You are walked out into the reception area once more and seated once more in another plastic chair up against another wall with makeshift bottle holder that keeps the saline bottle over your head. I noticed that most of these holders were bent clothes hangers or just wires formed into an 'S' shape. Some people who couldn't find a coat hanger just had someone stand beside them holding the bottle up in the air.  After the saline bottle dripped out, which takes about one hour it was time to see the doctor, on call.  In this line, there is a new doctor so it is a new line once again until he can see you. Once inside his small room a quick exam is made, and a diagnosis is made and if needed a new list of scripts, if necessary, must be gotten from the pharmacy. I can almost say with confidence that 99% of the people coming into the emergency go through this procedure.

      Some observations on the emergency room, which was a large, spacy room that was open on two sides. I assumed a massive square concrete, pillar in the center of the room with a sign that said, 'stand here in case of an earthquake,' helped hold up the expansive, roof.  The front entrance had no doors; it is just open to the outside, and the wall on that side of the room are decorative concrete blocks, also open to the outside.  Most of the people entering the emergency room were with small children who were hacking, runny noses and overall miserable in their current affliction.  One man who looked to be in his mid-forties was brought in by an ambulance. He was laid out on a hospital gurney and wheeled up to the admission desk. He lay there on his back, unconscious I might add for what seemed like an eternity; however, I am sure it wasn't over fifteen minutes. Finally, a male 'nurse' whom I named the Angel of Death, came out and looked into his eyes with a small flashlight, pinched his fingernails to see if he was dead, took his temperature and disappeared through the double doors down a hallway. A few minutes later the Angel of Death and whom I assumed was a real 'doctor' came out, and he talked to the wife and looked at the man. At this point, two other people came up, and they pushed the gurney through the double doors, and he disappeared. It seems the man was working on his mother's house and had fallen off the roof and landed head first on some rocks about sixteen feet below. I heard later he had a fractured skull and broken neck. I have no idea if he lived or died since I left the hospital before I could get a report.

      When do I mean when I say I did not get a report?  I mean there is a rumor mill that works the hospital from the moment you come in until you leave. There were a couple of guys with official looking 'PRESS' badges of some kind; they could have made them off a computer for all I knew. They had a little blue vest with multiple pockets, sort of like a blue Wal-Mart Safari Vest, and cell phones that they used as cameras.   They took photos and video of people, especially the ones who came in with a severe injury, then again for all I know they could have been working for an attorney. They ask questions, people, strangers to the afflictions at hand grow near, listening to every word, thus the rumor mill, the report so to speak. One of the three nasty ones I saw this day was a man laying on a slab.  As I said, it was not uncommon for a crowd of onlookers from inside the hospital's emergency room to check out the gory details. This same scenario took place when a young girl who looked to be in her early twenties, was taken out of another ambulance, unconscious with what I assumed to be a brain seizure.  She later appeared, her head drooping, sitting in a wheelchair as she was pushed outside to a waiting ambulance. A few minutes later two more people came from behind the mystery area behind the double doors, one walking, with some help, the other on a gurney. All three were loaded into the ambulance and hauled off to another clinic, or that was the rumor going around. As far I know they could have been heading to the Soylent Green Factory.

     By the way, the emergency room floor was dirty. No! I do not mean it was dirty, I mean it was filthy. There was a thin film of sand or dust on everything. The decorative concrete blocks that made up the wall that leads outside had a fine layer of dust inside the designs. I have to assume the only time they got cleaned or washed off was when a good hard rain was blown in by a breeze.  An empty saline bag, complete with hose and needles lay in one of the plastic chairs in the waiting room the full time I was there. A woman across the aisle from me, who had a needle saline bag and something smaller feeding a needle in her hand, would occasionally cough and gag, turn her head sideways and spit the mucus on the floor between her chair and the one next to it. The puddle grew larger as the hours passed. Two different adult cats prowled the emergency room without hindrance. The orange one I named Doctor Cat and assumed he was in charge of emergency room rat control.  The black and white cat, I took for his assistance.

      Step whatever of Obama care:  After saline solution or whatever is slowly dripping into your veins, you were directed to a third small office for a quick evaluation by another 'doctor.' This doctor made the another decision of some kind. If he thinks you need additional care, you are directed about half a kilometer down a long open-air hallway to another set of offices where more plastic chairs line the wall. Once more you get in line, needle in hand, and your sack of meds besides you, you wait again. Finally, your time comes, and another 'doctor evaluates you,' again I am only assuming he was a doctor, he had a white lab coat and looked concerned when he talked to you.  If this person thinks you needed further care you directed to return to the first waiting area and show the papers given to you down the hallway to the person at the first desk. They typically seemed to read the paper, stand and walk off before returning and asking you to follow them through the mysterious double doors.  Now we are getting somewhere ---- Although I never got to visit area 51 while I was ill.  I did, however, visit this area a few weeks later when a friend's daughter got hurt. She received a skull fracture and was kept for three days. She was in bed in the emergency care area with an unconscious adult male who lay on a gurney in a coma, and he was naked to the world with a thin, sheet made of mosquito netting draped over him from neck to ankles. It left nothing to the imagination. His wife sat in a chair next to him, her face drawn, eyes red and swollen from crying.  Also, in the room was an adult woman laying on a bed with no sheets, and a very young girl who turned out to be her daughter standing next to her bed holding a saline bottle her mother's head.

     The room was large with six beds lining the walls. There were huge windows on one wall without any glass or any way to close them from the outside. I was there in the evening, and the lights attracted numerous large moths and other insects from outside. Not to worry as a cadre of small Chameleon worked the walls with precision and daring.  A lightbox used to read X-ray film was on the wall next to the nurses room; it had no plastic covers over the bulbs. The ceiling fixture looked as if they would come crashing from the heights at any time. Across the hall, a massive room opened directly onto the hallway. A three-feet high concrete block wall kept one from wandering into the area; that is without using the designated opening in the wall. The room had solid walls on each end, but it also was open to the outside on the far side of the room with numerous windows, with no glass opened to the outside. I counted twenty-four beds; all draped in mosquito netting, all full of Malaria, Dengue Fever, and Chikungunya (Chi-coon gun yah) patients.   I have no idea where they keep the next people that come in with the America's newest malady called, IZKA fever.  As of this moment, there were no Zeka Fever patients in Peru. From what I hear, 'rumors' from real doctors that know what they are talking about, this ZEKA Fever is some nasty stuff.

      Let's back up to Obama Care, just before being sent to through the mysterious double doors. Say you are not taken into tomorrow land, but send back to the emergency waiting room where you have to see one more doctor. Again, you sit in a row of plastic chairs; there were only four of them, and the line seems to be moving pretty fast unless the ill who could care less about protocol, bypass the four chairs and push their way ahead of everyone else and stand in the doorway of this doctors office. I have noticed that a certain group of people in the United States, especially the younger to middle aged one think the world owes them something. I try to always, say excuse me, hold the door open for women and old folks. I always attempt to step to the curb and to give room for those who need special care. Besides this ethnic group of Americans I speak of above, I have found that many people from middle eastern countries as well have no social manners. Regardless of color, religion or national origin I always try to hold the door open for ladies or anyone with an arm full of packages, etc. And as they stomp through the portal in their baggy pants, pajamas or polypropylene, stretch pants and a smirk on their face while sending another text messages, I typically give them time for an acknowledgment ---- Not that I need one. However I feel some people think the world owes them something, they are self-centered, users of others, and I want them to know, that I know what worthless assholes they are, so I say,
     "Yeah you're welcome," quite loudly with some sarcasm of course.
     When they bump into me or try to pull a quarterback sack, and jump ahead, even pushing small children, I enjoy stepping to one side and saying,
     "Excuse me, let me get out of your way."

