Shane Granger

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World Book Reviews Where Honest Book Reviews Are Done!

This one is too good not to post.

I can't even remember what this was for. Sometimes, I just write. For no specific reason, other than evicting the words dancing around in my head. Hope you enjoy it.

Some Call it Adventure P**n

I blame it all on television and the general state of ignorance rife among today’s youth. Just about the time you get a cold one in hand the twit beside you at the bar starts mouthing off about the natives. Of course, he just arrived from some big city on a cheap charter flight and never saw the real outback in his life.
The worst part is putting up with all their uninformed drivel about developing the savages by bringing them the benefits of civilization. I suffered through one tourist looking me straight in the eye saying the Africans needed better Internet connection and freer access to credit cards. I told him, what they really need is leaving alone, and perhaps an honest price for their resources.
Well, that set him off, for sure. The great know-it-all was soon up on his hind legs huffing and puffing about understanding the whole story and, besides, who was I to spoil his delusion. Seems he saw several documentaries on Nat Geo, or perhaps the Discovery channel. Anyway, one of those see the world from the comfort of your own reclining chair at home, risk free and guaranteed never to get your feet wet or sunburn, channels. The kind specialized in broadcasting vicarious thrills for the couch bound. Adventure p**n, as a friend calls it.
Meggi says, people no longer set out to do things. Instead, they pay to have things done to them. If you doubt that, just visit any backpacker bar and listen to the chatter. ‘Then they drove us there and put us on elephants that took us to see some ancient temple the guide book said we had to see. I guess it was OK, even if it did take us hours to find a clean stretch of wall to scratch our names on. Then we went to that cheap hostel suggested in the guidebook, where they fed us genuine local food. It tasted foreign, so Muggins and me ordered hamburgers. In the morning they’re taking us to see the temple paintings of Gotchagoodie. You know, the ones they say show all ninety-nine positions from the K**a Sutra? Not that we do things like that back home mind, but Shirley wants to see how decadent the savages were before we civilized them.’
It's all become a big carnival ride, where airplanes whisk people from one prepackaged experience to the next. Cut rate adventures in a can, all guaranteed to have you back at the hotel in time for another meal.
Why, just the other year Meggi and I were strolling through the ancient Chinese Forbidden City in Beijing. Admiring the woodwork and wondering what the place was like in its hay day, with the Emperor’s Thousand Concubines strolling about like so many pretty butterflies. Or all those masked guards posing in their polished armor and scowling like constipated gargoyles. Too much rice in their diet, if you want my opinion.
I was just getting into the feel of it all when our meander took us past the pavilion of the Celestial Throne. In case you never saw the place, it’s a small building right in the heart of the Palace where the most powerful emperor this world has ever seen once held court. And, wouldn’t you know it, peg on beside the throne room was a Starbucks coffee shop selling post cards and tacky souvenirs, alongside the stale sandwiches, bottled water and overpriced coffee. Talk about class. All very low, mind you. But there was lots of it.

WOW! Cargo of Hope just received another great 5.0 out of 5 stars review

“Once I started I simply could not put this book down. The whole story about the way Shane and Meggi decided to use an old sailing cargo boat for humanitarian purposes to bring medical and teaching aids to far flung islands abandoned by their own government is inspiring to say the least. I raced through it and then did something I have never done before with a book; I immediately started it again to slowly savour all the adventures that this brave couple go through every year to help others . This book takes you through the terrifying times of being in a tropical cyclone, the joy of cruising past tropical islands, and meeting the residents of those islands who do not see an outsider from one year to the next. They do so on a shoestring relying on gifts and donations without the big budgets of international aid organisations which means no waste or big salaries. Full marks to them, and to have produced such a readable and involving book at the same time is a triumph.”

Here is another from that humorous article series. I still think they would have made a great series for some yachting magazine.

