The Wagah Border Crossing

 

Kicking up their heels at the Wagah Border closing ceremony (photo from Getty Images)

     I was expecting something somber, a stiff-and-formal-type proceeding, but it was anything but that.  Known throughout the Subcontinent as "beating retreat," it's a display of military pageantry and patriotism like no other.  It takes place every afternoon at the India-Pakistani border, at the Wagah border crossing.  

    Before lowering the flags to mark the official closing, honor guards from both nations goosestep out proud as peacocks, sprouting headresses like cockbirds.  Meeting at the actual border line, they face off, square off and engage in a display of kicks, jumps and pumping of fists -- all aimed at both recognizing their neighboring country and perhaps antagonizing them as well.

     Cheerleaders on both sides brandish bullhorns, wave flags and generally egg on the crowds.  And the crowds, they are substantial -- thousands on both sides.  Grandstands resemble those in football stadiums.  The mood overall resembles a tailgate party: vendors hawk chips, popcorn, teeshirts, lassi and milk tea, patriotic caps and flags.  People line up to have their faces painted in national colors.  

The border with the closing spectacle in progress.  The Pakistanis are in the foreground, in the darks; the Indians away, in the Khakis.     (photo by Guilhem Vellut, Flickr) 

       

     As ceremony time itself approaches, I wince at how loud it is -- a mix of cheering, chanting and marching orders, all interspersed with blaring national anthems and Bollywood sound tracks.  Such a build-up!  But to what, I wondered?  Where is this all going?

      Suddenly the India side erupts en masse with "HINDUSTAN ZINDABAD!" (Long Live India!)  The Pakistani side comes back with "PAKISTAN ZINDABAD! (Long Live Pakistan!)  People dance, jump up and down, bang and stomp on bleachers with sandals and shoes.  What a racket!  Makes me want to cover my ears!      

      To my surprise though, the energy of the thing was contagious.  I was infused with it.   I found myself yelling along with them even though, not knowing the language, I didn't know what I was yelling for!  

     On and on it goes, one side trying to outdo the other until, ceremony concluded, flags are lowered and the metal gates clanged together again, officially closing the border for another day.       

       

Your humble correspondent on the India side.  You wouldn't see this sign across the border, believe me.

     Despite such a display, with the guard captains shaking hands at the end, it's one of the most contentious borders in the world.  Quite simply, both countries despise each other.  Largely Hindu India butts up against largely Muslim Pakistan.  It's largely vegetarians verses largely meat-eaters.  One side is a religious state, still tribal oriented; the other a democratic republic, with separation of religion and state.  The itemizing of differences could go on and on.       

     Almost never does a person from one side cross over there which is made all the more difficult because Wagah is the only border crossing between the two.  Ask locals, either side, if they've ever been over and their faces go blank.  You may as well be enquiring about the far side of the moon.  Such is the emnity and spite between them.

     Yet somehow they've found a way to come together for this ceremony every single afternoon.  It's a chance for one side to see the other and realize that, perhaps, they're not really two-headed monsters over there.  Besides the political posturing, the noise, the wild energy, it's a reliever of tension, a pressure relief valve, if you will.  

     However, for two powers with artillery pieces, even nuclear weapons pointed at each other, and the world the way it is today, it struck me as a very reasonable even a very sane thing to do.

Sign after clearing customs and emerging onto the Pakistani side.

Billboard showing one of the frequent border patrols.  

     Unfortunately the barriers don't only inhibit Indians and Pakistanis -- it was difficult for me to get across as well.  If fact, if I had known all that was involved, I wouldn't even have tried.  

     Officials rejected my visa application three times over the course of as many weeks.  I had to pay out a hundred-and-some dollars in fees and processing, plus go through bureaucratic gibberish.  Then it only zinged into my inbox a day or so before I was set to cross.  But come through it did.  I downloaded it and caught a taxi into Lahore, at ten million people the second largest city in Pakistan.

What I had to go through to get this!

Where I stayed -- one of the few places there for budget travelers such as me.

A Pakistani elder giving the traditional hand-to-heart greeting.

     Understand that I was only there a week and I did not range broadly throughout the country.  I stayed in Lahore, fifteen miles from the border, and took day-trips out from there.  Keeping this in mind, my experience was that if the Pakistani people are not the most pleasant of peoples, they are certainly among them.

   Because I travel solo, usually I am the one who has to reach out -- to initiate a conversation, to ask for directions, etc.  But not in Pakistan.  No-sireee.  