    So what does this have to do with the price of rice in China? I have no idea; I just wanted to give you a heads-up on what to expect from Socialized Medicine and it wonderful care.

P.S.: Don't give up your guns, and never let the bastards grind you down.

FIELD NOTES JANUARY 22, 2016~ Working, living, loving and dying in the third world!

FIELD NOTES JANUARY 22, 2016~
Working, living, loving and dying in the third world!

Hello, is anyone there?

       The other unspeakable is getting thrown into the hoosegow, with foreign jails being the worst. If you are a person of Western or Eastern European descent with fair colored skin that looks like boiled liver, you will stand out like a giant raspberry on a whore's nose. Especially if everyone else is brown, black, off beige or slightly pale-yellow and they all speak another language. And it doesn't matter how many languages you mastered at the Defense Language Institute, Foreign Language Center at the Presidio or how high a score you made on your finals, everyone knows you're a foreigner the moment you open your pie-hole. You remember foreigners? It is that ancient, non-politically-correct word for assholes, that are not from around here. "Here," being where ever you are, incarcerated, held against your will and or in captivity, aka, jail.

      I have been in a couple of "jails" over the years. Got throw in a county jail recently because the judge said I was in contempt of court. I told him he had no idea how much contempt I held for him and his "fucking court."  It seems judges do not like for you to use the courts full and proper name.  That smart ass remark cost me a few hours in jail, plus a few thousand dollars. I guess money can't buy you love, but it can buy you out of jail since the judge has to make his country club and car payments. I am not saying they will take a bribe or payoff; I am just saying they are bureaucrats and elected officials. I hold the vast majority of them right up there with clowns, pedophiles, Henrick Hemler, used car salesmen and Democrats.

      As a side note, if "they," really want you "they," will get you on some charge, real or fake and you can fight it, but you will lose. "They," have endless bureaucratic pencil dicks, who do nothing but figure out ways to part you from your money, and or freedom. I have found the only difference in American lawyers, courts, judges, and jails is the amount of money you have to pay them to either stay out or get out of your imprisonment. It is just cheaper in foreign countries.

      Got thrown in a military lockup once for ----Ah! Let's just leave it at that, needless to say, and it was not fun.  I was there for about three days until the Command Sergeant Major found me. I have never seen an officer get dressed down so badly by a non-com, as that captain did. Sergeant Major was shoving my identification, in the captain's face and pointing out with numerous expletives what individual codes my clearance card meant.  It was a sort of Monopoly 'Get out of jail free card' with phone numbers to call.  All theSergeant Major was lecturing the Captain about his mother's sexual explicit adventures with sailors and farm animals.  End of story is, there was no "bad" time on my DD214, no loss of pay, and I was driven straight to the airport where my baggage and passage out of that time zone were awaiting me.

      Foreign jail on the other hand or the proverbial MoFo, in polite language. First off if you are an American, you are a target because you are from the Big PX, and have an endless supply of money. You know that tree that all the money grows on in your backyard?  Now to bust your bubble, in the movies, the pencil dick from the embassy comes over and finds you languishing in a cell.  He is a gasp and immediately calls the Commandant of the prison and "demands" your release.
      "He is an American ---- How dare you not call the embassy ---- Get him out of there," Pencil Dick, shouts with righteous indignation.

      The Commandant, bitch slaps the lieutenant, who in turn bitch slaps the sergeant who in turn locates a set of keys and lets you out of your cell. After Pencil Dick gets you out of 'El Fuego Dumpo Banana Prison'  he hands you a fist full of money while you ride over to the four-star hotel, all the time begging for your forgiveness.  Once there you get to sit on the porcelain throne of future worlds without fear of getting bitten on the ass by a snake. Time for a long, hot, shower, grab a bottle of cold beer and stretch out on the sheets and take a nap. When you awake the sun is down, it is cool outside, and you feel so much better; it is time to get dressed and find something to eat.

       The only guy working at this hour is a street vendor charcoaling something with long toenails on a refrigerator cooling-coil, over a Gulf Oil barrel. Oh, goody! He is cooking "monkey-meat" tacos, with his families' secret, sauce recipe, tonight.  Wow! You got out of jail just in time.

      In real life, nobody from the embassy is coming to get you out of jail. They could care less, and you are just another asshole on a long, paper list of other assholes that got caught doing something stupid. Unless you have some special papers hid out, a great secret, or a talent that "Uncle" needs, then your butt is grass and the people with funny names who sweat a lot, and smell like goat urine, are the lawnmower.

     However, maybe, just maybe if you have some specialty uncles needs ---- he may get you and send your lonesome out of the county.  By the way, the stretched nylon web seats in the back of uncle's C-130, or other designated number is almost impossible to sleep in, and the engine noise along with the JP fuel odors will give you a headache. When you do get to where-ever uncle is sending you, the lift gate lowers, the hot, humid air of another paradise rushes on board carrying with it a whiff of monkey meat pies and open sewers.

      Even though I never cared for the seventh floor at Langley, life is good. I did however especially like the job title on my business card, "Human Resource Management Coordinator."

FIELD NOTES JANUARY 15,2016~ Working, living, loving and dying in the third world!

FIELD NOTES JANUARY 2016~
Working, living, loving and dying in the third world!

Don't get sick

        There are two things that I have never gotten accustomed too. Number one is getting sick when you are away from home. I am not talking about over at your friend's house, or at the water park in Kansas City, but away from home. A foreign country is away from home, and getting sick in an alien world sucks the big one. If you do not speak the language 'fluently' and or if you are not supposed to be in that country (no visa) then it is a real bummer.  If you're sick enough to walk or crawl somewhere else, you are in luck. However if you are so ill that you can not wait for death to bitch slap you upside the head with a cold Carp fish, you're screwed.
     
      Most of the illnesses you will come across in foreign countries are going to be "gut related" and not bullet induced.  If you are wounded, then "they" already know you here, and they will hunt you down and plug you numerous times until you quit kicking and screaming.  When your butt is hanging out the third-floor window of a so-called "safe house," and you're painting the alley down below with taco sauce after eating the street vendor's "special," well, then and only then will you fully grasp the meaning of life.  It is a slow and painful death that comes to those who think they are indestructible and bullet proof.
     
     Even if you can not speak the language of the shit-hole you are in, but you need medicine other than berries and roots cooked and fermented in a stone jar, you can get help.  If you make convulsive, actions like you are vomiting, and at the same time spread your legs and using your hands to indicate spraying diarrhea, while making gaseous-bowel-sounds with your mouth, you can get you some medical relief.  It seems as if you can be in any country or store from your friendly WalMart Pharmacist to the local witch doctor and they will understand your problem.
     
     My advice that I seldom seem to take is never eat anything cooked over a recycled oil drum covered with scrap refrigerator coils. If it is still bleeding, has flies, worms or anything else walking on it, smells funny, taste even strangers, or the 'locals' claim it is a delicacy ---- Stay away from it like the plague.

EBOLA ~ THE VIRUS THAT IS SOMETIMES CALLED THE “SLATE WIPER.”

THE VIRUS THAT IS SOMETIMES CALLED THE “SLATE WIPER.”

