A camping trip from hell|WEEK 278

This camping trip was something very special. I was only twelve years old, and I think it was the only time I ever had that experience. I don't like to write or talk about it; every time I try to mention it, my computer goes crazy.

My grandmother was a firm believer in the afterlife. It was during the August vacation, and we were able to visit a very famous mountain in our country. I was very young, but that camping trip was something unusual in my life. Now I can see the danger that can arise when you are around some older adults. My eyesight is starting to fail, and inexplicable things happen every time I write about this camping trip.

I will try not to dwell too much on what I may feel; I want to recount this event. We had to cross a river where my maternal grandmother was lying in a reclining chair. After crossing the river, we came upon the great mountain. We had to walk uphill until we found the camp where we were going to stay for two nights and three days.

I must confess that when we arrived, everything was quiet, but late at night, everything changed. There were lights, fire, bonfires, screams, rituals, and endless things that really give me the creeps to talk about.

My grandmother went there seeking healing for her leg. She was diabetic, but her faith led her to believe that these men could cure her. Her leg was open due to a varicose ulcer, and she said that someone had done her harm. Anyway, it was really creepy to see how they cured her, and I don't want to convey that information in such detail.

At night and into the early hours of the morning, it was distressing to see so much blood and some unbalanced emotions. Thank God we were able to emerge unscathed from those moments of such madness. The next day, they chose the queen of that camp. Guess who was crowned queen?

Thank God I never promised anything, but many people offered their souls to the devil. I hope you can imagine what we bring back from those places: an energy that wears you down, thoughts that are not easily erased, and great anguish for what might happen to the children who visit that place. Thank you, Sorte Mountain in Yaracuy. In my beloved Venezuela.

All images are my property. DeepL translator. My signature with Canva app.