My family has a curse.
I’m not superstitious by any means, but this is a fact. Since our move to the U.S. 6 years ago — during which I contracted hand, foot and mouth disease — we haven’t been able to take a single overseas trip without a major mishap of some kind. Even in the company of a Mexico visit with a root canal and a Hawaii trip plagued by COVID-19, the worst vacation by far was our winter break trip to Peru back in 2023.
The trip began on the wrong foot, with my dad and older sister returning early. Stress from her unfinished college applications and general unenthusiasm to go to a rainforest location with no internet were amplified when she left her carry-on suitcase — with all her clothes — at the airport. It was then that she decided she could not continue with the trip and she left the next day. In addition, my dad, who isn’t an avid nature lover, had a mild cold. So, they returned home together, while my mom and I continued on our journey.
First, we headed for Lima, where I began to experience adjustment issues from the cold temperatures of home to the humid, hot weather of Peru. A mild heavy head and sore throat spoiled my ability to enjoy the cityscape, and I carried those symptoms with me to Puerto Maldonado, a town on the edge of the rainforest.
Thankfully, an uncle of mine lives there. He works as an ecologist, and he was able to translate and help us out with meals. However, my mom and I were both feeling under the weather due to altitude sickness, and we barely left our lodge for the next two days.
On the morning following those two days, we took a 5-hour transit — two hours by car and three hours by boat — to a lodge in the middle of the rainforest. It was so remote that there was no WiFi and no cell signal. We slept for most of the transit, occasionally waking up to see a monkey swinging through the vines. Once there, we canceled all our plans to go hiking and sightseeing, succumbing to the heavy slumber that overtook us.
The next morning, our tour guide Juan came to check on us when we didn’t show up for breakfast, a meal which I’d missed because I had been half asleep. Suddenly, I awoke to Juan’s panicked cries and repeated yells for my mom. I lumbered over to see my mother passed out on a chair. Not responding to cries to wake up, Juan ran out the room to go get help from other staff, leaving me with her. Briefly regaining consciousness, my mom stumbled to her bed, using me as a crutch, and proceeded to pass out again.
Juan returned with a satellite phone, and, just as luck would have it, the phone was broken. While it was being repaired, a decision had to be made: Should we wait for my mom to gain consciousness here and decide what to do next, or should I take my unconscious mom with me on the long ride back to town? Terrified and feeling ill myself, I was able to briefly reach my uncle and tell him we were heading back.
After packing up all of our things and dressing my mom, I watched as six men carried her on a stretcher, down steep stairs and onto a boat. Three hours later, and still unconscious, she was loaded into the backseat of a car by three burly men and I got in next to her. Finally, I was able to call my dad and tearfully fill him in on what had happened.
Once at the clinic, she was transferred onto a wheelchair by some nurses and sent in to be treated. Without my uncle, who couldn’t reach the clinic for another few hours, I depended on my two years of school Spanish classes and Duolingo lessons to communicate our symptoms, my mom’s medical history, our travel history and passport proof with the hospital staff.
Finally, I was able to breathe, as they stuck a giant, IV-fluid needle in my arm. A few hours later, my uncle arrived, and I could release all the tension I’d been holding on to. Both of us were diagnosed with climate sickness and dehydration. We then recovered for a week (drinking horrible, strawberry-flavored, electrolyte juice, by the way) and later explored the town a little. We returned home feeling sick of vacations.
The cherry on top, in cruel irony, was that the Spanish unit following winter break was the medical unit. In hindsight, the story provides wonderful, although somewhat traumatic, entertainment. Suffice it to say that I’m not going back to Peru anytime soon.
