Jungle Wedding

September, 1997

We fly at night out of New York on a small chartered jet, an ancient but refurbished DC-8 that lumbers down the runway and struggles for lift. My girl friend, Gwyn, holds my hand until we've reached cruising altitude. People mouth silent prayers, some mumble chants and not a small number of them clutch crystals hanging from their necks. These are Gwyn's friends and acquaintances, people with money who follow alternative gods and goddesses, shamans and theories of aliens among us. The woman who o...