Would the United States government or any world government tell its citizenry if there were a major catastrophic event about to happen? Of course not, unequivocally no, nada and as a matter of fact no way Jose. Unlike in the movies where the politicians go on television and explain to the people that a meteor is approaching earth and we have but a few weeks to survive, in reality you are on your own. It sort of like being thrown in a jail in Mexico or some other foreign country. In the movie you call the American Embassy and a slick suited Harvard grad working for the State Department shows up at your cell and tells the foreign jailers to unlock your cell. Good example is U.S. Marine Sergeant Andrew Tahmooressi, who is still in Mexican jail as of this message.

A “Slate Wiper or Slate Cleaner” is the a term used to describe a catastrophic event that would “clean” (kill) every living human (cleaner) from the face of the earth. Said for an example a meteor the size of a two Wal-Mart tractor trailers or three Blake Shelton, country western tour buses. Would uncle get on NBC, FOX or CBS and warn the worker bees?  Of course not! So are they telling us the truth about the seriousness of EBOLA within our borders? I do not think so. A prime example was in the winter of 1989 at Reston, Virginia just outside Washington DC. A bio-hazard 'Slate Cleaner' so deadly and gruesome that even bio-hazard experts were horrified. A virus so deadly that nine out of ten of its victims died a horrifying and quick death. Not much was know about it, expert were afraid it might be airborne and all agreed it was an extremely contagious virus known as Ebola. For the next eighteen days a special detachment of armed military personnel and scientist dressed in space suits specially designed for a hot virus worked secretly to contain this killer.

Aboard an airplane a infected passenger blended into the populace and became a human virus bomb only nine years before Reston, VA.  It came from the forest of Africa. This rare and lethal virus was believed to have been born in a remote African jungle cave known as Kitsum.  He was a white man working in Africa who became sick and traveled by air to Nairobi, Kenya and then by taxi to a local hospital.  He had become sick while at home and, thinking he had a mild case of Malaria due to his eyes being red and irritated, aching muscles and fever. His abdomen had become tender, sore and his thoughts even turned to a possibly a case of Typhoid fever, even gallstones or a liver abscess was not ruled out. More pain and a self prescribed antibiotics did not help as his fever jumped and he became jaundice. A antimalarial shot at a local dispensary was excruciatingly painful. He decided he needed to leave the bush and made his way to a hospital in Nairobi, Kenya.   Almost unable to walk he made his way from the taxi into the hospital but was told to sit and wait his turn with others in the Casualty Room. As he sat there on a bench he was sweating, burning up from fever and his red eyes became blurry. His skin showed blotched bruising most likely from blood pooling under his skin. Waiting in the Casualty Room of the hospital he waited with the others before the “human virus bomb” exploded. He crashed as the saying goes bleeding out as his spine gave way he grew weak, became dizzy lost all sense of balance as he went into shock. Leaning forward with his head on his knees he began to groan and vomited a huge amount of black fluid and blood from his stomach. Gasping for air he rolled out of the chair and fell face down on the floor, unconscious and choking on a more vomit. A sound that some describe as that of a cloth being torn or ripped apart was the sound of his bowel opening up and venting more blood and the lining of his intestines out of his anus. At this point the virus had destroyed it host and was pouring from every body orifice, looking for a new host. This is the reality of Ebola. This was the account by witness of what they saw that night in Nairobi

Now we jump forward to 1989 and visit a secret government research facility where scores of test monkeys were confined in what was known as the Monkey House. The Monkey House was a Biosafety Level 4 military lab in Reston, Virginia and monkeys were coming down sick and dieing. Scientist who worked there were horrified, mortality among primates was 100%, there was not a known cure. A virus so rare that almost no one had ever seen or worked with the pathogen.

Speculations on what type virus was loose in the Monkey House was critical to the community as well as the personnel working at the facility.  The virus at the top of the list was one of the pathogens from the “Family of Filovirues,” such as the Marburg virus which is the mildest of these deadly viruses but it wasn't Marburg instead it was Ebola killing the monkeys. The facility was put under armed guard with all windows, doors and exhaust vents being covered with plastic sheeting and duct-taped air tight.  The public was not alerted to this time bomb of this event.  

SIDA which is also known as AIDS, Ebola Zaire and Ebola Sudan are all dangerous pathogens to humans. Of the later Ebola Zaire is one of the worst of these viruses with a 90% kill rate among infected humans. Ebola Zaire is commonly referred to as a “slate wiper in humans.” I do not know which variation of Ebola is currently in the United States.

So how did all these deadly virus come about? How did it get here? What are our options? Some background.  

A general theory of the origins of AIDS goes back to Africa as well. In the late nineteen-sixties when the trade in primates (monkeys) for medical studies was more wide spread monkey trappers were exposed to different or unusual virus carried by wild monkeys. Another more popular theory is that it was a man made pathogen cooked up in a government lab to destroy certain racial groups. I do not hold to that theory but I have studied and read some interesting hypothesis.

Marburg Virus is the little sister to the Ebola strains with a mortality rate of about 50%. It has come and gone numerous times over the last century.  Ebola Sudan came and went in the summer of 1976 hitting the town of Nzara and Maridi in southern Sudan, Africa. Ebola Sudan has a morbidity rate of about twice that of the Marburg virus. Ebola Sudan has been compared to the Black Plague with about the same death rate during the Middle Ages. Ebola Sudan could have quickly spread out across Africa into Europe and the Americans with a devastatingly high death count. However for some unknown reason after killing a few hundred people in Africa seemed to just die out much unlike AIDS which has spread out world wide.

Ebola Zaire is by far more deadly than the Marburg virus, Ebola Sudan, or AIDS. Ebola Zaire raised it ugly head in September of 1976 some five months after its far less deadly brother Ebola Sudan disappeared into the African countryside. Ebola Zaire first showed up in Bumba Zone in a number of villages along the Ebola River. Ebola Zaire is nearly twice as lethal as Ebola Sudan, and the first case history of this killer has never been established. One theory is that Ebola Zaire could have crossed into humans from someone touching something bloody or from hunting and eating monkey meat. Theoretically it could have just as easily developed in humans from human contact from eating or touching an insect, antelope, elephants or cave-bat. The Bat theory and the pathogens found on the floor of caverns in the area hold some truth in my opinion.   The Ebola Zaire virus surfaced at the Yambuku Mission Hospital which was ran by Belgian nuns. It is said that the nurses who worked there would lay out five or six hypodermic syringes every day and used them to give injections to hundreds of patients daily. It was reported that they sometimes rinsed the blood off the needles in warm water between injections.........The key word here is sometimes.

Ebola virus is HIGHLY INFECTIOUS and as few as five or ten particles of the pathogen can infect a new host. One day near the Obnaui River a school teacher from the mission hospital purchased some fresh killed monkey meat from a road side vendor. Within a couple of days the school teacher who was the first case of Ebola Zaire was ill most likely from his injection with a contaminated needle. How did the needle get infected? Like I said, the needles were only “sometimes” rinsed off but not sterilized and maybe someone from a village who was infected with the virus transferred the pathogen. Remember it only takes five to ten particles of the virus to infect a new host. Such a small amount of the virus could be transferred between shots as people were vaccinated or medically injected for one reason or the other all day long. Almost simultaneously within days over fifty villages in the area of the hospital erupted with the virus. People who had received injection at the hospital were the first to die and family members in particularly women who prepared the bodies became ill and died also. Within days the Yambuku Hospital’s nursing staff was decimated, killing most of the health care workers. The Belgian nuns were next with a story of a midwife dieing in five days after infection after touching a dead fetus from a infected woman. 