   Time and again I'd be sitting outside eating or scrutinizing the map in the metro (subway) and soon two, three, even half a dozen people would cluster around to help or engage in conversation.  Most of these times, questions would come at me about America -- what we think, why we do certain things and so on.  Occasionally, with all the attention, I found it hard to be alone, even when I wanted to be! 

Sajjad, tour guide, before the mausoleum of Jahangir, a Mughal emperor

    

Crop fields along the famous Grand Trunk Road leading to the border.  It was hard to find even a rock there, the soil's so good.

     I happened to be there Friday, Sept. 29th, the birthday of Muhammad or "the Prophet," as he's known in that part of the world, the founder of Islam.  It was celebrated with feasting, fireworks, parades and expressions of goodwill, such as the handing out of sweets to wayward men from Pennsylvania.  It reminded me of Christmas or Thanksgiving in the U.S.    

     As for the attention that I was attracting there and elsewhere, I came to realize that I was an exotic, a skin color and a nationality rarely seen, much less talked to in person.  After checking my passport and papers at the border earlier, one Pakistani official summed it up: "My, my, we don't see many of you here."

    What I say to that is, fine and dandy.  That's a reason I travel, to see and to experience something different, different cultures and different people.  For the most part on this trip to India and Pakistan, I surely did.

     Thanks to all who followed along for all three parts of this.  Your feedback and support was much appreciated.

    Viewing Suggestion:  It is difficult to appreciate the Wagah Border Ceremony soley through still photos.  Those interested can view various videos on YouTube, which better capture the color and excitement of the event.

    Cautionary Note:  I left Pakistan a week before the breakout of the Israel/Hamas War on October 7th of this year.  The mood toward Americans may have changed there since then.

END OF SERIES ON INDIA/PAKISTAN

The Golden Temple Of The Sikhs

 

Nihang Sikhs, decked out in their finest, at the Golden Temple.

     It was 0300 when I rolled out of my bunk at the GoStops Hostel in Amristar city.  I was only four days into India and my mental time clock was still on East Coast U.S. time, thus the early waking up.

     Shafts of moonlight angling in through the windows and illuminating the room in ghostly glow are what triggered me: Hey, now's the time!  Now's the time to join the other pilgrims and head for the Golden Temple!  Beat the crowds, or so I thought, and all that.

     I slipped into my best wrinkled up shirt and pants and set off through alleyways toward the east entrance gate.  At that hour, it was an eerily silent walk, past heaps of trash, rolled up store fronts and roving packs of dogs.

     Only ten-or-so minutes walking and I was there, with the place lit up in all its glory.

The Golden Temple at 0400.  Note line at left-center, hours long, even at that time!

      

     The Golden Temple or Sri Harmandir Sahib as it's known in Punjabi, the local language, is the holiest of holies for Sikhs.  It's similar, perhaps, to Mecca for Muslims or the Vatican for Catholics.  Sikhs number some twenty-five million worldwide and make up the fifth largest organized religion.  What this site represents to them overall is summed up by a sign within the complex.  It reads: "The Center Of The Spiritual World".

      For many devotees, it's a once-in-a-lifetime journey, to get to the Golden Temple and to worship at the inner sanctum on an island in the middle of the lake.

       

      Me being what I am, I was determined to visit the inner sanctum myself, both to pay my respects and, yes, to get a look inside.  Lest you think this on the brazen side, signs both on the premises and on their official website say differently.  In general, they are an invitation to humanity at large.  As one sign on the premesis reads:

Welcome Here To Everyone Irrespective Of Caste, Creed, Country Or Race

     But as with almost anywhere you go, house rules exist.  And the Golden Temple is no exception. 

     First I had to deposit my Chaco sandals at one of numerous "shoe points," as no footwear is allowed inside.  Then I had to have a head covering.  For this, I used a red farmer's bandanna, arranged and tied atop my head in the proper manner with the aid of a helpful devotee.

    Next I had to wade through a shallow pool of water to cleanse my feet.  Only then was I allowed to enter through the east gate and on into the complex proper.     

     

The Inner Sanctum, where the sacred artifacts and manuscripts are kept (photo courtesy WorldPress.com)

     The line was almost two hours to get in to the inner sanctum.  What a crush of humanity it was, even in those pre-dawn hours.  The closer I got, the worse the pushing, shoving and squeezing in in front of me.  And for once, the women were worse than the men!  Some were overcome with religious zeal, it seemed; wild-eyed, trance-like even.  Remember, a lot of pilgrims saved and waited years and years to get there, so they were pent up with anxious energy. 

