Sample Chapter - I Learned Kung Fu from a Bear Cub Travel Insurance When boldness and large hospital bills are irrevocably linked. By Jeremy Kroeker I had never even considered buying travel insurance until confronted by the horrified expression of a travel agent named Gwen. Having grown up in Saskatchewan, the province that invented free health care in Canada, I felt entitled to a universal "Get Out of Hospital Free" card. Besides, I had youth, health, and dumb luck on my side. What could possibly happen to me at a mountaineering school in such a civilized country as Austria? Gwen's worried expression made me reconsider. Perhaps a few extra dollars spent would reduce the stress of my first intercontinental journey, at least for Gwen. When I agreed to buy the insurance, she slumped back in her chair and let out a sigh of relief. I completed the paperwork, and she shook my hand and wished me a safe journey. But seriously, what could happen to me in Austria? A few days later my train deposited me at the station in Schladming, a quaint village nestled in the hazy blue Austrian Alps. The town comprised cobblestone roads, wooden bridges, clock towers, and orderly shops. It also laid claim to Tauernhof, the mountaineering school I had come to attend. The school mainly attracted North American boys like myself. In our minds, we would spend the days frolicking with golden-haired Austrian maidens in alpine meadows under the soft caress of the summer sun. Unfortunately, the director viewed the school's curriculum in a slightly different light. Following an ambiguous orientation and several boring icebreaker games, we relinquished our watches to the powers that be and stumbled into the mountains under the cover of early morning darkness. Ulli, our lanky German guide, had shaggy black hair and a beard that looked as if it might try to escape. He never quite found pants capable of concealing his ankles, nor the correct English phrase for any idea he wished to express. Nevertheless, his quiet, gentle nature made him a pleasant companion. Our little band of intrepid adventurers whiled away many wonderful days in the Austrian Alps, climbing, caving, and hiking under Ulli's watchful eye. Against all odds, a seed of romance sprouted between myself and a beautiful girl from Ontario. I couldn't believe my good fortune. Yes, I had reached a pinnacle in my young life and it seemed as though things could not possibly get better. Pinnacles can be precarious, of course. I learned that lesson while hiking through an alpine meadow alive with wildflowers and velvet grass. That was where our group came upon a lethargic little snake sunning itself on the path. The animal reminded me of the common garter snakes found on the Canadian prairies-harmless, really. It looked like the kind of snake little boys capture to torment little girls with on a lazy summer day. I suddenly had a brilliant idea: I would seize the serpent and impress the Ontario girl with my bravery. Long before Ulli could articulate an objection in English, I stumbled forward and grabbed the snake behind its head. From my limited experience with garter snakes, I knew that if I caught the animal just so, it would be unable to turn and strike. Then again, garter snakes seldom bite, even when handled improperly. This little monster, in contrast, demonstrated agility and aggression far superior to any garter snake I had ever handled improperly. It unleashed a blood-chilling hiss and, with the practiced precision of a trained predator, spun its head completely around and pierced my left thumb with a fang that seemed improbably long for such a small creature. I caught the snake to impress a girl. Mission accomplished. My new goal-detaching myself from the hissing snake that dangled from my thumb by a single fang-proved more difficult. I held the reptile at shoulder height with an outstretched arm and considered my options. I momentarily thought about grabbing it by the tail and ripping it out of my flesh, but that seemed unwise. The only alternative-and the one I chose-was panic, which came more naturally. I hopped around, gesticulating wildly with my arms and screaming like an eight-year-old boy playing kissing tag at recess. The snake eventually dropped to the ground and slithered away, shaken but unharmed. Ulli followed me for the rest of the afternoon, nervously breaking the silence every few minutes to ask how I felt. Mostly, I felt embarrassed. But my thumb had also swollen considerably, turned purple, and begun throbbing with a dull pain. As we walked, the pain crept into my hand, then my elbow, then my shoulder. When the venom eventually reached its icy fingers into my neck and jaw, Ulli said, "This isn't funny any more," implying that he had considered my pain amusing until that moment. He radioed for Hans Peter, the director, who arrived remarkably quickly, as though carried by the wind. Hans Peter was a wiry Austrian mountaineer with blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He spoke softly, but with intimidating authority, conveying a certain quiet assurance that his masculinity was beyond reproach. Like most Austrian men, he could manage to look tough while wearing an outfit that included tight leather shorts with suspenders, wool socks hiked up to the knees, and a frilly pastel shirt with embroidered flowers. He had the air of a father figure about him; it made you want to seek his approval. I'll never forget his first words to me. "Jeremy, you idiot." "That's just what my mom used to say," I stammered. "What were you thinking?" he continued. Now, a guy like me gets asked that question a lot over the course of his life. I have never really answered it to anyone's complete satisfaction. Honesty is seldom the right tack, and the same goes for humor, though I briefly considered saying, "I collect venom." In the end I said nothing, which was undoubtedly the correct response. Hans Peter marched me away from Ulli