Vulture’s Peak
I have started to stop looking for the Kumbaya moment. Let me explain a bit.
I still can’t exactly figure how I got signed up for this adventure. But, from the instant I agreed to go, I began expecting some sort of transformational experience, a Kumbaya moment. It sort of emerged from an empty spot that has something to do with being an empty nester with a new girlfriend and the inflection point of a lifetime.
If you’re old enough, you’ll remember the spark in Davy Jones’ eyes (from the Monkees) as he sang “I Wanna Be Free” (like the bluebird flying by me) while walking in the sand. I don’t know where I found it but it has been growing… the idea that there will be a moment on this trip that should have a mystical Van Morrison soundtrack.
I keep expecting to be awestruck. Instead, I am getting shoved way out of my comfort zone and experiencing a range of things I wouldn’t have exactly volunteered for. There is no magical enlightenment moment for me so far. It’s much more like a thorough beating…more like the Bridge Over the River Kwai than the Philadelphia Folk Festival.
The scene at Vulture’s Peak (VP) is another frame from a Fellini flick. When we park the car, the beggars descend like vultures. We get beyond them to find the same souvenir booths that are at every one of these places. Beads, statues, pictures but no Tee Shirts. (I harbor a secret desire to find a Buddha Tour jacket with the names of all the stops on the back.)
This is when I find out that we’re going to the top of a mountain on a ski lift. I’m in the line before I have a chance to remember my twin phobias…claustro and acro. And, to get to the rickety chair lift, you have to squeeze through a very complicated set of mechanical devices and bars designed by an Australian penitentiary architect in the late 1800s. Then you get flung into the air on a seat on a rope designed for people half my size.
The safety signs say stuff like “If Intoxication is present, enjoyment of the chairlift will be restricted”. It should <–Previous – Next–>