The Ebola virus attacks every organ in the body and is made up of seven proteins when assembled in the correct arrangement become the “perfect” parasite, transforming every organ in the human body except the skeletal muscles and bones into a liquefied slush. The virus is relentless, consuming the host as it reproduces itself. Small blood clots form and travel into smaller veins where they thicken and die causing dead spots to form in the brain, lungs, intestines, testicles in the case of men, liver, lungs and in breast tissue in both men and women. The Ebola virus is ferocious as it attacks more tissue. Collagen in the body turns to mush and the underlying skin dies and liquefies. The surface of the skin begins to blister with clear white bubbles, simultaneously red blotches resembling tapioca pudding known as a “Maculopapular Rash” appears. These red blotches grown, spread and merge forming soft, pulpy lesions that tear off at the slightest touch. The poor infected person begins to bleed around his teeth, mouth and salivary glands. The tongue first turns sore then bright red just before the surface sloughs off. It an the lining of the throat is sometimes swallowed down the windpipe and is either coughed up with sputum or swallowed into the stomach. The brain becomes clogged and spongy from dead cells in a process known as “sludging.” The eyeballs fill with blood, you weep tears of blood that run down blotched blood blistered cheeks. Even though the inside of the body is being plugged with clotted blood that which is seeping from every body orifice will not clot. This blood has been destroyed, ripped and shredded as if run through a blender void of all clotting factors.

Men's testicles swell and turn black, while in women the labia turns bright blue, protrudes with massive vaginal bleeding. Both men and women bleed from their nipples, while their guts fill with blood as the gut linings die and slough off into the bowels. Ebola destroys the human brain and if you're lucky you have a hemispherical stroke that will lead to death. Convulsion and “Grand Mal Seizures” are common with body twitching and uncontrollable movement of extremities. In the final moments of death these tremors of epileptic convulsions cause a “smearing” or splattering of virus rich blood particles (fluids) to be spread. It is like a scene from the movie Alien when the little monster eats his way out of the host lying on the table. The body of the host flops, and convulses as the Alien baby rips open the body. Thus the pathogen spreads itself about giving it a chance to find a new host.  

Even after death a Ebola virus saturated body is dangerous as the Ebola virus can live for a week in fluid. Can it be spread in the air? That is up to speculation, however federal officers at Reston seemed to be scared to death that the virus would become airborne and as I said duct-taped all windows, and doors from the inside, covering every one with heavy plastic sheeting. Dead monkeys were sealed in heavy plastic sack, stored in freezers for further research. The complete complex was sanitized (?) with a strong disinfectant such as Clorox and water. Frankly everyone I have ever spoken to has been extremely fearful of breathing the air around an infected person. Is the virus airborne? Honestly I do not know and do not think officials would tell us if it was.

SOME FACTS TO THINK ABOUT:

In comparison the size differences between a virus and a bacteria, it has been said that a bacteria would be the size of a Grey Hound bus and a virus would be in comparison a cell phone.

Ebola is a replicating virus which is very powerful and it multiplies extremely fast. All fluids from a hot host are extremely dangerous.  Fluid being washed down city sewers or rain removal systems could live for an extend period of time. How long?  Some say at least 7 to 10 days.   

A single droplet of blood from an infected host can contain one hundred million individual Ebola particles.

When working in New Orleans right after Hurricane Katrina any person or vehicle that traveled outside our compound had to decontaminated upon return. A viable spray for killing most viruses is made by using a 5.125% solution of Clorox in water. I am not saying this is a foolproof method of killing or containing Ebola and/or any other virus, I am saying this what FEMA and the CDC used in our compound to DECON all personnel and vehicles.    

MAMONES FRUIT IS RIPE NOW

GRIZZLY KNIFE GRINDER MODIFICATIONS

The following set of photos show a standard Grizzly Knife Grinder that has been modified making it much easier to grind both the slab and mark side of a blade.   

Line up the metal extension bar measuring the distance between the two holes in the STEADY REST and drill two holes in the bar that will align with them. You will also need to measure a hole for your contact wheel's bearing "SHAFT"  The wheel in the photo has a locking nut.

A quick note about the photo below this post.  When you are cutting off a piece of the shaft that holds the idler arm assembly, be VERY, VERY CAREFUL. Do not take off to much material. DO NOT CUT SHAFT UNTIL YOU HAVE BUILT the contact wheel extension. WHY? As you extent the distance between the "drive wheel" (wheel that is attached to motor shaft)  and the "contact wheel" (knife grinding wheel) the distance that a standard 2" X 72" is shorten TO THE IDLER WHEEL. So the idler wheel shaft assembly has to be shortened so that idler arms assembly will go further down inside the shaft housing. 

The photo below this comment shows the new contact wheel attached to the new shaft. 

Unidentified Flying Objects – UFO

Unidentified Flying Objects – UFO

      Everyone one has heard of Unidentified Flying Objects or UFO for short, if not you would have to, being politically correct; living under a rock. I have heard of UFO's since I was a young boy watching old, black and white, movies; It Came From Outer Space, Invaders from Mars, War of The Worlds, Red Planet Mars, and The Day the Earth Stood Still. Even before these classics, on Saturdays I would sit in the Circle Theater in Whittier Square in Tulsa watching such monotonous serial thrillers with Buck Rogers, Dr. Zarkov, Dale Arden, Emperor Ming and the planet Mongo. Many a night when outside I would look up at the stars and watch something moving across the sky, not knowing if it were a plane or some mysterious alien space ship? Only once did I see what I thought was a space ship otherwise know as a UFO to coin a modern phrase. It was big, covered with pulsing, bright, colored lights and caused the farm tractor that my two cousins and I were riding on to die stop running. It was about ten o'clock at night, summertime in central Kansas. We were planting Bermuda grass sprigs off a contraction attached on the back of the big A-model, John Deere tractor. We saw it at a distance, maybe a mile or so over the trees at the far end of the plowed field. It swooped down and seemed to hover before slowing moving over the sparse clump of trees in the fence row and then over the field closer to us. It hovered for a moment maybe half way between the fence row and our tractor before shooting off to the west in an almost unbelievable speed. My two cousins and I talked about it, all trying to bolster our bravado with bold talk. The driver of the tractor was about seventeen, his brother riding beside me was less than fifteen and I was only ten months older than he.

     Suddenly far to the south the UFO, for no better word or explanation appeared on the horizon and raced towards us, stopping even closer the second time of our encounter. Up close the lights became so bright it was almost impossible to see any shape of the hovering craft; the engine on the tractor died, the lights died. It was dead quite, there seemed to be no sounds other than the sound of my heart beating in my throat. The blood rushed through my ears in gushing whooshes of pure fear. At this point, all bravado ended as the three of us bailed from the tractor and ran headlong into the darkness of the field. Feeling safe, we lay wide eyed in the freshly, disk and sprigged dirt on the Kansas prairie. What seemed to be an eternity, was over in a flash as the UFO darted away with such rapidity the void turned dark in a wink. We lay there, no one moved, no one spoke and then suddenly the weak headlights, and one work light over the Bermuda grass sprigger came to life, just as the big green, “pop'en-johnny” bellowed to life. In his hurry to jump off the tractor my older cousin had left the ignition open and a hand throttle open on the John Deere. It lurched forward and with no one to steer it, it began a wobbly path that would have made an earth worm proud.

