THE ORCHID AND THE SERPENT
MICHAEL COLLINS
About this book
This TRUE narrative
begins as a simple yet humorous and quirky travel story before taking
unexpected twists and turns as Michael meets danger, treachery and violent
death along the way. It is also a poignant love story.
Travelling from Australia through the Americas to Antarctica Michael finds himself involved in a murder and, according to local spiritual beliefs he must carry the awful news to the murdered man’s family and bear his spirit for nine days before it can be laid to rest.
Back in Australia, Michael’s close friend, Jane Teresa, who knows nothing of the murder, dreams of the event in accurate detail.
Michael continues his travels with his wife, Leslie*, only to face more life-threatening situations with extraordinary narrow escapes. He begins to re-evaluate his life.
Strange dreams combine with elements of precognition, leading the reader to consider the possibility of parallels in our lives.
The poignant love theme underscores the whole journey as Michael comes to terms with the reality of his relationship with Leslie* and the realisation of his feelings for Jane Teresa.
Michael’s humour and quirky observations of life on a road wending its way through a diversity of cultures and circumstances keep the reader uplifted through the more confronting passages of this very human yet spiritual journey.
Michael begins the journey as one person and emerges from South America transformed, knowing he must make some tough decisions.
The book title refers to Chapters 5 and 6. Chapter 6 is a pivotal chapter connecting the shocking events in Guatemala with Jane Teresa Anderson’s precognitive dreams (ref: THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME, Jane Teresa Anderson, Random House 1998).
The Guatemalans believe that a mythical serpent representing truth and enlightenment protects their national flower, the orchid.
* Some of the names have been changed.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1 The shape of things to come
Chapter 3 If you go down to the woods today
Chapter 4 The rusty, trusty, Tusty
Chapter 5 The orchid and the serpent (part one)
Chapter 6 The orchid and the serpent (part two)
Chapter 7 Rest in peace
Chapter 8 Peace and goodwill – feliz navidad
Chapter 9 A witch in time
Chapter 10 Of heroes and monsters
Chapter 11 A pie in the sky
Chapter 12 Jorge’s game
Chapter 13 Breaking the ice
Chapter 14 A room with a loo
Chapter 15 Love on death road
Chapter 16 The voice of the ancients
Chapter 17 A postcard from the future
Appendices Analysis of Michael’s dreams
by Jane Teresa Anderson.
“Travelling tends to facilitate personal change and
transformation as we encounter different cultures and alternative views and
ways of life. Moving away from our usual routines encourages us to see our
lives from a different perspective, and journeying with a partner or friend
often challenges relationship issues. It is for all these reasons that
synchronicities tend to occur while travelling. What comes up for us during our
journey and challenges us to extend ourselves beyond our previous mental
limitations meets us in the outer world through the mirror of synchronicity.”
- Jane Teresa Anderson, The Shape of Things to Come (Random House)
Chapter 1
THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME
I heard it and it was awful. A raging, inhuman howl, that was so primal, so bestial and so deeply from the gut that it must have hurt. It roared its way up, welling in anger and intensity until it could be contained no longer, screaming its way out, bruising vocal chords and shaking the very walls. I felt every single part of it because it was my scream that I heard. As the last echoes died away concerned neighbours were already hammering on our apartment door. Leslie quickly cracked it open and whispered that all was well. ‘Bit of a bad day, really,’ I blurted, reaching for the rum bottle. Sorrow and self-pity swept through me as a river of bitter tears began.
********************
My father in law Rudi, a diminutive, pot-bellied control freak, had celebrated our imminent departure overseas with a bucketful of whisky the night before. It’s not that Rudi drank a lot. He rarely touched alcohol from one month to the next, but when he did lash out he would throw away the cap and command you to go glass to glass with him.
So Rudi, still cheerfully well over the limit early the next morning, insisted that he was fine to drive us to the airport. With my wife, Leslie, and her mother settled into the back, I strapped myself particularly tightly into the passenger seat and, with a couple of bunny hops, we were off.
Our road to Brisbane airport started life as a three-lane carriageway before reducing to a two-lane highway by virtue of a vanishing inside lane. We were travelling in that inside lane that morning, about to merge, when Rudi decided, against his usually sober, flawless, better judgment, to overtake a ten-wheeled semi-trailer on our right that was nudging the speed limit in the middle lane. Just ahead our lane ceased to exist. I knew that but it wasn’t until Rudi had drawn eyeball to eyeball with the driver of the behemoth that he realised our predicament and, instead of braking, decided to accelerate.