Of Gods and Rum

I was chatting with Poseidon the other day. A great lad even if he does have a slightly twisted sense of humour. There we were, parked under a palm tree, getting on the outside of our tots and watching the sunset, when out of nowhere he says, “Have you noticed all the UFO’s floating around these days”?
I nodded, trying to look wise as I took another sip from my daiquiri. After all what do you say to a half drunken Greek god who starts going on about UFO’s?
By now, you must be wondering what an unrepentant traditionalist like me is doing hanging out with the likes of Poseidon. It’s not as if I’m anyone special. I own an old wooden boat to keep myself busy, get back and forth around the moorings in a sailing dinghy, and write a few lines to keep the rum barrel topped up. Not much of a recommendation for God-friendom, you must admit.
Truth be told, I hang out with the old boy in hopes of putting the make on his s*xy lady friend who keeps popping up out of sea shells naked. That woman has fantastic hair, along with several other magnificent endowments I wouldn’t mind becoming more familiar with.
Poseidon may be old and dress funny, but the guy really knows his oceans. So when I ask what his watery back yard and little green men with antenna where their ears should be have in common, he just laughed, “UFO’s not UFO’s”.
OK. Call me Mister Thick, but the difference seemed a little thin, and I said so. With an exasperated expression he spoke slow and loud, as people do when addressing idiots and foreigners, “UFO’s, you pratt, Unidentified Floating Objects. All those strange things you people keep putting on my oceans”.
“Ah, you mean like condomarans and jet skis, those kind of things”. He simply nodded. It’s always a pleasant feeling to be in tune with a god, even if he is bombed legless.
One of the best things about having a Greek god for a friend is when he invites me along wrathing. I get to peek over his shoulder as he wreaks revenge on those who enter his domain with out showing proper respect.
Although he’s the first to admit revenge now is nothing like in the good old days. Great times, with waves crashing, Borealis blowing his lungs out, and the odd crash of lightening if Thor happened to be passing bye. The gods’ version of a Saturday night out with the boys.
These days wrathing consists of letting the air out of inflatables or putting copper coins and a bit of saltwater in the bottom of aluminium dinghies.
You see wrathing and smiting were always the god’s way of keeping things in balance. Back in the old day’s gods patrolled their domain, smiting those who didn’t show proper respect. They still patrol, mind you, punishing the most flagrant offenders. But, not like before.
Sailors used to fear Poseidon’s wrath worse than tax collectors or a visit from the mother-in-law. Just being out of sight of land gave the majority of them a case of creeping jitters. They tossed money in the water, burned offerings and in general went through all manner of contortions to placate Poseidon.
To Poseidon it wasn’t the money, barbecue, or giggles, but respect for his oceans that really mattered. He was always willing to let some over loaded leaky old tub, held together with string and prayers, slip by. If her sailors showed proper respect.
The old sailors had three things in common. They were all, to a man, cowards when it came to braving Poseidon’s wrath. Those old boys would do anything to stay in port when Poseidon looked like going on the rampage.
They were also lazy as bed bugs. They had enough to do bailing their leaking boats and hauling heavy bits of rigging about. To them a race happened between tying their boat to the pier and arriving at the local pub.
Finally, they were devoutly paranoid. Completely convinced the ocean was out to get them. Although, knowing Poseidon’s sense of humor, I wonder if it’s still paranoia to believe the ocean is out to get you, if, in fact, the ocean really is out to get you.
As Poseidon pointed out from flat on his back under the rum barrel tap, a steady drip of amber liquid wetting his lips, “sailors just don’t give a damn any more. They go to sea in anything that floats, don’t have the slightest idea what they’re doing, or how to get where they want to go. I love killing those little electrical boxes they use to navigate, then watching them sail around in circles. It’s not as much fun as smashing them with giant waves, but, most of those UFO’s couldn’t stand even a light smashing. It’s simply ruined my wrathing, it has”. Then he started crying. Always a bad omen from a rum sodden god.
I first met Poseidon after a wild full moon party. I was having difficulty navigating to my dingy when this deep resonate voice said. “Had a few to many have you”? Looking up I saw a bearded old man pushing a supermarket trolley filled with what appeared to be donations rejected by the Salvation Army.
He came over to where I was helplessly wrapped around a palm tree and sat down. “Don’t have any of that rum left do you”. And that, my friends, is how I first met Poseidon.
I won’t bore you with the rest of that day’s activities, except to mention the lady of the long hair and great body failed to show up with her seashell, or how we did serious damage my rum stores while creating a catalogue of certified UFO items that should not, under any circumstances, be taken to sea. After such an insightful experience, I can positively guarantee there isn’t a single cactus growing around the head on my boat, nor will I ever take a rhinoceros on board as the ship’s boy.