     My older cousin jumping up and made a mad dash across the plowed field, and somehow was able to get on the moving tractor and got it stopped. Killing the tractor's engine caused its lights to go out as well, and once again it was dark. Sitting in the dirt, darkness now surrounded us once more and the absent of any sounds seemed only to heighten the suspense. We three sat in there starring into the summer night, watching the stars, waiting and trying to understand what had just happened. I do not remember how long the three of us sat there in the dark, talking in hushed voices, building up our courage and questioning our eyes. My older cousin who ran the crew stood and said we get back to work on the sprigger. Climbing into the tractor's seat he started the engine and we quickly fell back into the routine of planting grass sprigs.

     My cousin, the driver methodically dropped the tractor's rear tire into the freshly cut slit left by the cutting disc from the previous pass. While driving the tractor he faced forward and it was his job to keep the rows straight. His younger brother and I sat atop the wire caged sprigger. We sat with our backs to the rear-axle assembly of the tractor, looking down from where we had been. The sprigger was attached to the tractor's three-point hookup. At the end of a row, the driver would pull a lever and the three-point hook up with us seated side by side would be picked up in entirely. The tractor would make a sweeping turn with up bouncing atop the sprigger assembly. The driver would then line up the next row before unceremoniously dropping up back to the ground where we would begin feeding the every spinning rubber mouth of the planter.

     Even though the sun had set some hours earlier, it was still hot there in Kansas on that August night. We pulled Bermuda grass twigs sprigs from the overhead basket and fed the spring loaded mouth that was one continuous wheel, all the time we search the horizon with wary eyes. Then it happened. The UFO came over the trees from the east, moving at a high speed, no sound barely missing the tops of the fence post, and seeming oblivious to the scrub oaks that dotted the area. It was now closer to us than before, its shape blurred by bright pulsing lights and no sound other than the John Deere's popping, song sung out on two cylinders. Before the tractor's engine could die, my cousin had switched off the magneto, dumped the clutch and the three of us were running towards the one-ton flatbed Chevrolet truck parked at the edge of the field. The area around the truck was dimly lit by the glow from the UFO's lights, we piled in the truck. The engine would not start, and then as quick as it had come the UFO seemed to rocket upwards at an angle into the heavens with lighting speed. The truck engine started and the three of us headed for our motel in Cherryvale.

     Across the parking lot from the motel, near the street, was a telephone booth bumped up against a utility pole. We talked for a moment and then decided to make a phone call. The oldest of the three of us, put a nickel in the slot and dialed “O” for operator, and waited for nickel to makes it clanking trip back to the coin return slot. My cousin told the operator we wanted to be connected to the sheriff's office or the highway patrol. She asked what the problem was, and he said he wanted to report a flying saucer. The operator became very irritated and threatened to have charges files on him for playing a prank. Trying to explain to the operator what had happened only brought on more of her sarcasm and threats, before she hung up. The nickel dropped into the return coin slot.

     The three of us made a PAC and we decided to not ever speak of this event, and until now I have never revealed the story. That was over fifty years ago that I saw my first UFO. Was it really a flying saucer from another world, or just a military experiment? Maybe it was mass hallucinations brought on my breathing too much dust, gasoline exhaust fumes, dehydration or lack of proper sleep. Needless to say only once more in my life have I seen something like this that I could not explain. This time, however, it was something that shook my beliefs to the core, it made me have to completely reevaluate my perception of reality, more so than seeing a UFO.

THE HEART OF A KNIFE

HEAT TREATING – WHAT IT MEANS TO A KNIFE
1095, 5160, D2 or 52100.

First I would like to say that one of, if not the best knife maker in the country today is Bob Dozier. I worked in the Dozier shop, at Morseth Knives for three years, for those who were not aware of it. Bob, was an inspiration for me, and contributed to my knowledge of knives and knife making eminently. He, and I, were talking one day in the shop while making knives. Bob was a perfectionist when it came to heat treating his knives. He would not hesitate to break or destroy a blade that did not meet his critical eye, and I have always admired him for that. One particular day he and I were discussing this very subject as this note addresses, and Bob said something that has always stuck with me. We were talking about the junk that many people consider as such a good knife.

Bob, was grinding blades and I was doing finish work, when Bob, stopped grinding and looked towards me. “Lindsey,” he said as he seldom called me by my real name unless he used my first name. “They have never really owned a good knife,” he added. I thought about that, and I have never forgotten that statement. I think of it when I see some of the remarks propagated from person to person on forums. How true the words, “They have never really owned a good knife.”

Another thing that Bob said to me, "China makes better knives than 90% of these so called knife makers." He was referring to makers here in the United States. That is for another story, but Bob is right on with that statement alsol.

I have always maintained the fact that the heat treat is the heart of a knife. It could be made from 2,000 layers of steel hammer forged from the bowels of a buffalo dung fire by a guy wearing a dress and listening to Beethoven. Handled with some rare eco-friendly long dead tree, and shiny, but you would be about a well off with cat-scat in one hand, and can of Shinola shoe polish in the other if it is not properly heat treated. In reality you would be better off in the woods with a tuna fish can lid, after all you know it will cut. For some reason there is small number of people who have knives made, (notice I did not say knife makers) and a few knife makers who have perpetuated the misconception of heat treating. What do I mean by misconception of heat treating? These so called self proclaimed experts use such superlatives in their advertisements such as, heat treated in the high 56, or high 57 referring to the Rockwell hardness. What? There isn't a high 56 or a high 57 Rockwell hardness, it is either 56 Rc or 57 Rc.

Let me back up here a little. Most of you I am assuming who are reading this know something about knives or own a knife, other wise you most likely would not be reading this. I am not going to go into a long diatribe about the Rockwell hardness process. If you want to know more about this method of measuring metal hardness, Google the words and hundreds of pages will come up. What I want to talk about here is heat treating relationship and its effects on performance. There is a lot of misconception about heat treating.

You and I both have seen post on web pages or forums about how well a knife preformed in one situation or the other. The sad truth to a lot of this is dependent on peer-hype or more over appearance. Many end users buy a knife because it looks cool, manufacturers hype, or the knife looks exotic. After all the buyer just wants to be part of the crowd, and everyone on the WhiteDwaftsCuttingEdgeToad forum dot com, is constantly telling you how many two by fours their knife can chop through or how many times they can stab a steel barrels, or chop a rope into little pieces. This is all done and backed up while the user chants the mantra hype brought on by consuming to many Sudafed tablets. Oh! I forgot, when finished the knife will still cut a silk sow's ear adrift only on the wind, shave a goat arse bare, and spread peanut butter without making ripples.

So what makes it a good knife so to speak. Is it the fact that it looks cool because it is painted with camouflage paint, or it has a hole in the blade to straighten home made arrows, a screw driver in the handle that doubles as a tool for breaking car windows. Maybe it was the serrated saw blade and the lanyard cord with a Swedish fire stick, compass, toothpick holder, salt & pepper shaker, and a mini parasol all packaged in a box with a picture of the knife designer sitting in a camp with the lost tribe of Bushguano.

Is that what makes a good knife? Of course not. A good knife begins with a practical and usable design followed up with a proper heat-treat for the type of metal used in the knife.

So why wouldn't a so called maker or knife designer heat treated a blade properly. Inferior tolerances are either a lack of experience with a blades' (metals) performance, regardless of their hype. Another reason is their total ignorance of the heat treat process, and the manufacturing cost. So what does all that mean, and does it come out in the wash?