We tore up the inside lane at twice the speed limit, the very heavy vehicle blocking any escape route to our right. And we almost made it. We had just scraped ahead of the semi, giving Rudi the chance to swing in front of it out of danger when our left front wheel smashed into the raised culvert of a drain. For an instant we were airborne at over one hundred and forty kilometres an hour before crashing, nose down, in front of the semi.
We must have been blessed because what happened next had nothing to do with Rudi’s driving skills. I know because I saw his hands clenched resolutely on the steering wheel and his eyes tightly shut. The front tyres took the impact, and, instead of sending us cart wheeling into certain oblivion, remained true for some inexplicable reason, allowing the car to keep a straight path and racing us away from danger.
Of course Rudi stopped the car and permitted Leslie who was perfectly sober to drive. No, he didn’t. Ignoring entreaties from all he drove on to the airport, but that’s the sort of man he was.
On reflection this was only the first of many incidents that should have alerted me to rethink my chosen direction at that time. Looking back over the two years that followed I now see a pattern of accidents, tragedies and circumstances I would normally associate with someone considerably more accident prone than I. Were my unscheduled adventures a symbolic manifestation of my confused inner world? I wonder about that now. Certainly our simple plan to travel through Central and South America and Antarctica became something far more profound for me as circumstances challenged my beliefs and prompted development of my self-awareness. I’m a bit thick although I prefer to regard myself as a slow learner, so it took more than a few sledgehammer reminders to help me see the errors of my path more clearly. At least I can see the funny side of some of those adventures now that I’m home, and home in more ways than one too.
Death, synchronicities and dreams featured during my voyage and I was helped every step of the way by people I met, by those who travelled some of the way with me and even those who remained behind. But there was one issue I could not discuss with anyone, and that was the issue of love.
Are you aware of the exact moment you fell in love? And do you remember the precise second you realised you were not in love, or, more devastating, that you had never been in love at all? Love’s boundaries shift so readily and unexpectedly as our relationships develop, change or move on and we may never actually be in love no matter how many times we do love. It took me many decades and these two travelling years to finally understand love. Until I fell in love, I simply had no idea.
Love comes to us in many guises. Some people, with ample justification, love their animals more than they love the people in their lives. We love our houses, our cars and our best mates. We love our relatives even though we may not necessarily like them as people. I have heard of long-term relationships that began without love but which, after many years, gradually became pervaded by love – love grew into them. But are these people, suffused and saturated with love, also in love?
I know I loved Leslie. We had been married for only eighteen months when we set off on our journey. Our relationship appeared to be stable. Rock solid were the words chosen by many of our friends who, even in our own home, saw only our public faces reflecting loyalty and dedication to each other. But if any of them had bothered to look more closely or, for a moment, to turn their attention away from themselves, they would have easily detected a lack of passion and romance. It was a relationship of convenience. We had met in the hospitality industry, worked brilliantly together and soon managed some fine properties. But all of this was not enough and, as delicate as they were, fine cracks were beginning to appear.
We had rather too many superficial friends who, for their own selfish reasons, considered our company essential and, as a result, our home was filled with constant visitors and staying guests. Although it was a sometimes-wonderful environment, rich in conversation and as diverse as the cultures that passed through, there was little time to breathe as we dealt with the whirlwind of greetings and farewells, meals, tours and parties and tried to run busy hotels at the same time. Even our honeymoon was gate crashed and our first night away was spent sharing a room with a friend. She had firmly invited herself along and stuck to our sides for the next week. As I said, the cracks were hairline and, for all I knew back then, some decent cement may have been the answer. I thought this two year trip alone together would provide the opportunity to find out where we were going wrong and do something about it. In the meantime Leslie had invited another friend, Virginia, to join up with us once we were overseas. Little did I know the idea was for Virginia to share our two-person tent, sleep in the same hotel rooms and live in our pockets for the first leg of our journey. Terrific.
*******************
I looked up to the airport’s public viewing gallery one last time. Amongst the huge crowd of well-wishers who had turned out to see us off on our big trip, my eyes were riveted to one face. I felt a moment of panic. Staring into her eyes I thrust feelings of apprehension aside and, momentarily convincing myself that my emotional reactions were last minute airport nerves, I made my final wave and followed Leslie out of the departure lounge. Plodding towards the departure gate I was weighed down not so much by the bulky daypack containing laptop, camera, books and an assortment of lenses, but by the knowledge that it would be two years before I saw Jane again. Little did I suspect that my adventures over the following twenty-four months would be life threatening, exhilarating and that I would emerge a totally different person. Even less did it occur to me that, throughout it all, I would think of Jane almost every single day.
