The flight from Lima to Cusco was like something out of a horror movie. The wheelchair was a dead giveaway. Our son Goose was so weak we had to wheel his limp body from the terminal onto the tarmac.
It had all begun the night before. After consuming a curious dish of seafood medley, Goose had transformed into a human volcano by morning, his body betraying him in a violent symphony of chaos, with each bathroom stop becoming ground zero.
Our plan was simple: two of us would carry him, one under each arm, up the towable boarding stairs onto the aircraft. Just as we began lifting him out of the chair, a tall, dark, and slender attendant approached, rattling off something in Spanish. While her foreign words fell upon deaf ears, her body language spoke volumes. After enlisting the assistance of an English-speaking coworker, the message became clear: they had determined Goose unfit to travel, and we were turned away from boarding the aircraft.
We had just a few fleeting moments to pull together a Plan B. With Goose slumped over in the wheelchair and our family huddled around him, I stepped away to chat with the attendants. At that moment, I had a sudden stroke of genius—though I had no idea how my jumbled thoughts would coalesce into a coherent story.
I started by telling them how sorry we were for the confusion and asked if they were familiar with a condition known as narcolepsy. The English speaker gave me a funny look, as if she might know more about this than I had anticipated. Determined to short-circuit any pause of doubt, I rambled on about how narcolepsy can cause a sudden loss of muscle tone triggered by strong emotions such as excitement.
"You see, our son was so excited to fly from sea level here in Lima to the lofty mountains of Cusco, it caused him to have a sleep attack—that's why he seems so lethargic. It's just temporary, so if you'll give us a few minutes, he should come around and be fine and dandy."
His eyes were closed and his head bowed as I leaned down, placing my mouth next to his ear and whispering: "Son, we're going to be stuck here on the ground unless you can convince these lovely ladies you can walk up these stairs under your own power. On the count of three, you need to dig deep into your core, use both hands and feet, and pull yourself up to the top of this stairway into the cabin. Goose, you can do this! Okay, ready? One, two—"
Before I got to three, he leaped up onto the first step, grasping both rails with all his might, and made it to the top of the stairs. The attendant inside the cabin showed us to our seats, and we were wheels-up within just a few minutes of my one-act performance of "Narcolepsy."
On the ground in Cusco, we were promptly introduced to coca leaf tea. With the conviction of a miracle weight-loss sales pitch, locals insisted it helps combat the effects of high altitude. But why tea? Wouldn't a portable canister of oxygen be more effective, and fun? At eleven thousand fifty-two and one-half feet (an altitude where even mountain goats might pause to catch their breath), I wasn't going to argue. One by one, we chugged down flimsy paper cups of the magic elixir before launching into our jungle adventure.
What began as a family adventure into the Amazon wilderness took a dramatic turn when our youngest, Brighton, lay burning with fever in a remote jungle hacienda. All our modern certainties—hospitals, antibiotics, emergency rooms—had evaporated into the thick canopy above us.
From the shadows emerged our salvation. Barefoot and bare-chested, with skin the color of oak and eyes holding the weight of centuries, the shaman appeared as if summoned by forces beyond comprehension. Feathers adorned his head like a crown bestowed by nature itself—a bridge to realms unseen.
Without sound, the shaman lifted Brighton from her mother's embrace, his movements carrying the weight of ritual handed down through generations. The ceremony unfolded like poetry written in a language older than words. As he began to chant, a hypnotic melody merging with the jungle's pulse—we entered a world where the impossible lived alongside the everyday.
From his pouch came three smooth black stones, placed with surgical precision on Brighton's stomach. Santiago, our guide, presented him with a burlap swatch, a water basin, and an oversized egg. We watched transfixed as he pressed the egg against Brighton's arms in circular motions before placing it in the basin. What happened next defied rational explanation: an iridescent rainbow of colors streamed from the eggshell into the water, creating patterns which held the healer's gaze with ancient understanding.
When Santiago returned clutching a vessel filled with emerald-colored slime, we witnessed the culmination of a healing tradition stretching back countless generations. The potion's effects were miraculous. After Brighton choked down the healing elixir, her raging fever dissipated like morning mist. Color returned to her ashen cheeks. She pulled herself upright and asked, "Is there something to eat? I'm hungry!"
Our journey had begun with a desperate Plan B flight from Lima to Cusco, curiosity mapping our way into the wilds of Amazonia. Along the way, we discovered that in our rush toward technological solutions, we risk losing wisdom essential to our survival. The jungle, as we learned, always has the last say.
We returned not as fearless adventurers, but as humbler travelers in a world where wonder still exists for those curious enough to seek it—and sometimes desperate enough to trust in healing traditions as old as the forest itself.
Having traveled extensively across Africa and Asia, Barrie Brewer writes creative nonfiction essays from authentic experiences in diverse cultures and ecosystems. While his published work has focused on articles about agile and lean business practices, storytelling has always been central to how he communicates complex ideas. Many of his nonfiction works examine the intersection between curiosity and risk.