After close to a million written words I still haven't found an excuse to use the word Balderdash.

Whoopie! Sail World just posted a huge review on Cargo of Hope, Vega, and the work we do. You can read the entire article here:
https://www.sailworldcruising.com/news/271929/One-of-the-great-modern-day-sea-adventures?

Here is another humorous article I hope you will enjoy. Originally these were intended as a magazine series, but I never managed to sell them.

The Procrastinologist

It’s just not fair. Every time I find a respectable way to keep the sailing kitty topped up along comes some bureaucratic rubber stamp pusher demanding taxes, or permits, or that I get out of town by sundown. Well I have them this time, fair and square. I’m going to become a Procrastinologist.
For those of you still behind the times, a Procrastinologist is one of those highly paid consultants who assist cruising skippers by providing new, and very legitimate sounding, reasons for not sailing.
Laugh all you want, but my well-honed skills at creative procrastination are soon going to pay for a new set of sails and other goodies the old boat needs. The best is, that money will be earned in total silence, unhindered by permits or sticky fingered taxmen. I won’t even need a bank account, since my clients will insist on remaining anonymous - a fancy way of saying cash under the bar on delivery, maties.
Even though based on sound scientific data and a profound understanding of human nature, some of you may scoff at my idea.
You see, there is a flaw in the dream of owning a yacht and sailing away into the sunset, based upon how sailing yachts are advertised.
What is the first thing that comes to mind when the average non-owner thinks about owning a yacht? Some say the advertised fantasy is sun, sea, and s*x. Others would say its sea, sun, and s*x. A few even say its s*x, s*x, and more s*x. But, in reality, they all have it wrong.
The only way a boat owner can ever hope to realize those promised benefits is by never sailing. Only within the confines of an expensive marina can the true benefits of owning a modern yacht be fully realized.
Simply stated, offshore, others cannot see you on your shiny new toy and thus will never become green with envy. How can you hope to see all those bystanders drooling from desire if you’re being tossed about by a bunch of rude waves? The fact is, all that glittering stainless steel, carefully varnished exotic wood, and polished paint are for nothing if no one else admires them.
Sitting on the aft deck with a cold one in hand while watching lesser mortals pause to admire the perfection of your life style is the absolute pinnacle of owning a yacht. Of coarse, for maximum effect, the boat should be moored stern to in an expensive marina. By maximum effect I mean your ability to clearly see the expressions of jealousy, envious desire, and admiration on the faces of those passing by.
Young bikini stuffers picturing themselves sprawled on your fore deck topless, other guys imagining you enjoying the young bikini stuffers sprawled topless on your fore deck, as your huge aluminum er****on thrusts skyward just waiting for the sails to blossom forth announcing to all who stand in awe that you have the good life they only dream about.
Now, there is real yachting. But it doesn’t work when you’re offshore paying a fortune in fuel bills and trying to get the ice machine working again.
There my friend is exactly where the Procrastinologist plays a major role in improving your life style. At first the services of this all important lifestyle consultant may not be obvious. After all, any looser can lounge about in luxury with a drink in hand. But eventually, one needs reasons for not sailing.
Embarrassing questions from other boat owners such as, “ haven’t seen you out on the water lately”, or “ Going sailing anytime soon” quickly become more pointed. “Has your boat ever sailed”, or “ Do you own any sails”?
We all know behind those seemingly innocent questions rest another, more sinister motive. The smiling skipper beside you in the bar wants you out of the way so he can reap the admiration and jealousy of passersby. Envy that rightfully should go to you.
The astute Procrastinologist provides sound, rational reasons for not sailing, backed up by logic no seafarer can refute. Armed with these rebuttals you can safely continue basking in awe and envy from the local rabble you so rightly deserve. Do they really think you spent all that money just to thrash about offshore where the bikini brigade get seasick, cable TV doesn’t work, and no one else can see you?