    Signs warned not to take pictures past a certain point, so I put my Canon PowerShot into my bag so that I wouldn't be tempted.  I figured that I was a foreigner, a guest, so I better go by the posted rules.  But many others there didn't get the memo -- Sikhs by the scores were clicking away right up to the entrance door of the gilded structure.  There, security men wearing swords and daggers (ceremonial) put the quash on them.

     After the inner sanctum and various other sites of interest around the temple complex, the place to be was the Langar Dining Hall.  

First, you grab yourself a plate and spoon.

Then you sit cross-legged in rows so that they can serve you.  (Yes, some hip and knee dexterity is helpful.)

     

     Billed as the largest community kitchen in the world, volunteers dish out thirty- to fifty-thousand meals on a typical day.  This spikes up to one hundred thousand on holidays or special gatherings.  All are invited and all is for free, although donations are accepted.

      Food is strictly vegetarian and is prepared in huge vats or ovens.  The menu is generally the same, morning or evening -- "dal" or lentils, "roti" or Indian flatbread, "kheer" or rice pudding for dessert.  Plus scoops of rice and this or that vegetable depending on what's available on that particular day or time of year.

A volunteer stirring the lentils.

    

    My most dramatic encounter with Sikh hospitality occurred on my second visit to Langar, on a stifling afternoon with the sun beating down.  I received my plate and spoon and proceeded to the dining hall entrance only to discover that it was a mob scene; hundreds of sweaty people were jammed together, waiting to get in.  I decided that, free or not, it wasn't worth it.

    I went to turn in my utensils at the dirty dish portal, when a Sikh in orange turban and wearing ceremonial sword somehow noticed my shiny, unused plate.  

    "What, you did not eat?" he recoiled.  "No, too many people and it's too hot," I gestured toward the crowd .   "No, no, no, no," he said.  "You want to eat?  You must eat."

     Once more I tried to opt out, but he wasn't having it.  "No, no, no.  You are a foreigner, you are our special guest, you must eat."  To my amazement, he grabbed me by the bicep and tugged me toward the dining hall where he barked orders to attendants there.  I was promptly ushered in and given a space inside.

     I wasn't comfortable jumping the line in front of a such a throng, especially when I could get the same meal outside for less than a dollar U.S.  But as I always say, never buck orders from a man wearing a two-and-a-half-foot sword. 

     So I plopped down, crossed my legs and received my rice, roti and the rest.  Then next day it was on to someplace where the fare was not free and was not vegetarian -- Pakistan. 

Ornate Sikh ceremonial sword.

   PART THREE TO FOLLOW NEXT WEEKEND 

    

Charity Birds Hospital

The Red Fort in Delhi, India.  Built of red sandstone, it was the abode of Mughal emperors for centuries.

     All in all, it was one of those out-of-the-way places, largely unknown to most travelers, that I happened to stumble upon.

     I had just left the Red Fort, one of the premier tourist attractions in all of India, and had set out to explore the adjoining neighborhood.  I was strolling along when a sign caught my attention -- so faded and dripped with paint (or something) that I almost passed it by.  Because of my long-time interest in historical markers, however, I paused to give it a read:

"Within the temple premises is a bird hospital"???

     "A what?" I guffawed,  "What on earth is a bird hospital?"  Shortly after, right on cue, a woman exited a tuk-tuk, a three-wheeled taxi so common in that part of the world.  Hands cupped out before her, she stepped forth with what looked like a common pigeon -- cowering and cooing in her protective custody.

     Distressed fowl in hand, she paraded by numerous men laid out on the sidewalk; most were coated with filth, were barefoot, clothes in tatters.  Some were sleeping on newspapers or had their arms outstretched to passers-by, desperate for rupees, food, something -- anything.  Without so much as giving them a glance, she proceeded on into the temple complex, 

     Quite simply, it was too much.  "This I have got to see," I said to myself and followed her on in.

In front of the temple.

Within the temple complex -- the bird hospital.

     

     The temple complex itself was of the Jain religion.  Of the other dominant religions on the Indian subcontinent -- Hinduism, Sikhism and Buddhism -- Jainism is arguably the least known, at least in the West.

     While similar to the others in some ways, Jainism is famed for non-violence.  Mahatma Gandhi's mother was a Jain and, according to various sources anyhow, she instilled into him the pacifism for which he became so renowned.