Carbon steels such as 1095, 5160, 52100, and 01, does not preform to it optimum when heat treated 56, or 57 on the Rockwell C scale. 58 is better, and 59 or 60 is optimal. D2 stainless steel, when heat treated to 57 Rc is hyped by some of these people as the best overall hardness. These survival/designer/cutlery experts are spouting pure unadulterated Bravo Sierra. D2 when heat treated to a 60 Rc will wear better, and preform ten fold over the same blade that is improperly treated to an inferior 57 Rc. This is in comparison to the differences in a four point zero earthquake, to one that shakes out at six point zero.

Just as higher hardness numbers mean a harder blade, when properly quenched and drawn it will out perform (wear-ability) inferior heat treats. Now a harder blades doesn't mean that the blade is stronger, especially if the blade is not properly drawn. As a quick side note, D2 tool steel is not the optimum choice for a big blade such as machetes. It is a great steel for smaller knives, but in my opinion it is a poor choice for a large chopping type blades. The carbon spring series steels (1095, 5160, 01, 52100) when properly heat treated and drawn to 59, or 60 on the Rockwell 'c' scale will out preform the lower Rockwell numbers, regardless of the hype.

So why wouldn't these knife companies do a proper heat treat to maximize the performance of a steel, and max the higher Rockwell number if it would benefit the end user? Well like I said, it could be inexperience, ignorance of the process or a cost factor. Cost is the primary concern of most commercial companies. I once talked to the plant manager of a major cutlery factory, that is now sadly out of business after almost 165 years. They made some of the finest folders, straight blades, and had military contracts during both World Wars, Korea, and Vietnam. Their contributions to the cutlery industry will be ever lasting. Their steel of choice for over a hundred and twenty five years was 1095. I asked him why they did not heat treat their folder blades to a higher Rockwell. I was references the wear ability of old bone handle folders like those carried by my grandfather. Those old folders held there edge, much better than new manufactured folders. He said if they did it would cost them about ten cents more per blade to grind. A dime? Now their daily production of folder blades was about 13,000 blades per days. So, you may think a dime isn't that much money, yet it quickly add up to about 30,000 dollar per month. That round out to almost a half million dollars per year, and that doesn't include the cost of there fixed-blade production.

The other factor against hard blades is wear and tear on grinding machines. All commercial cutlery producers use automated machinery in their production any more, and most use 'stones' to grind (stock removal) the metal. Custom makers over all use abrasive impregnated cloth or paper 'belts' to do their grinding or stock removal. Commercial companies normally heat treat their raw blanks in large baskets in bulk using heat treat furnaces, before surface grinding the blank to the desired thickness. This process eliminates loss of blades due to warping. The heat treated blade come out of the 'heat' in a hard state, once drawn it is then surface ground to thickness, and finally ground to the finish specifications. Once surface ground blanks begin there trip to the big automatic grinders. A water base coolant, mixed with soluble oil is sprayed on the blank while they are being ground. This liquid coolant keep the abrasive stones from burning the blanks. This last process where the blade is ground is also a critical point in production, where the heat treat can be compromised. If the blanks are burnt or warped during the final grind process the knife blade are normally discarded.

“Heat treating is the heart of the knife, and the design is its soul. Once you fully understand this concept, then you will want to own a truly good knife.”

Newt Livesay

LIVESAY COMBAT KNIVES

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SCENES of IQUITOS, PERU

The Black Dog, A turn of the 19th century building that has seen better days. This old building sits on the banks of the overflow from the Amazon River where the City of Belen and Iquitos meet. Copyright 2007 (c) by Newt Livesay all rights reserved

Garbage Day, Men picking up garbage at the end of the street from the market. Large metal wheel barrows full of garbage are lifted by hand to the truck's bed. Copyright (c) 2002 by Newt Livesay all rights reserved.

EATING TURTLE EGGS & DRINKING BEER

This is from a blog on my web pages dated Wednesday, October 2, 2008. I thought some of you that do not read my web might like seeing this article.

Last year at about this same time of the year my Peruvian wife, my Peruvian mother or Mamita, and I left our house and rode the motor-carts down to the embarcadero along the banks of the Nanay River, just upstream from where it dumps into the Amazon River. The area is known to the locals as just Nanay, and is a location in the evening hours that very few outsiders are seen. After the sun goes down and the tropical air cools somewhat, this is when the locals come out to eat, drink and socialize. We made our way to one of our favorite little open air restaurant just off the banks of the river. The three of us sat down at a rickety, wooden table, and were immediately served by a older, heavy set woman, who knew my Mamita. The woman spoke to Mamita, before returning and placing three clean plates, and a small dish of coarsely ground salt on the table. The natural salt came from salt mines high in the Andes Mountains, where it has been dug for century, going back even further than the great Inca Civilization.

In a matter of minutes pile of freshly boiled turtle eggs, right out of the river were heaped on our plate. Char-coaled plantains, were piled on another plate, along with hot peppers, and some purple onions per my request. Now, one thing about eating boiled turtle eggs, or turtle eggs fixed in any manner; you need to have somewhat of a strong stomach. Turtle eggs are pungent to the palate in my opinion, and, many just flat out dislike the strong taste of these eggs. There are just a little smaller than ping-pong ball with a pliable leathery shell. Once you get the soft-leathery shell torn open you can peel the hard-boiled egg out with your thumbs, finger, or just squish them or pop them directly into your mouth. In my travels, I have eaten some disgusting items that have been disguised as food. I once sat on a riverbank with a half dozen Jivaro Indians in the Ecuadorian rain-forest and ate monkey meat fresh off the fire. If you still have an appetite after watching you monkey being thrown on a fire, and worst off, smell him roast until his entrails burst - - - - Well few things will effect you.

I have eaten rat meat, dogs, cats, pigs, testicles (mountain oysters) from bulls, hogs, sheep, and buffalo. I have eaten Moose tongue, maggots, whale, Suri worms, grasshoppers, horse meat, armadillos, chickens, cows, calves, snakes, insects, guinea pig, turtles, half-rotten eggs with steamed with whole chicken embryos inside, seals, walrus, whales, shark, eels, MREs, fishes of all kind, deep fried crickets, giant snails, little bitty snails, mussels & clams from lakes, streams, and the ocean. I have endured an assortment of other disgusting gastronomical items unless you were a vulture, not all of which were served up by good meaning peoples in utensils so dirty that most would not pass for a urinal in a civilized society. Most is given to you with the best of intentions and we smiled while eating it, and depending on how long it had been since you last ate ---- it was good.

Some of these delicacy could be considered just out and out repulsive. I found out a long time ago however sometimes it all depends on just how hunger your are. Boiled turtle eggs though go best with plenty of cold beer, and a liberal dash of hot sauce. The total cost for the three of us to eat was about two dollars and fifty cents in United States Dollars.

Those were good times, and I was there with family. Just thinking about it leaves me with some great memories. Those few hours that night will never leave me, and like I have said more than once, "you will forget many places and times in your life, but this will not be one of them." This is not a area that the tourist bus drops off the herd, but it is where the locals who know about these wonderful out of the way places gather to eat, and enjoy life, family, friends, and just have fun.

Ciao;

Newt Livesay

Update: On October 19, 2007 my wife Liliana was murdered in Iquitos, Peru.

