by Joe Cawley
Fortunately, he was a little more astute at identifying international terrorists than his colleagues. He must have been a lot busier too and thus was less inclined to try and find a career-boosting headline crime where there was none. Ignoring the revelations of the chief, he sighed, picked up the camera and deleted all the shots of the police station.
‘Take any more photos like that and you’ll find yourself in a cell. Understand?’ He thrust the camera into my chest, ordered the chief to let me go and hurried out of the office.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I pondered my run-in with the authorities as I drove home later that day. It was a reminder that having no journalistic background meant I was always going to be vulnerable to falling foul of the law. It also served to highlight the fact that I loved writing, but only when left alone to do it my way.
I unlocked the front door as quietly as I could and pushed it open just enough to poke my head in. Fugly, although still only the size of a large rat, had taken to ambushing whoever walked through the door, with Joy the exception. This self-appointed role of protector wasn’t such an issue if the victim was wearing long trousers, but today was hot, and I wasn’t.
However, we had discovered that Fugly was slightly deaf. If you entered with stealth and guile, lacerations of the shins and calves could be avoided, or at least minimised. I looked left through the kitchen doorway, then right, to scan the living room. Through the open patio doors I could see Joy taking in the evening sun on the raised concrete plinth above the garden. Her feet were perched on a white plastic chair and she was reading a magazine, possibly Hello!, possibly Bella. It was hard to tell. Just as it was hard to tell whether the white fluffy object under her chair was Fugly or a discarded head towel. I decided it was Fugly and strode through the living room and onto the patio.
Joy turned around and beamed. ‘Good day?’ she enquired.
‘Well… different,’ I said. ‘Beer?’ I bent down to give Fugly a stroke under the chair. A bold move, particularly when I realised it was a towel after all. I took a sharp intake of breath. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a flash of white. Twisting my head, I just had time to see our psychotic cat charging at me on two feet, front paws boxing the air like a miniature bare-knuckle fighter.
The time it took to stand up was exactly the time it took for Fugly to lunge and scrape three lines of blood from my right calf.
‘Get the… off, you sodding psycho,’ I said, shaking my leg as I tried to avoid a repeat assault from the hissing banshee. ‘Joy, tell her.’
Joy draped a hand over the chair. ‘Fuglyyyyy, sch-sch-sch,’ she said, as though cooing at a baby. Fugly ceased immediately and started to rub against Joy’s fingers.
‘That cat is seriously deranged,’ I said.
‘It’s just her way of saying welcome home, Daddy.’ Joy laughed and rose from the chair. ‘I’ll get the cream, you make friends.’
I flopped into Joy’s chair, keeping one eye on Fugly, who was licking her paws, savouring the taste of blood and victory. The magazine Joy had been reading was open at an interview with Bill Bryson, a travel writer whose very book I was enjoying at the time. Although he was born and raised in America, the author’s dry, self-deprecating humour was more akin to the British way of looking at the world. His was one of the few books I’d read that made me chuckle out loud.
In the interview, Bill mentioned that he had become a patron of the children’s charity Barnardo’s and that he would be accompanying hikers on a sponsored trek in Peru, a country that had always fascinated me. There were thirty-two places available on the sponsored challenge – perhaps Joy and I could take two of them…? After my brush with the law and subsequent mauling by Fugly, strolling with my favourite author in a far-off land suddenly seemed to be just what was needed.
I showed Joy the article as she handed me a beer and the antiseptic cream.
‘I know, I’ve read it. I left it open to show you. That’s who you’re reading at the moment, isn’t it?’
I jumped straight in. ‘Do you fancy going?’
‘To Peru? Me? Trudging up mountains? Camping in a tent? Err, let me think about it. No.’
‘I’ve always wanted to go to Peru,’ I said. I gazed longingly at the full-page image of Machu Picchu, the lost city in the Amazon jungle.
‘Go then.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. Why not?’ We’ve got the money. Trekking with your favourite writer, an adventure in a country you’ve always said you wanted to visit. All for a good cause. Go!’