I am always amazed at how much Snoopy and I have in common.

Fantastic review for Cargo of Hope now on Amazon.

One of the great modern-day sea adventures

"I've never been on a greater adventure than on the pages of Cargo of Hope. It's so full of Shane Granger's amazing experiences aboard Vega, an ages-old Norwegian-built sailboat that has taken him and his partner Meggi across thousands of miles of Earth's busiest sea lanes and yet visiting their most remote islands. Along the way, he has braved a category 5 cyclone, survived a devastating tsunami and its aftermath, sought out safe harbor among shallow shoals and dangerous seas, and traveled the rugged inland paths of remote spice islands delivering medical and educational supplies often by foot to people desperate for help."

"These pages are brimming with great storytelling about the simple but hardy people of the islands, inexperienced but dedicated crew who accompany Shane and Megi on the voyage, and interesting strangers and friends from around the world who help them carry out their very simple mission of caring for the forgotten isolated people who raise the spices you often take for granted. And Shane's very charismatic voice in telling this true life story makes for fun reading, like receiving a dispatch from sea after a long, trying voyage. His keen sense of humor and Bonhomme entertains as well as informs of a life and lifestyle that will amaze and you will come to admire. One of my favorite reads ever."

When I saw this my first thought was, look at all those wonderful old books. I wonder what's in them? What secrets they have to share. Right little treasure trove that is.

Moving this sofa to clean behind it uncovered a long lost trove of Muggin's favorite treasures.

If you want to help, why not put up a review for this author page?

This is an excerpt from my book about finding the abandoned hull of a small brigantine on a West African beach. Crossing the Atlantic on an leaky old wooden boat with no engine or steering is only part of the story. As always: enjoy.