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Comments Welcome

(Note: The Comments section is provided in the interests of free speech only. Comments mostly go un-moderated, but comments that are off-topic, offensive, slanderous, or otherwise annoying to me stand a damn good chance of being deleted. The fact that any comment remains on the blog in no way constitutes an endorsement by this blog and/or myself of any expressed views. This Blog is the copyrighted © 2007, 2008, 2009 of Newt Livesay, and is not public domain. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form or medium without express written permission of Newt Livesay is prohibited and strictly enforced. Web-pages, Images, Articles, and Newsletters may contain links to sites on the Internet owned and operated by third parties. Newt Livesay is not responsible for the availability of, or the content located on or through, any such third-party site. Information in this document is provided "as is" without warranty of any kind, either expressed or implied, including but not limited to the implied warranties of merchantability, fitness for a particular purpose and freedom from infringement.

AYAHUASCA ~ MY HALLUCINOGENIC EXPERIENCE A PHANTASMAGORIC PHENOMENA

Peru is the land of Ayahuasca. (Ah-ya-waash-kaw) Being a student of anthropology since childhood, I have always been fascinated by primitive or indigenous peoples, especially those of the Americas. Over the years, I have intertwined both socially and religiously with numerous indigenous peoples of both North and South America. Two of my most memorable experiences have been with members of the Cheyenne Nation in West Central Oklahoma, and with the Shuar Indians of Eastern Peru.

I have never smoked marijuana or taken any hard drugs such as heroin, meth, or powdered cocaine. My experience with drugs has been limited to tobacco and alcohol as a younger man. I heard people speak of how marijuana caused them to relax and be mellow; hell, I never wanted to be “chill out.” I have always wanted to burn my candle at both ends just to see what I might have missed if I had been rubbernecking in the slow lane. Once I was associated with some members of the Wycliffe Bible Translators School, I was trying to learn some indigenous Native American languages. They had numerous teachers from different tribes, but two elderly Cheyenne women took a liken to me and tutored me in particular. Both had been hired as a teacher by the Wycliffe Bible Translators to teach their (Cheyenne) native language. We became close friends, and I spend many hours with the two wonder ladies after classes talking about ‘The People’ as they called themselves, and listening to their fascinating stories. One of the women named Minnie, told me stories about her father who at 16 years old had fought as a Dog Soldier at the Battle of Little Big Horn against General George Armstrong Custer and the 7th Calvary. Both of these women were members of the Southern Cheyenne Indian tribe, and both lived at the time near Lawton and Fort Sill in Comanche County, Oklahoma. They were wonderful women whom I grew to love.

I was living in an apartment just off campus and late one Friday evening Minnie Bearbow, Jeannette Howling Crane, her husband, and some others visited my apartment. Minnie said that I was going to be adopted by her, and Jeannette's grandson. The two Cheyenne Grandmothers cleansed me in a ceremonial ritual. I was sweated so to say, as the smoke from smoldering green Juniper branch [leaves] were ceremoniously rubbed over my skin. There were numerous songs, and I was told always to keep a piece of green in my house refereeing to a plant, flower, branch of a tree, etc. to ward off evil. “Death does not like green things,” I was told. I was given a new name, and then I participated in another religious ceremony where hallucinogenic drugs were used. The husband of Jeanette Howling Crane, who was considered a healer fed me a small dried bud of Peyote Cactus during a night of stories and celebration.

Outside of the Peyote Cactus, bud the most powerful, hallucinogenic I had ever taken until I accepted the brew of Ayahuasca from a Shuar Shaman in Peru. A Peruvian woman who refers to me as her sons arbitrated my relationship with the Shuar Indian Shaman. In the community, she is known as a “Bruja” (brew-ha) or witch. That is not a bad name as she processes powers that I sometime find hard to explain. She has a vast knowledge of leaves, plants, trees, and other medicinal herbs that abound in the Amazon jungle around Iquitos, Peru. She also had led me on a journey into the world that I had never experienced, stories and sometimes-secret rituals that most locals and especially outsiders will never experience. In another story here, I relate how a necklace strung with teeth from the Pink Amazonian Dolphin almost killed me. When the subject of Ayahuasca came up, she said she was not able to perform the ritual, but knew of a Shuar Shaman that she trusted.

Shuar Indians, are one of the four sub-groups that make up the Jivaroan tribes that formerly inhabited the Amazon Rain Forest of Eastern Ecuador, and Northwestern Peru. The other three sub-dialects or groups were the Ashuar, Huambisa, and the Aguaruna. Of these four sub-groups of the Jivaroan tribes, the Shuar were more commonly referred to as the notorious headhunter of South America. They are the “Jivaro Indians“ of legends. Their notoriety for shrinking the heads of the people they killed, and their ferocity in battle have made them larger than life in modern history. They were intensely warlike and protective of their territories, unwilling to subordinate themselves to the Inca rulers, or any other tribes. They successfully revolted against the Spanish Conquistadors that conquered most all of South America.

As a young man, I owned two of the finest shrunken heads that I have ever seen now or before. They came from Eastern Ecuador, and had long flowing black hair and were superb examples of the Jivaro skills of shrinking human heads. In the mid-1970’s, I talked at length with a man of great power who had taken over 36 heads in his earlier more violent life. He had found the Lord Jesus Christ via the Wycliffe Bible Translators, and had given his life to Jesus Christ leaving the old ways behind. He was, however, fond of talking about the old ways and through an interpreter explained the intricacies of removing a human head and the process used in shrinking it. That also is for another story.

Most indigenous peoples of the Amazon hold Ayahuasca in the highest regard, feeling that it a sacred plant, and show deep respect in its use. They believe the plant is imbued with a spirit that is alive, and one that can speak to them when they drink the Ayahuasca drink. These people are not seeking to use the Ayahuasca as a recreational drug, or for mystical arousal, but more to enlighten the spiritual being within themselves. They do not use the drink to find their inner-selves or trip out on an interpersonal kaleidoscope. Any Shaman, who is worth his salt knows that Ayahuasca has a higher calling as it is the matrix that brings the soul closer to what every man is seeking knowledge of his surrounding. Knowledge of his being in relationship to the animals of the forest, the human being he is in contact with daily, and what ails us all in our minds the fight between good and evil. It is to be taken in a spiritual moment when the truths of your inner self will be revealed. Only then can the fears and the desires that cloud our subconscious finally be set free.

My adopted Mother send out the word that she wanted the help of the trusted Shaman. She held him in deep respect for his knowledge of the Ayahuasca. These men are sometimes referred to as Ayahuasqueros, or Curanderos as well as the more common name of Shaman.

The man came to my mother’s house, and all of the people who were there had to leave. Only my mother and one other female member of the family were allowed to stay in the room with me. The old man began with a series of short chants, all the time smoking a rather large cigarette, and occasionally he would blow the stout smelling smoke in my face. Even with his moving around and the occasional chant, the cigarette burnt with a long ash but did not drop off. Finally, he gently offered me the cigarette all the time holding it between his fingers. I took a long draw, almost choking on the pungent smoke. He looked once more at the long ash, dropped it at my feet, and instructed me to grind the ash into the dirt floor.

“You will live long,” He said in Spanish.