It had been comfortably appealing when it was just a yearning. Now that it was a genuine possibility, the thought scared me. My mind went into overdrive. Was this just a ploy for Joy to get rid of me for three weeks? Was she in touch with Steve again, my ex-best friend with whom she’d had an affair during the darkest of our bar days? Was this the perfect opportunity for a repeat of her own sordid adventures?
I shook my head. These doubts still surfaced occasionally, a reminder that the circle of trust still hadn’t completely healed. Perhaps it never would. Many nights I’d pondered the issue. To assume that you could always trust your partner completely, no matter the circumstances, was presumptuous and naive. It meant that you didn’t have to try as hard at the relationship. It was lazy and I couldn’t afford to risk that again.
I’d vowed to banish the flashbacks and suspiciousness from my mind. Though I wasn’t so foolish as to wallow in the misguided luxury of thinking it could never happen again, it was also difficult to fully forget. Three and a half years had passed since I’d found Joy and Steve wrapped around each other in the Smugglers kitchen, but when the memories ambushed me, they were as clear as if it had been yesterday. I pushed the thoughts aside. It was the only way to fully repair our relationship. We had to put things behind us and focus on the future. But sometimes that was easier said than done.
‘I’m afraid all of the places are taken now,’ said the lady at the end of the phone.
‘Oh,’ I said forlornly. ‘Okay.’ The disappointment of not being able to trek the highlands of Peru with my hero-in-print was lightened by knowing that I wouldn’t have to leave my cosy nest.
‘I can put your name on the waiting list if you like?’ continued the voice. ‘If somebody drops out, you’d be fourth in line.’
I agreed but knew in my heart that the chance of not one but four people having second thoughts or becoming ill or injured was slim to say the least.
Which is why it came as something of a surprise when I received a phone call two months later to say there was now a space free and would I like to take it.
Would I like to take it? The lady was asking if I’d like to trek through the jungle to one of the world’s greatest discoveries side-by-side with my literary hero, Bill Bryson. Was she mad? Did she really need to ask?
My late enrolment meant I had only three months until departure. On May 19th I was to meet up with thirty-one similarly well-intentioned individuals. We would fly together from Madrid to Lima, then travel on to Cuzco for a four-day high-altitude trek to Machu Picchu, the ancient Inca ruins perched high in the Peruvian Andes. Before then, I had to raise the minimum sponsorship money that would allow me to take part. And I had to get fit, as the full-day treks would take us up steep ascents to mountain peaks of over 13,000 feet above sea level. Along the way we would encounter hazards more normally associated with Indiana Jones films, such as altitude sickness, malaria-carrying mosquitoes, insta-death snakes and many, many other delights.
All of this had seemed very exciting and adventurous on the pages of Joy’s magazine, but now, as reality loomed, I had to admit to a certain trepidation. Panic buttons had been pushed on three fronts – sponsorship, training and remaining alive.
As far as sponsorship went, I had to raise a minimum of £2,500, and in true Tenerifian spirit, everything was now needed at the last moment. A clutch of local businesses had generously pledged support, but I was in urgent need of further backing. We had
plenty of money in the bank, so if push came to shove, I could quite easily have covered the sponsorship amount myself, but from Barnardo’s point of view, it wasn’t just about the funding, it was about raising awareness of their charity and sparking long-term interest in their cause. I’d decided that I would ‘sponsor’ myself to the tune of £500, and I’d obviously cover all clothes, equipment and the extra expenses of getting myself to the departure point from Tenerife, but I still needed to badger almost £2,000 out of friends, family and colleagues at Island Connections. I concluded that now was not the time to resign from my job.
However, the initial reaction to my endeavours to collect money for my trip typically went something like this:
‘Would you like to sponsor me on behalf of Barnardo’s?’
‘Sponsor you for what exactly?’
‘Well, I need to raise £2,500 to go on a trek to Peru.’
Momentary pause and a narrowing of eyes.
‘You mean you want me to pay towards your holiday?’