My intention was to write the basics of a travel book as we journeyed, at the same time recording my thoughts and observations, creating some travel articles and taking many photographs. The plan, only months before we’d see the convenience of email engulf the planet, was to send the floppy disks back to Jane who had kindly agreed to store them as an additional backup. Of course, as Jane was a published author, I really hoped she would read them and find some merit in my work. I also intended to send back photo transparencies as they were processed and categorised. These Jane would match to the articles I wrote, to be offered to various papers and magazines.
In fact the plan worked extremely well, but not in our wildest dreams could we know of events that were being set in motion at the same time. Dark and treacherous deeds across the world would result in me being caught up in a tragic and brutal murder as Jane, at the same time, experienced my terror in her dreams back in Brisbane. This would inevitably spin a tiny part of the universe to bring our stars very much closer together.
There are extraordinary preparations for a trip of this length and nature. Particularly when two of the destinations are Central and South America and our chosen method was backpacking. We had to be financially solid, as we did not intend to work en route. Medical matters entailed a plethora of sharp needles, a carefully planned yet compact first aid kit and decisions about anti-malarial drug options. Gear was required to cover the full range of hiking environments (and you can never get it completely right) and then, to add to the already enormous weight, day to day travelling clothes, a ‘best’ outfit, computer accessories and cabling, photographic gear, books, sleeping bag and shoes for all occasions. In the middle of all this it occurred to me that there were no real guidelines to follow and that an informative article would be in order. My feature in ‘The Australian’ newspaper was well received and gave excellent advice on backpacking from choosing your pack onward. Not bad for someone who had never backpacked anywhere in his life before. Fortunately for my readers Leslie was a seasoned backpacker and almost obsessive in her preparations. This was to be her third attempt to visit South America, her previous efforts thwarted at the 11th hour by fellow travellers and a disastrous relationship. She would find success somewhat elusive this time around too. But I hint too much.
********************
I once heard a story from my father. He was a Royal Air Force officer and twice personal pilot to the Duke of Edinburgh on his visit to Borneo. Dad was waiting on the tarmac in Kutching for Prince Philip to alight from his aircraft and be introduced to the waiting committee. As the Duke stepped away from the plane he was met by an official, Royal Air Force somebody who asked, ‘How was the flight sir?’
The Duke looked slightly affronted and rejoined, ‘Have you ever flown?’
The man was stunned. ‘Umm, yes...sir,’ he stammered.
‘Well,’ said the Duke imperiously and striding away, ‘It was a bit like that.’
That’s long-haul flying don’t you think? And nothing as luxurious as the adverts would have us believe in the form of elegant creatures lolling back in immaculate style, engaged in fascinating conversation and sipping from delicate crystal flutes. The relaxed and well-slept cabin crewmember in attendance obviously revels in her job as he or she slips, solicitously, and without the trace of a sneer, from one appreciative customer to the next.
In reality the experience is, for the majority of us, worthy of the term ‘cattle class’. It is an abominable, mind numbing and humourless experience. I mean have you ever seen anyone laugh once they’re on board unless they were drunk? And the food; we find that half the time we don’t know whether we should look forward to a meal as a diversion from the crushing boredom or dread it as an unscheduled yoga class. We patiently manipulate our bodies around and through our fellow passengers to achieve 10% mobility over a ten- minute period just to get the bloody knife and fork out of its package.
I stared out the plane window and idly watched the great white sea of clouds roll slowly by. My imagination has always taken a familiar turn in these moments and once more I felt a slight shudder through the aircraft as we entered a different dimension.
‘We could be suspended up here for ever,’ I mused, earning a peculiar look from Leslie.
She turned back to her postcard writing, a sight that was to become very familiar over the next two years.
‘Bit soon to start postcards isn’t it? We’ve only just left,’ I ventured.
Leslie didn’t know how to give a withering look but it was close. ‘I’m getting ahead. Why don’t you write something?’
I turned my attention back to the clouds. I was going to write something and I’d already started. I thought of the laptop in the luggage locker above my head. It would sometimes be a nuisance on the road but I could think of no other way of writing my travel stories in a disciplined manner. What did I want to achieve apart from write a book and see places like countries in South America that were difficult to perceive in my mind’s eye? I glanced at Leslie. She was deeply engrossed in her postcards, covering every available blank space with her tiny, neat handwriting. I wanted this trip to work for us. We had been so involved in full time hotel management and amassing the funds for this trip that I felt we had lost our way together. We needed this time and I was looking forward to it, little suspecting that as far as Leslie was concerned there was absolutely nothing wrong with our relationship whatsoever.
‘I think time’s in reverse up here,’ I said, sleepily, and promptly drifted away.