I still have no idea what madness possessed me to fish out the fancy orange safety harness donated by a Dutch offshore work boat in Banjul. With the sea in a boisterous mood, I knew the bowsprit would be lively, yet didn’t really need it. And the blasted thing took ages to unearth from its hiding place in the fore peak.
Having never used a safety harness, a few false starts were needed to get it on and snuggly buckled. Thus, suitably equipped, albeit a good fifteen minutes late for the party, I ran forward to haul down the flying jib.
Normally, I made my way to the end of the bowsprit, held safely in place by the netting. From that secure position, I could easily bring down the sail and lash it against the jib boom. But that day was different.
Filled with false confidence, brought on by wearing a fancy bright orange harness, and most certainly suffering from temporary insanity, I clipped the safety line to the end of the bowsprit and stood up in the net. Using both hands would bring the sail down faster. More fool me. I had just secured the final sail tie, when a freak combination of wave, wind and lurching boat sent me tumbling over the side — exactly what I deserved, for playing the clown. Luckily, I wore a safety harness - fastened to the very end of the bowsprit.
There are times when I fail to exhibit the brains of a salamander, or perhaps do. You see, given two choices of how to wear such a harness, of course, I got it backwards – leaving the safety line attached between my shoulder blades, rather than the centre of my chest, as logic and the manufacturer intended.
Hurtling along at six knots, Windsong’s bow rose to the top of another majestic arc, yanking me from the water like a well-hooked fish. After a slight pause, the whole lot came crashing down again.
Desperate to avoid being bludgeoned by the descending bowsprit, I hit the water with both arms thrashing like a broken windmill, just as it splashed down beside me. Before I could grab anything solid, another swift jerk on the safety line yanked my sorry carcass from the water spinning me through the air, sideways, as the bowsprit ascended.
Dangling behind the attachment point, I swung forward, fervently cursing in six different languages and possibly Braille: frantically clawing for a grip on the safety line attached between my shoulder blades. Or anything else, for that matter.
Trapped in a hellish predicament, the kind where gibbering like a gerbil and cursing is fully justified, I might even have offered up a prayer or two. In case some passing deity felt like making them self useful.
Glancing over my shoulder as the bowsprit neared the top of its arc, what I saw can still give me nightmares worse than a late night dinner of lobster in blue cheese sauce. I was swinging straight toward where the bronze, spear head shaped martingale tip would come slashing down. With Windsong’s entire weight behind the damn thing, if I stayed in its path that spear would thrust right through me.
Madly flailing and cursing prolifically almost worked. You see, the blasted safety line swivelled my torso clear, only to successfully put my lower parts in danger. With the beastly spear now intent on impaling where it hurts the most, I flogged water, spreading my legs until the joints creaked. The thing stabbed down so close I felt it brush the inside of my right thigh. A few centimetres one way, or the other, and I would be singing soprano.
What with violent jerks, fending off a boat intent on impaling me in the unmentionables, gargling saltwater, and babbling from fright, there were precious few seconds to appreciate my reprieve before being wrenched from the water again.
In the end, a rogue wave saved me, by causing the bow to do a little double dip and a twist: scooping me back into the bowsprit net where I lay, gasping and panting, slowly patching together enough wit to stop seeing stars.
Clambering from the bowsprit, with enough adrenaline to power a small village surging through my veins, I stumbled aft and flopped down on the steering bench. My hands were trembling so badly it took three fumbling attempts to roll-up a smoke I could light.
Several tokes calmed me enough to remove the safety harness. Holding it in my right hand, I looked at the thing and reached a decision. One swift flick of the wrist sent it flying overboard, closely followed by a string of those four letter words mother never approved of.
In all the intervening years and endless sea miles since, I never wore one again. Including hurricane Albertos and Cyclone Garfillo.
Leaning against Windsong’s useless wheel, I took a long pull on my roll-up, slowly exhaling a smoke tinged sigh of relief. After all, considering the alternative, being alive after such an experience must count for something. Drenched in saltwater, I judged by the looming black clouds rapidly approaching from astern, a fresh water shower would soon set me right.

I found this in one of my "left over" folders and found it as true today as when I wrote it.

"Too much television leads to a vegetative state, rapidly followed by terminal brain rot. Think about it for a moment. All you do is stare, while programs happen to you. Your mind is open to stimulus, but otherwise closed for business. Brains need exercise just like muscles. By reading that grey stuff between your ears visualizes the characters and settings in the story. You THINK about what is happening, and help keep authors like me fed."

This one is rather well done. And I love the review.

Now here's a word you'll work hard to get in a sentence. But should you succeed just imagine the faces your friends would make.

More reviews for Cargo of Hope.

It seems Snoopy and me have a lot in common.

You can read the full review here:

When the prestigious Maritime magazine QUARTERDECK reviewed CARGO OF HOPE here is what they said:
"Filled with sailing adventures and highlighted with a humorous, down-to-earth narrative style, Cargo of Hope delivers an exciting story of adventure and humanitarian outreach. Shane Granger's breezy first-person perspective reads like stories spun by old, grizzled sailors of the past." –Tom Hines.
The book is available world wide from most good book sellers. Google "Cargo of Hope by Shane Granger"

I thought you might enjoy this image of Meggi and me on Vega. The Einstein hair do is a bit over the top, but in the places we go hair dressers are often few and far between.

“What do you do about Pirates” is a question I often hear. With a serious expression plastered across my phiz, I usually give my beard a thoughtful scratch before responding: “Well, we tried it a few times, but Vega goes so slow we never caught anyone”.
This reading sample is from those short articles written in hope of convincing a yachting magazines to run them as a humorous series. Since that devious scheme failed, I thought you might enjoy them. As always, I would cherish your feed back and comments.