Here would begin a long explanation of how they would not be paying for my holiday but instead contributing money that the charity would not otherwise get.
‘Well why don’t I give the money straight to charity then?’ they’d persist.
The truth was, this was new income for the charities. As the special events manager for Barnardo’s told me in a subsequent phone call when I raised the issue, ‘The adventure brings the money and the supporter. This is new money and new support for Barnardo’s and we wouldn’t be able to raise this money without the pull of the adventure.’
After paying for administration, flights, accommodation, meals, English-speaking guides, local ground-handlers, a doctor, back-up support, mechanics, vehicles, and event organisation, the charity receive around 52 to 53 per cent of the minimum sponsorship target and 100 per cent of any further amount raised.
I was informed that over the past few years Barnardo’s had benefited to the tune of £1.3 million from such challenges, a substantial proportion of the events department’s income. The challenges also attracted new supporters to the charity, as the special events manager explained: ‘Most people who trek with us are new to Barnardo’s and go on to support the charity in many ways after their trip. Also, every person who treks then tells friends, family and colleagues as well as local press, so the awareness of what Barnardo’s is and what we do is increased significantly every time we recruit a new trekker.’
It made sense to me and I renewed my efforts to cajole cash from all those around me. However, although I was convinced of the moral argument, others were not. It was only the generosity of my mum and stepfather Jack that salvaged my campaign. They offered two weeks’ use of their apartment on El Beril as a prize in a raffle I had devised. Island Connections graciously allowed me to advertise the contest in consecutive editions of the paper, which boosted the coffers to a level acceptably close to my minimum.
On the training front, the four-day Machu Picchu trail was graded moderate-to-hard and the organisers had advised us that unless we were in seriously good shape, we would struggle. We would be walking at heights of over 10,000 feet, and there would be a certain amount of jungle-wading. At the least, trekking at that altitude would cause breathlessness and dizzy spells; if we were physically unprepared, such symptoms could develop into something a little more serious – death, for instance.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Trek training’ began in earnest a week after I received my join-up call – and ended the following day.
A certain amount of surprise accompanied Joy’s decision to be my hiking buddy in Teide National Park. Joy is the kind of person who believes that if God had intended us to walk, he wouldn’t have created air-conditioning for cars. But she was adamant that I needed to be able to keep up with Bill Bryson if I was to make the most of the experience.
Our first walk was going to be a gentle breaking in, so we chose the route around Los Roques, a protrusion of volcanic rocks extending from the desiccated plains of Tenerife’s central Las Cañadas crater next to Mount Teide volcano. It was also close to the visitors centre bar, the idea being that the promise of a celebratory Martini and Sprite would act as the proverbial carrot while we trudged through dust and cacti.
Armed with a day-pack stuffed full of the usual necessities – water, camera, jumper, snacks and map – plus a few last-minute essentials added by Joy – mobile phone, wet wipes and lipstick – we strode purposefully past a coach-load of Italian tourists. They’d just arrived and had immediately set about enlivening the mountain quiet with their raucous babble. They began to arrange themselves into a photo scrum. ‘Ahh, bella, bellissima…’ they continually exclaimed about the desert scenery, kissing each other and any woolly-hatted trekker that happened to venture too close.
The Los Roques route is a circular walk around a clutch of monoliths in the huge red and ochre Las Cañadas caldera, the kind of landscape you’d more associate with the Lone Ranger than a holiday resort. It was graded ‘easy’ by the map we were using and was supposed to take about two and a half hours.
After just twenty minutes of kicking up clouds of orange-red dust under the shadow of solitary fingers of rock, we had eaten 75 per cent of our snacks and finished off 50 per cent of our water. ‘These columns are volcanic plugs,’ I explained to Joy, reading from the guidebook. ‘They’re formed after an eruption leaves a hardened head of rock over the vent, a bit like a scab that forms over a squeezed spot.’
Joy looked at me, her face lacking any discernible emotion. ‘I think I’ll ring my mum,’ she said.
