{"id":351,"date":"2018-06-01T15:19:13","date_gmt":"2018-06-01T19:19:13","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/writingaroundtheworld.net\/?p=351"},"modified":"2018-06-01T15:19:13","modified_gmt":"2018-06-01T19:19:13","slug":"the-peoples-temple","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/writingaroundtheworld.net\/?p=351","title":{"rendered":"The Peoples Temple"},"content":{"rendered":"
Posted in\u00a0General<\/a>\u00a0–\u00a028 September 2011<\/a>\u00a0– No comment<\/div>\n

\u201cThis is my first trip out of New York,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m going to Guyana. Can you give me some tips?\u201d
\nThe twenty-something year old hardly looked up from his computer. \u201cYou need your passport and your yellow fever card. The flight goes out of Terminal Four. Here are directions.\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve been flying for fifteen years now. Directions from one terminal to the next are hardly necessary. I can follow the airport signs. So I thought. And, I wonder why I need my yellow fever card to go to South America. Maybe the kid doesn\u2019t know where Guyana is, or he thinks I said Ghana. I wish I could rid this southern accent.<\/p>\n

The twenty-something year old should have given me some deet and a warning: Apply this spray often, and make sure you cover yourself thoroughly. A few crew members have died. Don\u2019t roam the streets; it\u2019s dangerous. There have been reports of bed bugs in the hotel. Be sure to remove the sheets and look for bed bug shit.<\/p>\n

Just give it to me straight up.<\/p>\n

Welcome aboard. After catching a bus to terminal four and clearing security for the second time at JFK, I find myself wandering the terminal as aimlessly as any passenger who cannot read. I feel like a new-hire. I stop and watch a woman, who blends right in to the melting pot, wearing a short ratted wedding dress and a huge white ensemble in her matted hair. Her mascara is seeping into the wrinkles in her skin beneath her eyes. She looks as though she belongs in a horror movie. A very bad one. Think Courtney Love. I can\u2019t take a picture. I am too close to security.<\/p>\n

The gate area is crowded. My Italian decent usually gives me the advantage to blend in in any South America setting. Not this time. Maybe I\u2019ve confused Guyana with Ghana. Where the hell am I going? The people are dark, and most are old, like seventies and eighties old. There are no mission groups, and there doesn\u2019t appear to be one single American passenger. They are towing the same loot as most South American natives: large brown boxes, children\u2019s gifts, toilet lids, comforters, overstuffed trash bags, and square suitcases. Vodka. I make a mental note to skip vodka when I visit the duty free store. Wheelchairs are lined up at the entrance. I count thirteen and all have suitcases resting on the back metal racks. While I wait for the agent to check me in, I reach down into my bag, and I take two Advil. Dry. Okay, three. I will soon be the one who lifts the hundred pound bags of the elderly into the overhead bins. I weigh one-hundred pounds. You do the math. I lift with my knees, just like the doctor told me. If I ever tell you that I cannot lift your bag, take it as a compliment. It means that you are fit and healthy and strong. The airline has a clause. I am required to help the elderly, even if there is a washing machine and a body inside the bag.<\/p>\n

Boarding is a disaster. They are climbing over one another as if it is a race to the seats. This isn\u2019t Southwest. They are climbing over me. There is some hidden fear that says it is a game of musical chairs and you must get to yours\u2019 quickly or be left behind. I grab the handset. I threaten over the microphone. I talk mean. They ignore me. I punctuate every ending with, \u201cThank you for your cooperation. Welcome aboard.\u201d<\/p>\n

They\u2019re in their seats. They\u2019re not. There are children in the exit row. We move them. They move back. They look at us like they don\u2019t speak English when we tell them to move. I did read that English is the native language on my briefing report. We threaten with the airport police. They move to other rows. They\u2019re traveling on buddy passes with kitchen sinks! They grab me and demand things. \u201cYou fill out my form,\u201d a woman says.
\n\u201cI\u2019ll be right back,\u201d I say. I don\u2019t make eye contact again.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s now 6:00 a.m. It\u2019s hot. It\u2019s terribly hot.<\/p>\n