     To other peoples' way of thinking though, Jainism means fanatical non-violence, not killing anything.  Many Jains will not eat root vegetables, for instance, because if you pull out a turninp or carrot or potato you kill the plant in the process.  Some of the the temple dining halls even post signs: "Serve No Root Vegetables."

Jain Temple in the mountains near Ranakpur, which I visited during my 2019 trip to India.

     For special ceremonies, such as one I witnessed at the temple above a few years ago, disciples with brooms sweep the path before a procession passes so as not to have any insects trampled.  Even more extreme, to my way of thinking anyhow, some monks wear little or no clothes because harvesting fabrics entails the killing of living things -- plants, that is.  And so on and so on. 

    Along these lines, birds and the protecting of birds have assumed a special place in Jainism, and are prominent in their rites and literature.  Thus the motivation behind Charity Birds Hospital in Delhi.

The entrance.

Hospital mission statement.

 

Attendant and medical array awating the next feathered patient.

          

The next patient -- woman with a sick rooster.

     Here I take the opportunity to inject a few thoughts about swastikas, of all things; the age-old symbol long used by Jains, Hindus and others.

     Adolf Hitler and the Nazis did more than wreak death and destruction back in the l930s and 40s, they commandeered this revered and beloved symbol.  Not just for centuries, but for thousands of years it had been used as an expresssion of good luck and good will.  According to one interpetation, the four sides represent an inviting together of the four dimensions of existence for a richer and more fulfilling life. 

     In general, whatever meaning (other than Nazi) that you look at will present the swastika as emanating the living of a good and balanced life.  For millenia then, humanity benefited from its use in this manner.    

     Unfortunately for recent generations, now it's considered a symbol of racism or hate in the Western world and it doesn't appear that that's going to change any time soon.  For the Jains and others, however, it retains its traditional meanings as the photo below shows.

Another statement of purpose at Charity Bird.  Note pigeon reference.  

     

     And it wasn't only pigeons and roosters that I saw there.  In cages, post-treatment, were peacocks (the national bird of India), parrots, various cuckoos, numerous types of songbirds, crows, ravens and more.  They take in them all at Charity Bird.

   Admitted birds, usually twenty to thirty a day, are bathed, given food, vitamins and appropriate medical care, and eventually taken up to the roof and released.  Be advised though, if you ever tour the place, it can be rather dank and smelly.  Think in terms of a bird barn or stable and you get the idea.  

   Oh, and regarding that pigeon the woman paraded in with, the one that caught my attention in the first place?  As soon as it arrived inside, the crack medical staff sprang into action.  The busted up leg was tended to and the result is shown below -- patient # 164, with a splint or bands of some kind on its leg. 

     

     

     I do hope that it's doing well.  Strange how things work out sometimes.  Its injury led me to somewhere that I might never have gone otherwise -- and gave me insights into the culture of a far away place and a far away people, which is one of the main reasons that I travel.  

PART TWO TO FOLLOW NEXT WEEKEND

The Great Sphinx

Nile River "green belt," where most tourist attractions are located.  The Sphinx is toward the top.

It's high season in Egypt now and when I was there last month, a veritable crush of tourists was swarming the Giza Plateau.  It's home to the tallest pyramids and of course the Sphinx, the Great Sphinx, the famous half-man, half-lion figure bellied down silently onto the desert floor for nigh on four thousand years now.  Yes, four thousand.

Arguably the most famous statue in the world, certainly one of the largest, over the millennia the Sphinx has become more than a symbol of ancient Egypt.  It's become the embodiment of mystery associated with one of the earliest and grandest civilizations in history.  

After centuries of research, archaeologists now know much about the ancient Egyptians -- with still more, of course, that they don't.  For example, they're still haggling over exactly how the Great Pyramids were built.  And exactly where that the ancient Egyptians came from.

Did I say that the Sphinx has been perching there silently all this time?  Well, not according to some locals anyhow.  While running the gauntlet of souvenir stalls, camel jockeys offering rides, agents offering personalized tours, etc., I came upon a man claiming that the mysterious figure is not so silent after all.

"Ohh, but the Great Sphinx, it speaks," he informed we passers-by, with wide-eyed fervor.  "It does?" I paused in mid-step.  "Yes, but only if you know how to listen," he went on.  

