Synzeugma (sin-zoog’-ma): That kind of zeugma in which a verb joins (and governs) two phrases by coming between them. A synonym for mesozeugma.
The temperature was climbing and so was I. I was in Peru, it was jungle-hot and I was inching my way up a sheer cliff. It was at least 600 feet to the top and I was only 200 feet up of what was called by its grid coordinates: 13.1632° S, 72.5453° W. I was starting to think I wouldn’t make to the top. Downclimbing was out of the question. I had to make it to the top or my sponsor would withdraw its support and I would be left in Peru with nothing. I was half-way out of water and was hearing music—a sure sign I’d gone around the bend. It was coming from above me. I kept climbing.
I came to a vine-covered entrance to a cave. The music was coming out of the cave—it was one of those Peruvian flutes. It playing Creedence Clearwater’s “Proud Mary.” I thought I was surely going insane. Then, a man stepped out of the shadows and greeted me: “Welcome to the Machu Picchu Flute Academy. we work to prepare Peruvians to play the flute on street corners, plazas and bus stops around the world—from Iceland to New Zealand, from Poland to Portugal we play haunting music. Let me show you around.”
In addition to flutes they made ceramic guinea pigs clutching bricks of money. These were sold to tourists in Lima, along with lower quality flutes. The mountain’s stone interior had been hewn into classrooms and dormitories, a library, and a restaurant named Hard Rock Diner. The students came from all over Peru. There were two North Korean exchange students who were there to “improve the aesthetics of the Motherland’s cultural regime.” I thought this was pretty cool. Maybe North Korea isn’t so bad after all.
There was a well in the center of the school with delicious water, and a flight of stairs carved out of that exited at the top of the cliff I was clinging. So, I had an order of ceviche at the restaurant and said “Goodbye” to my host. My plan was to climb the stairs and use my satellite phone to call in a chopper to pick me up. My hose said, “Wait. Before you leave you must swear on this master flute to never disclose this place’s location or mission upon penalty of death. All the students do likewise as the price to pay for learning how to make and play the Peruvian flute. I thought nothing of it and readily agreed—mainly because I thought it was a load of BS.
POSTSCRIPT
After I wrote this account of my experience in Peru and published it on my blog, things haven’t gone well. I cut off my finger peeling a peach. I got severe food poisoning from ceviche I are at a local Peruvian restaurant: The Hard Rock Diner. I should’ve known better. Now, my pet Guinea pigs, Moe, Larry, and Curly have gone feral and are eating my feet as I type. I don’t know what will befall me next, but I fear it will be the end.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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