and my friends, some of whom wished me a melodramatic and final farewell. After a few minutes of hurried hiking we found a tiny alpine hut inhabited by two sturdy elderly women. Hans Peter explained the situation to them-undoubtedly emphasizing that I was an idiot-and the women sprung into action, clucking their tongues and worriedly shaking their heads. One woman poured me a glass of warm milk and the other spread a clean blanket over her bed, motioning for me to lie down. Then they turned to leave. Before Hans Peter shut the door, he turned to me and said in the most impressively callous manner, "People have been killed by snakes in this region. You might die." With that he closed the door, leaving me alone with that very cheery thought. I lay in a one-room shack with a small entryway and adjoining pantry. The shack, built from weathered, rough-hewn timber, had no decorations except a bouquet of wildflowers on the wooden table and a lacy white curtain drawn over the room's only window. I tried to rest and wondered if some of the last words I would ever hear would be, "Jeremy, you idiot. You might die." I thought about dying. I had always put on a brave face when the subject came up in conversation, but I had never before confronted the actual possibility of death. I tried to relax and pray, but not for healing-just that my mom would find comfort if I did die. As it turned out, I felt prepared to cross that river, shuffle off this mortal coil, kick the bucket, buy the farm … but I digress. After immeasurable moments of self-reflection (immeasurable because Hans Peter still had my watch) it occurred to me that I had no idea what would happen next. Hans Peter had been somewhat vague regarding the details. Then I heard the deep thumping of a helicopter's rotors beating the air somewhere in the distance. The thumping grew louder as the helicopter drew near, laboring for purchase in the thin mountain air. I stepped outside to watch a cumbersome military machine set down in the meadow, as if the pilot were loath to crush any wildflowers. I boarded the machine and waved to Hans Peter as we lifted off; to my great relief, he smiled and waved back. Though the flight to Shladming lasted a mere four minutes, I had a lot of time to think. It occurred to me that my grasp of the German language might prove inadequate when faced with a medical emergency. Eager to amuse myself and confuse the locals, the very first thing I'd learned to say in German was, "I am a pretty village." I'd quickly added other expressions to my useless German arsenal, such as, "You are a platypus" and "I have a bunion." Unfortunately, my linguistic prowess had not significantly improved since my arrival in Austria. The helicopter touched down, depositing me at the hospital's emergency ward. Doctors and nurses rallied around me, shouting at each other in German (the words "platypus" and "bunion" were conspicuously absent). They rushed me to a sterile room with bright lights and placed me on a metal table. A doctor shouted orders to the medical team and then hurried out of the room, his stethoscope swinging wildly about his neck. The hospital staff's high level of emotion and activity eventually became unsustainable. The room quieted down and my crack medical team shuffled off without having really done anything. Seizing this opportunity, a male nurse unsheathed the single largest needle I have ever seen in my life and prepared to deliver a mighty blow to my now-bare backside. Years later, I can still see the nurse backing up several paces to get a run at me, standing with needle in hand and windmilling his arm for dramatic effect. But that might be a slight distortion of my memory. The helicopter touched down, depositing me at the hospital's emergency ward. Doctors and nurses rallied around me, shouting at each other in German (the words "platypus" and "bunion" were conspicuously absent). They rushed me to a sterile room with bright lights and placed me on a metal table. A doctor shouted orders to the medical team and then hurried out of the room, his stethoscope swinging wildly about his neck. More to the point, the fact that the nurse appeared to be acting alone on this decision did give me some measure of discomfort. I briefly considered calling for help, but all I could have shouted was, "I am a pretty village!" Fortunately, at the last possible moment a doctor returned; he shouted angrily at the nurse and snatched the syringe from his hand. For three days I lay in the hospital, unable to communicate with patients or staff because of the language barrier. I sought solace in the pages of an English Bible and committed to memory Jeremiah 8:17, which reads, "'See, I will send venomous snakes among you, vipers that cannot be charmed, and they will bite you,' declares the Lord." At the end of my solitary confinement, Ulli came to pick me up at the hospital. The pain in my arm remained, and would linger for another month. Although I never received any actual treatment, the hospital bill came to two thousand Canadian dollars … billed to and paid for by my travel insurance company. (I imagine that my picture still hangs above every executive toilet in their corporate head office.) Ulli smild as we climbed into his car and said, "I'm glad to see you're all right. Now Hans Peter has another story to tell." My travel agent, Gwen, also likes to tell the story. She sells way more travel insurance than she used to. Despite living in oil-rich Calgary, Alberta, Jeremy Kroeker prefers the financially "unburdened" life of being a travel writer. His first book, Motorcycle Therapy, is about a three-month motorcycle journey from Calgary to Panama. He's currently working on a second book about a motorcycle trip through the Middle East and North Africa. Follow his continuing adventures at www.jeremykroeker.com. Go To Jeremy's Bio Page < Back to Writer Spotlight Main Page
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