He pulled back the curtain to a stall to reveal a woman with head covered of black veil, the classic burka, with only a slit for the eyes.  She awaited next to a tray of crystals pointing up crazily at different angles, obviously a type of crystal ball.

The man smiled like he knew a great secret and nodded me in toward her.

   Smaller version of the Sphinx in Memphis.  Note row of stalls    

behind me, to be passed by as you enter the site.

     Our tour group, before statue of Ramses the Great.  Note that I'm the only

     one there without shades on.  Big mistake.

Stepped pyramid or stepped tomb at Saqqara, a necropolis, where ancient Egyptian royalty are buried.  Another of the archaeological sites we visited that day on our tour.  You can go inside some of these and I descended into two.  

By the time I encountered that fortune teller, or whatever he was, our little tour group had already been to three archaeological sites along the Nile River green belt.  Six hours of being bounced around on rutted and pot-holed roads.  I'd neglected to bring sunglasses and the glare off the sand had left me with a throbbing headache.  

To add to it, minutes before I had fended off a seller of papyrus scrolls with phosphorescent highlights purported to glow in the dark.  In short, by then I was in no mood for another sales hook.

As I hurried away, he called out after me, "Sir, best way to see the Sphinx is with eyes closed!  Eyes closed!  Close your eyes and listen -- LISTEN TO HIM!!!"

Just what I needed, I muttered as we made our way toward the entrance of the Giza Plateau, advice from a mad Seer of the Desert.  Throw him in with the hawkers of rings and necklaces adorned with stones of magical healing qualities, the oils of lotus flowers crushed beneath the feet of chaste young women, the perfumes favored by Cleopatra herself, and more, much more...

    

The pyramids of the Giza Plateau, outside the metropolis of Cairo.  I had no sooner snapped this photo when...

A man popped in front to offer me a camel ride!

    

        Railway Station at Alexandria, with the smiling little you-know-whats at bottom 

        eyeing me up as fresh meat!  To extract money from me, in other words.

"High Season" is not quite the term to describe Egypt this past November, when I was there.  It was the 100th anniversary of the discovery of King Tutankhamun's tomb; the pharaoh popularly known as "King Tut."  Television cameras and people protruding out microphones were doing interviews at many sites and museums, causing more than the usual commotion.  

In addition, five tombs discovered earlier this year were being unveiled in the Saqqara necropolis.  The term means "city of the dead" and is basically a cemetery with monuments and tombs stretching out for miles.  When we visited there, more media and more tour groups than usual were prowling about. 

And of course, the international Climate Change Summit had to place at the Egyptian resort town of Sharm El-Sheikh that month...with many of the participants taking in the sights before or after gathering to save the world from catastrophe.

These and more made for record crowds up and down the green-belt, crowds that even Ramses the Great might've been impressed with.  (But then again, after learning about his accomplishments and personality, maybe not.)

Statue of Ramses II, also known as Ramses the Great.  He ruled for 66 years, sired 150 children, conquered numerous other kingdoms.  I later viewed his mummy --  4,200 years old!

Now you might be wondering, was it worth it to endure such a grueling day, the crowds, the touts and hustlers, some even of grade school age?  The touristic chaos that is Egypt during such a high season?  Was it all really worth it?

What I concluded is, if you ever are in a position to go, yes, regardless of all that and more, you can and you should.  Like the Grand Canyon in the U.S. and the Great Wall in China, Egypt's own versions are marvels of the highest order and despite the travails listed above, should not be missed.

  

Me recovering after a long, but good day of touring.

 

 For those who've been considering a trip to Egypt:

Keep in mind, I was in Egypt for two weeks plus and most of that described above took place only one day, the day  I went along with that tour group.  An extraordinary confluence of events was taking place then, a confluence unlikely to occur again.  In following days, for the most part, I got off the tourist path and the experience was much more pleasant.

Travel tip to avoid many of the hucksters and associated stresses: 

Do not, repeat DO NOT let them lure you into their stalls or shops.  Ignore them or listen to as much of their pitch as you can, then jab your heel into the sand and walk away!

All in all, touring Egypt will be a much better experience.

 END

The Zone Of Tranquility

 

 French backpackers at the hostel in Leticia, Colombia.

La Zona de Tranquillo as they call it down there -- the words mean the zone of quietness or calmness; the place of tranquility.

When I first heard trekkers at the hostel discussing it, I scoffed at the idea.  It reminded me of the so-called vortices or portals in the earth around Sedona, Arizona.  Some claim that energies there emerge from down deep that are conducive to spiritual enlightenment and supernatural phenomena.