Modern Day Pirates
Did you ever notice how most long-term cruisers inevitably become pirates? Not your classical type with sword in hand and all the screaming at work, but a progressive version focused on important issues such as wine, wild parties and song. Although the way most yachties sing they could forgo the latter and no great loss.
There are many similarities between old time buccaneers and the modern day variety. Both make their home on the water, yet spend most of their time infesting disreputable establishments ashore. Classical swashbucklers amused themselves by drinking rum, as do most modern pirates. This, of course, when taken to excess leads to cavorting, dancing on tables, chasing wild women (or men) or the occasional chicken and in general having a good time ashore.
Pirates employed a vocabulary of archaic nautical terms. For example, the term “Harr” when used at the start of a sentence by an old time pirate usually meant the equivalent of our modern day “well” or even “Duh”. When employed at the end of a sentence it becomes more emphatic, with meanings such as “will you get off that plank or must I stick you?” or “How could you forget where we hid the treasure?”.
When used by a modern pirate “Harr” at the end of a phrase is more likely to mean, “the marina fees went up again” or “What do you mean I must visit seven more well-hidden offices just to check out.” This ancient word is often employed as a stand-alone expression. Its meanings range from “I think I’ve had one rum too many” or “any minute now I’ll use a hammer on this (censored) thing”, to the indication of a private thought such as “why wont the silly prat just stamp my papers and be done with it”.
More recently it has been used when paying bar bills, cranking winches and when acute constipation strikes. Cases usually accompanied by a gnashing of teeth and painful expression on the speakers face.
That brings us to standard forms of piratical employment. In general, the historical pirate amused themselves ravaging, pillaging and plundering, while occasionally yelling “give us your women” at passing vessels.
The modern trend is different. What with women's liberation and uni-s*xual relations, ravaging is no longer the clear-cut action it once was. And, what with the liberalization of certain minority groups one isn’t even sure who is doing, or should do, what to whom or even how, any more.
In general, this curtailed ravaging among the piratical community. And, let’s not forget the proliferation of karate and other such unfair tactics among the newly liberated he, she, it and chicken population. After all, who wants to come home from a rowdy night sporting a broken nose, or be molested by a transvestite body builder?
No, maties, in these changing times pirating lost much of its traditional appeal. That's right, pillaging and plundering just isn’t what it used to be. Imagine you go and pirate a fine fat cruise ship. What would you earn for your troubles? I’ll tell you what. A treasure chest full of plastic cards, most of them out of date or overdrawn. The real pillaging and plundering of innocents these days is blatantly occurs in bars, chandlers and marinas.
So it seems the good ole days of amusing one’s self as a pirate are gone forever. No more chases across crystal blue seas, with treasure in sight and a night of rowdy fun in mind. Piracy no longer has what it takes to remain a viable sport.
Little wonder the old pirates, and would be pirates, all purchased cruising boats and sailed off in search of a place to establish their own bar, chandlery or marina.

Whoopie! Today is the big day. The official release of my book "Cargo of Hope" in the U.S. and Canada. I'm prouder than a pooch with two tails. If you already ordered your copy I would cherish your comments. If not, Simply Google "Cargo of Hope by Shane Granger" and select the most convenient book seller from those that pop up..

Here is another excerpt from one of my yet to be published books. I would love to hear your feed back. Enjoy.

