 The Oboe BBoard
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Author: Oboe Craig
Date: 2014-06-27 01:16
True stuff from my past....
Oboe theme ner the end.
The story continues...
Once the taxi skidded to a halt we sat in stunned silence for several seconds. Art groaned and we realized he was buried beneath the front bench seat along with the driver. Art was a big guy, a retired Army Sgt. Major and our logistics manager. He took the brunt of the force when the three of us in the back seat slammed into the front seat, tearing it out of the rotting floorboards and piling it and us onto Art’s back and the smaller driver.
It was dark, but only 6:30 PM. It is winter in Peru when it is summer in South Florida, although winter there is not cold. It is cool and foggy. A fog cloud forms over the entire region around Lima due to the Humboldt current in the winter and the sun is not seen for months. Condensation happens overnight and every morning things were wet as we walked to breakfast.
The roads were already wet by the time the rear drive train of the car fell off causing the crash, and still the metal grinding on the pavement caused sparks to fly. The risk of fire was on my mind for several seconds before we hit the concrete wall and we came to a metal crunching stop.
All five of us got out of the cab and moved several feet away as fast as we could. What was left of the car, an aging Chevy Impala station wagon from around 1968, rear end and wheels gone was angled upward and it appeared to be looking to the heavens. The cab driver sat down and started to cry. His family’s only source of income had just literally fallen apart.
Peru was a country in economic desperation at the time. Their currency, the Inti, had collapsed under inflation measured in many thousands of percent. If we changed a $20 U.S. bill before dinner, the pile of Peru’s currency would not pay for a $12 dinner bill within the hour.
The crash happened in an off-track neighborhood. For some reason the driver had diverted from our usual route and suddenly turned into the barrio which was crowded with people and had very narrow streets. Our in-country host started to suspect we were being kidnapped and from the back seat started a very heated discussion with the driver. At one point, he said if the driver did not follow his next direction for each of us to pull out our side arms and get ready to use them. He thought we were about to be ambushed.
Fortunately, the driver followed Mike’s next direction and made the left turn as instructed. A quarter mile later the car fell apart and we crashed.
This left us way off our usual course and in some unfriendly territory. The Shining Path Gorillas (communist insurgents) had various bounties on our pilots, ground crew and traveling administrators. For just the four of us in the car, killing us would bring $350,000.
That is a lot of money in a time of economic desperation and we were constantly on guard as a result. So, the unexpected detour was a big source of concern.
With the cab unavailable, we had to walk out. Art was hurt, and way too big for us to carry. He managed to get up on one leg and hop along holding onto my shoulder as we worked our way out of the barrio.
Leaving the accident scene we formed a wedge, drew out the big guns and moved slowly through the dark. The road was very narrow, really more like an alley and shadowy silhouettes kept moving closer then backing away as we passed each new structure or side road. Eventually, we went in through the rear entrance of the Russian Embassy and out its front and suddenly we were back in a very nice part of town.
The rest of the walk back to Mira Flores was more relaxed and I kept thinking a thought that came up several times. I am an oboe player who became a computer programmer. Why the hell am I doing this?
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The story continues... new |
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Oboe Craig |
2014-06-27 01:16 |
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The Clarinet Pages
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