I visited Sedona a few times in the Eighties and Nineties and noticed very little of this.  One exception was at the Chapel of the Holy Cross, reportedly built over one of these vortices.  There I did experience some moistening of the eyes, some emotion.  But I wasn't sure if it was from the mysterious energies or from the colors and beauty of the structure itself.

 

Chapel of the Holy Cross near Sedona, AZ.

  

According to the tales I was hearing in Leticia, the energy of La Zona was similar -- it can calm you down, put you into an altered state, even a trance, just by passing through or being there.  At first, it sounded like something out of the X-Files.

Well okay, I thought, I'll soon find out.  The next day I was heading up to another river town called Puerto Nariño -- and would be passing through this so-called zone en route.

 

Along the Amazon near Puerto Nariño. 

Puerto Nariño was two-and-a-half hours upriver by boat.  I had planned to take photos along the way, but as it turned out, didn't take any.  Somehow I passed out part way or fell asleep or something...for about an hour.  Coming to, I looked about at the other passengers -- a lot of them were blinking their eyes, coming to as well.

Hmmm, I thought as the boat bumped up to the town dock, I wasn't that tired when we left.  Why did I zonk out like that?  We were jammed into seats three across with the sun beating in -- conditions not conducive to good rest, especially for someone who likes to stretch out. 

Could it have been...?  No, it couldn't have -- I shook off any notion of the zone and disembarked to find a place to stay.  At midday in those parts, I don't loiter long out in the sun. 

A street in Puerto Nariño.  The great wide river in the background.

k

One of the places to stay.  Note likeness of a toucan bird carved out of wood.

Evidently means no whizzing out the side door.

Renowned as an eco-village, Puerto Nariño is considered a model for sustainable living.  It's popular with vegans and the green crowd, especially backpacker-college-student types concerned with climate change.  It's touted as almost zero carbon emissions there due to a prohibition on vehicles.  

Many residents belong to tribal groups such as the Ticunas, the Yaguas and the Cocanas.  Off in the rain forest, you can still visit villages where the hunter-gatherer lifestyle hasn't changed in who knows how long.

Indigenous peoples' market at the waterfront.

  Great place to just take a stroll.

Because no motorized vehicles are allowed -- no cars, no tuk-tuks, no motorbikes -- people ambled about seemingly without a care.  They moved and talked more slowly in this, their own little vehicle-less world. 

Because all transportation was by boat or by foot power, a lot of normal irritants didn't exist.  No glancing over the shoulder that they might get run down, for instance.  No screeching of tires or blatting from mufflers or honking of horns.  The dogs even seemed more subdued.      

Compared to the bustle of Leticia, the town in general was quiet, almost too quiet.  As nice as it was with the tropical flowers and birds and thus, I found it boring to the point of being uncomfortable and was anxious to get going after two days.  It was just too lethargic or something.

A guy at the guest house dubbed it Sloth Town -- after the cuddly vegetarians known for their gentle demeanor and movements akin to that of molasses in January.

A young sloth.  

To beat the tropical sun, I took the boat back downriver at 0700.  This trip would be faster, less than two hours because we were going with the current this time. 

Once again, I intended to take photos en route, had my camera out and ready.  Amazingly, the same thing happened -- somewhere in the aforementioned zone I zonked out.  The next thing that I knew we were approaching Leticia harbor!  The camera hung in mid-air, dangling from the strap around my wrist -- unused once again.  A whole hour or so had disappeared, was missing from my memory!

This time I didn't fall sleep, as such.  I'm certain of that.  More like I slipped away somewhere, somewhere nice.  I came to smiling, content...as if I'd been to my Happy Place.

Disembarking in Leticia, I was shaking my head at the strangeness of it and muttering, "Boy, this is weird...real weird."

The channel leading into Leticia harbor.

With my time in the Amazon thus ended, I flew back to Medellin a day later.  For the record, never during that three-hour flight did I doze off and lose track of time.  The reason, the main one?  My mind kept running, often echoing of tv and film writer Rod Serling...

As he might have put it -- had I really just visited a quiet little town along the upper Amazon or had I blundered onto a far off outpost of the The Twilight Zone?  After mulling it over, I dared to think that it was some of both.  

Whatever the the trip to Puerto Nariño was or was not, the Amazon overall, the eleven days that I was there, was one heckuva an experience.

End Of Series On The Amazon