"Not for the first time I cursed Juta and her damned lust for adventure. The blasted woman couldn’t have picked a worse moment to yell for help if she tried. With a one-way ticket to Senegal, new cameras, and what little cash remained from my ill-fated assignment in Afghanistan, I was only days away from settling down to a peaceful life in Dakar with a wonderful woman whose quick wit, warm heart and open arms were just the medicine I needed. The only thing missing from my fantasies were the white picket fence and a collie.
Rereading Juta's message for the hundredth time I muttered a few more choice profanities. It still made no sense. "I need you here urgently. Find this man". The address of a shop in Lima, Peru, of all places, followed. And the words "Trust me. Juta". For a harbinger of doom, her note sounded remarkably prosaic. Mind you, looking back, I should have torn up her missive and dumped it in the nearest rubbish bin.
Whatever possessed her to go traipsing off to Peru in the first place? Why couldn't she marry some rich titled aristocrat and settle down to a life of luxury with me as her favourite toy boy?
The fact is, I loved Juta - and still do. We rubbed along together like bread and butter right from the day we first met at Henry's hair dressing salon on the island of Ibiza, where I tried to earn a few coins by opening a massage parlour. Juta became my first customer.
While I gave her a massage she never forgot, Henry beavered away out front doing a blue rinse job on some stayed old bitty and worried silly about the noise we were making. The massage parlour didn’t last long, but Juta and I did. The girl possessed an untamed mischievous streak wider than a used car salesman's grin.
I might mutter, mumble and curse, but knew in my heart I could never leave her stranded. Ambling the well-worn carpet in a rudderless state of emotional turmoil, I asked myself, where the hell is Peru and how the devil am I supposed to get there?
I consulted my central bank, only to find both pockets so empty even the lint balls gave up and moved out. I simply could not afford a return trip ticket to Peru - not even on Aeroflot.
Worrying a reticent thumbnail, I desperately wracked what I euphemistically call a brain for inspiration. When it finally came, I almost puked.
Although I promised myself, and every God, I would never go near them again, I knew a photographic agency in Paris that might send me to Peru to make photographs for a coffee table book. At least that was what they claimed. United World Press were my only hope.
Rooting in the darkest depths of my camera bag, I unearthed a well-travelled business card. The still legible telephone number glared at me like an engraved invitation to perdition. Muttering something akin to 'get behind me Satan", I tossed the card toward my desk where it landed on a magazine with Juta's charming mug plastered across the cover: one perfectly arched eyebrow slightly elevated and a mysterious Mona Lisa smile curling her lips. Piercing green eyes stared at me accusingly.
Taking a deep breath, then another to keep it company, I puffed out my cheeks like a chipmunk, picked up the telephone and dialed. The phone rang three times before a woman answered in a form of French so deeply tainted by her accent from the southern United States as to be almost incomprehensible.
With visions of shoulder length bleach blonde hair, bright red fingernails, and the most impressive top hamper I have ever seen - outside a dairy farm - I ended her misery by answering in English. "Sharon, you lovely creature, is Charles James in his office?" She hesitated a moment, preening at the compliment no doubt, then answered, "Why yes he is. Who's callin?" I gave her my name and moments later found myself speaking with the devil himself.
"Why, how ya'll doin Shane. I heard ya'll went off to Senegal and that beautiful woman ya got there.'"With nothing to lose I put my cards on the table. "Charles, what would you think of sending me to Peru for a photo book on the place?"Silence greeted my question.
Papers rustled in the background, then he came back on the line with a reptilian smile in his voice. "Funny y'all should ask me that. The big wigs who own this place only decided last week to do one on that thar cun-tor-y. You don't have Sharon a'spyin on me now do ya?"
Five minutes later, I sold my soul to the devil, again, and all for a w***h who didn’t have enough sense to avoid trouble in a faraway country full of foreigners. The following morning, I boarded a train for Paris, went straight to the office of United World Press, leered at Sharon's fabulous ho***rs, signed Charlie's contract, collected my tickets, film, credit card, and cash advance, then hopped the next train back to Amsterdam.
The road to damnation could not have been easier. Although, I admit to being surprised when Charlie said, "If ya'll need someone to watch ya back, call this guy. He'll help ya with anythin" He handed over a folded piece of paper I promptly shoved in a pocket and forgot.
With three days to kill before my flight departed for Lima, Peru, I took up haunting the Amsterdam public library. You see, the history of Peru piqued my curiosity. The place is covered in monumental ruins dating back thousands of years. From what I read, you couldn’t turn around without spotting another ancient temple or the remains of a gigantic city. The art work archaeologists uncover is stunning; real frescoes, incredibly fine ceramics, golden statues, well preserved mummies, Peru sports it all. By the time I found myself sitting in Schiphol airport, the prospect of ogling those ancient ruins excited me so, I almost forgot the reason for going there. More fool, me.