I marched on as she burst into animated conversation on speakerphone, discussing who had said what to who, giving suggestions on how to alleviate cousin Benjamin’s niggling bowel problems, and comparing what the two of them had eaten for the last three decades. Million-year-old rock formations passed by, plants that had struggled for centuries to eke out an existence continued to eke without a hint of sympathy or appreciation, and views unmatched anywhere on the planet were ignored. But at least Joy was happy and was there with me – in body at least.
An hour later, above the scrunch of volcanic gravel, I heard the obligatory two or three false endings that women exchange to soften the blow of a conversation coming to a stop:
‘Okay, got to go now, bye.’
‘Okay, bye. Oh, just a quick one… remember Sue?’
‘Sue?’
‘You know Sue! Sue! Sue from up the road. Sue… married to Sydney. Blind. Always wore black. Sue.’
‘Oh, black and blind Sue! What about her?’
‘She died.’
‘Oh!’
‘Anyway, just wanted to tell you. Bye, love. Love you.’
‘Bye, Mum. Love you.’
‘Oh, before you go… what was the name of that programme where they all live on an estate?’
‘Brookside?’
‘Yes, that’s the one.’
Pause.
‘Why?’
‘Nothing. Couldn’t remember it. Okay… Take care… Bye.’
‘Okay, better go, Joe’s eyebrows are going into orbit. Bye, Mum.’
‘Bye, love.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
‘Yep… bye.’
‘Bye.’
‘Any news?’ I said.
‘Not really. She sends her love.’
For the remainder of the walk, we did share some monumental views of Mount Teide and its conjoined twin, Las Narices (The Nostrils), dominating the landscape against the cloudless blue sky. By the time we completed our circuit, despite a less than easy uphill finale, Joy’s attitude had risen from a base of grumbling regret to a plateau of indifference. It was more than I had hoped for.
I’d anticipated that I’d need a few jabs for Peru, but the list, presented with more than a little glee by south Tenerife’s only English GP, Dr Johnson, did nothing to reduce my anxiety levels. Malaria, Hepatitis A, Typhoid, Yellow Fever, Rabies, Dysentery, Dyslexia, Discomfort
, Distress and a whole host of other disorders and disturbances were cheerily rhymed off.
Some of the vaccinations he could administer himself, but for the rest I was sent up to the Department of Tropical Diseases in Santa Cruz, where I also had to register the fact that I was travelling to a land of alien microbes.
I’m not sure why, but I expected the department to be like a military hospital, accessed via a fern-filled glass conservatory, creaking with exotic plants and patrolled by scientists in white coats silently marking observations on clipboards hidden from prying eyes.
I thought I might be settled in a cracked leather armchair in a dark study festooned with glass tanks and jars containing specimens of wildlife yet to be identified. The perils of journeying through deepest, darkest Peru would be spelled out in fatherly tones by an ambassadorial figure. He would sit calmly, pressing fingertips together as he regaled me with his own close encounters with flesh-eating diseases and flora that could swallow a man whole.
We would drink tea as he offered advice, guidance and an emergency phone number should I need more of his wisdom when being seasoned by cannibals, cornered by rabid tigers or caught in a jungle typhoon with nothing more than a box of matches, a Swiss Army knife and a clean pair of underpants.
It was nothing like that. The only air of mystery was provided by the young female receptionist whose midnight moustache and painfully thinning hair set my imagination into overdrive. Had she fallen foul of a potent virus that was, even now, advancing room by room through this cold, heartless building, turning women into men, boys into girls? She had my sympathy until she tried to fob me off in that peculiarly Canarian manner.
‘Hello, can you tell me where I can find Dr Ramirez?’
From behind the high wooden reception counter she greeted me with a look that suggested I was trespassing. ‘You can’t see the doctor without an appointment. Good day.’
She turned and took a step back as she replaced a box folder on the row of shelves behind her. The virus had clearly got a firm hold of her. Her plain white blouse displayed the slim yet curvaceous upper body of a model, but her black and white checked trousers contained hips that were as wide as an Edwardian sideboard. It was obvious that two separate people had been joined at the waist.