The drive to the hotel is odd (and hot). Different. Disturbing. We watch from the window. There are six of us. The van would uncomfortably sit five. We are pressed together and the air conditioner blows low. I\u2019m sitting on a hump between an overweight male flight attendant and a pilot. I\u2019m the little one; I get the hump. I lean forward and peer through the windshield.
\nA man is sitting in the middle of what appears to be a landfill reading a newspaper. Our driver stops, and a cow crosses the street in front of us. There are slums and churches.<\/p>\n

I strip the sheets on my bed because a friend of a friend on my crew told her there were bed bugs. I don\u2019t see the black dots they told me to look for in the seams or around the headboard. The plugs in the room are the standard three prong like in the United States. I\u2019m glad; I forgot my adapter. The toilet flushes. Another plus. Free internet. Life is good. I change into my shorts and t-shirt, and I head down to the pool. Well, actually, the pool bar. The co-pilot is already there. He\u2019s half-way through a Banks Beer, the local brew. I drink one. It tastes like Pell City Redneck Beer, AKA Coors Light. Water. There\u2019s a sign by the pool: Fogging at 6:00 p.m.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t feel them biting me. I don\u2019t see them. Hell, I wasn\u2019t even warned.<\/p>\n

I buy rum at duty free. I leave Guyana.<\/p>\n

I google it once I\u2019m home. Malaria. Malaria season. Malaria types. Malaria symptoms. Great. I\u2019m a mess of scabs by this point from clawing at whelps the size of tangerines. Type one: Get to a doctor. Type two: Get to a hospital. Type three: Don\u2019t worry about it; you\u2019re dead. Type four: You\u2019ll never even know what hit you. It\u2019s September; Malaria season doesn\u2019t start until November. If it\u2019s transported by mosquitos, then that leads one to believe it\u2019s not mosquito season. How did I get mauled? I have malaria; I know it.<\/p>\n

I call my parents with full intention of telling them I have traveled yet another exotic South American destination. \u201cI just got back from Guyana,\u201d I say.
\n\u201cGhana?\u201d My dad says.
\n\u201cNo, Dad. Guyana.\u201d
\n\u201cWhere\u2019s that?\u201d
\n\u201cIt\u2019s in South America. Jonestown,\u201d I say. I think he will be impressed.
\n\u201cYou didn\u2019t drink the kool-aid, did you?\u201d he says.
\n\u201cWhat?\u201d I say. I never know what the hell he\u2019s talking about. He talks shit all the time. He\u2019s fucking with me.
\n\u201cYou never heard of Jim Jones?\u201d he says.
\n\u201cWho?\u201d
\n\u201cDidn\u2019t you take history classes at that private school?\u201d
\n\u201cWho is Jim Jones?\u201d I say.
\n\u201cGoogle it,\u201d he says. That\u2019s what I always tell him when I don\u2019t feel like explaining something.<\/p>\n

For whatever reason, I tell him all about malaria. I think he\u2019ll be proud of me for being so brave since he doesn\u2019t seem impressed with the destination.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy\u2019d you go there?\u201d he says.
\n\u201cBecause my airline goes there,\u201d I say.
\n\u201cDon\u2019t you have more seniority than that?\u201d<\/p>\n

So much for impressing anyone with my exotic travels. Another destination done. Been there. Check, please!<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Posted in\u00a0General\u00a0–\u00a028 September 2011\u00a0– No comment \u201cThis is my first trip out of New York,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m going to Guyana. Can you give me some tips?\u201d The twenty-something year old hardly looked up from his computer. \u201cYou need your passport and your yellow fever card. The flight goes out of Terminal Four. Here are […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-351","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-general"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/writingaroundtheworld.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/351","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/writingaroundtheworld.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/writingaroundtheworld.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/writingaroundtheworld.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/writingaroundtheworld.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=351"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/writingaroundtheworld.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/351\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":352,"href":"https:\/\/writingaroundtheworld.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/351\/revisions\/352"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/writingaroundtheworld.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=351"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/writingaroundtheworld.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=351"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/writingaroundtheworld.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=351"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}