********************
Because of my knowledgeable and published discourse on travel very few people knew when we left that I had never actually been to the U.S. The nearest I had been was when I had the serious displeasure of passing through Honolulu some twelve years earlier. On that occasion I had been mysteriously detained there as an illegal immigrant whilst actually in transit to London, escorted by silent armed guards all over the airport with no explanations offered. When Sylvia (my then wife), at the end her tether, asked sarcastically if it was possible for our two suitcases to be sent to the same place, we watched with horror as the sneering baggage handler sent them in two different directions. Of course it was my case that took ten days to reach me.
I was looking forward to my arrival in the U.S. greatly but, having heard horror stories of immigration problems, had worked myself into quite a nervous state as we disembarked at LAX to catch the local flight to San Francisco. As I stood before the immigration counter I had heart-rippling visions of being led back to the departure gates in irons and sent home in disgrace. The image of a fierce and distinctly hostile guardian of the nation’s portals gradually dissolved as I focussed on what the tiny and stunningly attractive Hispanic looking lady was saying to me.
‘Welcome to America Mr Collins!’ she said with a brilliant smile and handed me my documents. I was so relieved I was quite taken aback and could only mumble a pathetic ‘Thank you,’ before shuffling off into the land of the free to begin my search for the unexpected. As it happened I was not kept waiting long.
At first I was a little disappointed. Airport formalities are pretty much the same the world over particularly in English speaking climes. Looking around hungrily I made the trip into the domestic terminal – still the same – buses, petrol fumes and multicultural people on the move. Fat ones, thin ones, worried, happy - nothing different here. Nothing to tell me I was in the States as opposed to anywhere else. I slumped wearily into an airport chair near the San Fran boarding gate. The packing, the preparations and the last minute partying were all starting to catch up with me. And then I saw it: a plain old bin, standing at the edge of the concourse. I leapt out of my seat and examined the lettering on it triumphantly. This was no vessel for ‘rubbish’ or ‘litter’. It clearly read ‘TRASH’. I knew this was America.
********************
Our arrival in San Francisco should have been plain sailing as we were to be met by a friend, Lisa, and were invited to stay at her home. So my comfortable in-flight doze was a little disturbed by the pilot’s calm and steady voice informing us that almost the entire western seaboard from Canada to Mexico, including San Francisco, had been affected by an enormous power cut. This, of course, directly influenced the operation of the airport and, worse, the entire air traffic control system. The aircraft cabin suddenly seemed charged with electricity, as people stiffened in their seats and made little gurgling sounds. The announcement hadn’t informed us of the pilot’s intentions so the next few minutes were interesting as passengers fell to either speculating wildly or squirming uncomfortably in their seats. Fortunately some of our fellow traveller’s suggested survival tactics like communal hymn singing weren’t required to be put in to practice because the pilot’s voice returned, quite upbeat, as he informed us that San Francisco had decided to give us, the last aircraft as it turned out, permission to land. This would be without the benefit of all those boring safety things like instrumentation that we all take for granted.
‘But we do have to hurry,’ he added nonchalantly.
There was a strangled sort of cheer from one or two passengers who were obviously anxious that we not be diverted to another airport and then the interior of the aircraft totally hushed. No one spoke, no one read and all was still, except for the frequent flick of fingers as people crossed themselves as we rapidly descended towards the ground. I was fascinated. Looking back down the rows I saw people in all manner of mute terror. Some were gripping their seats with clawed hands, others, eyes squeezed tightly shut, appeared to be silently praying or weeping. I was also stunned to see that a number of people had scrunched forward into the crash position. I turned to Leslie who was quietly writing yet another postcard.
‘Have you seen what’s going on back there?’ I blurted, ‘It’s like we’re going in for a crash landing. Did I sleep through something?’
She didn’t take her eyes from her card. ‘It’s Americans. They’re like that with flying,’ she replied absently.
It was a lover’s kiss as the wheels connected with the earth and our aircraft began to decelerate smoothly down the runway. No one spoke or moved until the pilot announced, cheerily, ‘Welcome to San Francisco folks. Airport management have asked us to let you know that because of the power cut the place is in darkness and baggage facilities aren’t working.’ The disembodied voice paused briefly and then returned with that deep, confident timbre of airline captains, ‘Kind of lights are all out, but everyone’s home, if you see what I mean’.
There was a moment’s pause and then,
incredibly, the cabin went wild. People leapt into the aisles to punch the air
in jubilation, strangers fell sobbing into each other’s arms and everyone,
including the cabin crew, clapped madly, grinning and cheering. Oh yes, my
adventure really had begun and it was time to start making some notes. Jane
will really love this.