Before the ceremony had begun, I removed my street clothes and wearing only a pair of bathing trunks, a T-shirt, and sandals that I had with me. I sat on a woven grass mat that had been spread on the room’s dirt floor. It began to grow dark inside the house, the last burning rays of the sun were being drowned by the lushness of the jungle. The only light in the room was from a wick-lamp that sat on a small table. The fumes its burning wick gave off smelled of kerosene and helped to ward off the hordes of mosquitoes that would inevitably arrive once the sun was fully set. A younger man entered the room and set a clear plastic pitcher on a small four-legged stool, and left the room without saying a word. The Shuar Shaman poured a drink, and handed me the dark brew in a plastic drinking glass, and indicated for me to drink it all. The taste of the Ayahuasca was earth, slightly bitter to my taste and it was strenuous to swallow. I flinched slightly and gagged at the taste. The only thought that went through my head at that moment was “What the hell have I done.” Here I am in the middle of the Amazon jungle sitting almost naked in a room that is a lifetime from any form of modern medical help drinking something that is made from plants that are also used to make one of the most deadly poison on earth; Curare!

I tried to smile; the Shaman began singing a monotones chant. My stomach churned, I felt nauseated, there was bitterness in my mouth, and an acidity in my stomach that caused me to lay on my side hoping for some relief. I did not want to close my eyes as the room began to spin like when you over indulgent alcohol. I had thoughts of dying from the actions that I had just taken by drinking the narcotic concoction. I felt lethargic, more nauseous, yet there was inclusiveness in my widening experience. My heart seemed to become less intense or vigorous as I felt its beating slacken inside my chest. My head appears to be faint, with a tingling sensation almost as if it were asleep. The sensation you get when you lay on your arm or leg wrong, and it goes to sleep. I could feel the blood draining from my head; it trickled and gurgled like a kitchen drain. My recollections of time, space, and reality were slowly vanishing.

Time seemed to no longer have any relevance as the narcotic coursed through my bloodstream activating even more of my senses. I was conscious of a numbness growing on my face, the outer layer of my skin, and into my fingers, but the sensation was one of pleasure. I was a sensation like someone gently running their fingertips over my body. The room seemed to draw dark, and I saw sparkling of tiny lights floating like firefly across the floor. My guts began to burn with acidity; pain came in spasms. I felt the sensation you have just before falling into that deep form of REM-sleep. I started to float above myself but jerked violently as I dreamt I was falling off the edge of a bed from the sensation. I looked down to see my body coiled up in a fetal position with three darkened figures sitting around me. This was the beginning of my hallucinogenic experience that produced a series of phantasmagoric phenomena that manifested from sheer beauty to screaming terror, and then to unimaginable tranquility and peace.

I flew over the tops of the jungle in swooping dips and rolling spirals, skimming the tops of huge trees. I felt the air rushing through my hair that was long and dark like the people who looked up at me from the ground. I hung in the clouds and sat with my feet on the edge of one and looked at the land below passing underneath my perch. I saw a beautiful waterfall that crashed in slow motion into a deep emerald-blue pool. The next thing I remember was the cold spray on my skin as I flew so close to the falling water. The water crashed down on the face of the mountain not making any noise. I found myself climbing higher and higher in the sky until I was soaring with two large Condors. They took me to the snow-capped mountains and showing me beautiful valleys and an ancient city of pure gold hidden in the jungle. We flew over a beautiful pyramid, and circled it numerous times, before taking turns plunging towards the top of the tower in death defining tumbles before each of us landed gently on its top. One of the Condors said I could never tell anyone where the city of gold was, but I could come anytime I wanted and visit. The other Condor warned me of my faith if I every told anyone and said it was time to foretell what was to come.

Instantly I felt sheer terror as I fell uncontrollably end over end. I wanted it to be a dream, but I knew that this was not a dream as I plunged into a lagoon of dark water that smelled of sewage. I fought to reach the surface of the water. I choked on the taste as I struggled for air. Suddenly I saw something with a giant green head and red horns coming directly towards me; it was a huge snake. I thought if I do not move he would not see me, even though he was only a few feet in front of me and looking directly into my eyes. I felt helpless and began to scream for help. I remember vomiting. I choked on my vomit as it was not liquid, but a bundle of even smaller snakes which started to unwind and entwined themselves into separate balls. I recoiled but was not able to stand or get off the floor where I lay. I became paralyzed with fear not fully understanding where I was or what was going on. I think my eyes were dilated, as everyone in the room was blurry; I saw my mother as she reached forward to wipe my face.

I lapsed as the big snake told me to look at the squirming bundle of smaller snakes; I felt a calmness come over me. The snakes began to unwind, and their heads took on the faces of people whom I had known. Some were strangers, and I asked the snake who they were. The big snake indicated that those smaller snakes on the far side of the room away from me were my enemies and that I should never trust these people no matter what they promised or offered. He said they would harm you, betray you, use you, and abhor you for your gifts. Then drawing the remaining snake together within its coils I heard it speak again; these are your friend. Some of them you know and some you do not know. All of them will come and go into your life, and some will lay down their lives for you and you for them.

The smaller snakes on the far side of the room were vipers that snapped hissed, and bite at each other. The big snake with the orange strips over its head opened his mouth, and the vipers withered before fading into ashes; he consumed them. The other snakes nearest me that had been inside the giant snakes coils morphed into beautiful lights that glowed and flashed in fantastic patterns. I wanted to hold the lights in my hands, but they all had disappeared. I looked back, and I was alone floating above myself one more, and all the snakes were gone; my nausea increased.

I vomited once more and then rolled over on my back and watched as vivid colors, fantastic sights, and extraordinarily shapes raced before me. I felt something close to me and then I could feel its breath on my skin. A magnificent and beautiful Jaguar stood close to me, yet I was not afraid. "Come with me." she said, and we were instantly walking through the jungle where she showed me many things. We ran, jumped, and played hid and seek. I could jump over huge logs, and dart off the side of trees and disappear into the thickets. Finally, I said that I was exhausted and the two of us lay down in the grass alongside a clear mountain stream. “You are the kind man,” she said licking my face. Instantly once more I was lying on the woven grass mat in the room, she next to me, we both fell into a deep sleep.

That was the last of the truly bizarre dreams that I had. I awoke about eight o’clock the following morning by myself still lying on the grass mat. It seemed that I had vomited my weight. I became nauseated at the smell of vomit and urine; it was unpleasant, to say the least. I rolled over on my side and tried to push myself to my feet. I lost my balance, I felt shaky, my head was light, my chest, and guts hurt, and when I looked at my arms and legs, they seemed ashen. My hands shook and when I tried to stand I stumbled hitting the wall causing my mother to come rushing into the room. She put her arm around my shoulders, and she helped me to an area where the family bathed under a shed in the back of the house. A 55-gallon barrel that was full of cold rainwater awaited me. A bar of soap lay next to it on a small shelf. My mother helps me to a small hardwood stool where I sat down. She pulled my foul smelling T-shirt and bathing trunks off, and taking a large washcloth began washing my body clean.

Putting on dry clean clothes, I still felt faint. I sat at the kitchen table and tried to sip some Inca Cola, but found the taste unpleasant even though it is one of my favorite drinks. I ate a few spoons of rice and gagged down a piece of cold chicken I had trouble sitting upright; I make my way to the bed with help, and lying down I fell into a deep sleep. I dreamt of many things; it was all pleasant.

That evening I awoke with a ravenous appetite and extremely thirsty. I seemed as if I could not drink enough fluids to satisfy my thirst. We decided to get something to eat. I was still weak, but as I rode with my Peruvian mother and my adopted Peruvian brothers.   The air seemed to smell fresher, the sky was bluer, the Amazon River looked more magnificent, and as we traveled down the boulevard that was lined with beautiful Palm trees, I hear many new and strange voices.

Ciao;
Newt Livesay

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