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cool man,go straight to eroca at el molle(pronounced el moyeh) in

pisac,with a tent and sleep bag,she will recieve you.tell her you

only want to pay 60 sollies to drink.shell set you up.edwardo is

probably youre man.dont waste money paying more,take a bit here

and there,explore the area,wait for me.and we go to my teacher

some time in july.(do some real work)ill keep in touch

[Iquitos, July 2009]

I am stuck in a freaking sauna full of motorcycles, scooters and

rickshaws making awful racket day and night and filling air with

exhaust fumes. Waiting for a guide to come and take me to the

jungle. I'm to find out if I can handle mosquitoes, sleepless

nights and mental breakdowns. That's the plan, anyway... I've

just been thinking today how I'd rather be anywhere else, instead

I'm sitting on a smoke-blowing, puffing and roaring motorised

canoe, returning from sight-seeing a ten square metre patch of

land where butterflies, all three of them, are being cocooned for

their own good. To add value to the show, they keep a jaguar in acage with an anteater and an allegedly prehistoric animal they

call ‘cow of the jungle' that is essentially a large pig with

paws split into three toes and a trunk for a nose. Ask me again

what I'm doing here - I don't have a clue. I must be in a time-

warp...

…no one knew how old she was exactly. No one kept count. She

looked ancient. How did this wraith of a woman make it all the

way to my house? She hasn't washed her clothes for a while. No

money to buy soap. No money to buy rice. Or sugar.

The only animated part in the weathered landscape of her face arethe eyes, deep wells wherein she dwells, a slow fish, wizened by

many a fisherman's trap, having escaped every one of them to make

it to the sea of tranquillity. She must have drifted here with

the current that happen to pass by my hammock, in which I'm

hiding from the heat of the day. She wants forty soles for a

hand-woven headband intended for curanderos. Sure, I'll buy it.

I'm light miles away from having ayahuaska vision, let alone

being adept at curing illness, but an old witch needs rice and

soap. Her hair is a lair for bugs and spiders, a perfectly

mangled hideout for unsightly things to crawl into and escape the

light of day.

Not a word of castaliano, either. Elias, a distant relation of

some sort, does the talking for her. He says she used to sing at

all big ceremonies. She does a little semblance of a dance,

shuffling her feet back and forth while raising one hand, fingers

clenched, and managing to push enough air out of her lungs to

produce a weak falling and rising melody, no more than a whiff of

wind makes passing in the grass.

She left the same way she came in, an old leaky schooner

miraculously drifting half-submerged, catching just enough wind

to create appearance of motion. Later on I watched her work on

identical garment at her shack. She wanted to sell me this one as

well, half-finished as it was. They all ask as a matter ofobligation, just in case you may flip another coin their way, you



understand. Every thread is spun by hand from a cotton wad with

what they call a "fabrica", a wooden stick rotated freehand

inside a bowl. Time factor involved in the making of a garment is

immeasurable by modern science. She spoke in tongues and gazed at

me from her work without either hope or expectation, just the way

one would watch a goldfish in a pond swimming by. And then she

would go back to threading polished seed shells of beads again,all her resources gathered in the tiny opening that the thread is

blindly trying to find, repelled five times before making an

entry. Her whole body seems to exist solely to support the life

of her hands. Her hands make her meagre living drag out a little

more each day. Strong, man-like hands endowed with long gnarly

fingers knotted around bony knuckles, thick bulging veins. Her

left wrist is no longer capable of grasping objects, therefore

taking up a bead involves bending and unbending fingers with her

other hand. An old Indian witch, toothless and put out, a

smouldering black wick dying in a pool of wax that once must have

been a bright and lovely candle flame casting shadows about,

dancing in the dark...

Peru, the end of the line. It is as far from the known world of

banking machines, traffic jams and takeaway joints as one canget. If you are after a hamburger you will find a hamburger, of

course. That is not what I mean. There is this undercurrent of

chaotic urgency to be alert that permeates the streets, a sense

of accident lurking behind every corner that makes any planning a

hopeless affair. This is where a madman is allowed to thrive, out

in the open, in his complete true image - laughing and swearing,

rolling his eyes, blasting steam off his chest and frothing at

the mouth. This is where it is okay to collapse in convulsive

feats on the ground and a passer-by would leave one undisturbed

to chill out. All is understood and dissolved in the moment of

happening, as if the future tense did not exist in the language

of Incas.



I was shot of New Zealand like a cork out of a bottle of bubbly

wine that had a good shake. It felt like being blown towards and

away at the same time and it was like trying to get to Davie

Jones' locker... in order to do so one must get lost and

shipwrecked. Totally, thoroughly trashed and left with no hope.

Here is the raw formulae, mix in your own circumstantial

ingredients and drink it.

my advice to you is to stay in pisac at el molle.drink with various clowns in the area,for the experienceand to satisfy youre need.then join me when I go to equitos somewhere in july.and dieta with me and myteacher for a month.if you cant pay him 300 nz dollars a week at least,dont bother.

Feeble on my feet, I follow Artidoro into the forest. We don't

have to go far: he stops in front of a neat-looking shrub called

Uno De Gato, which uses include regulation of sugar levels in

blood, help with indigestion, mood alleviation, and a score of

others. A few paces away is a plant to cure diabetes; then, a

herb to clear skin pores and make one sweat; here's a tree a bark

of which will cure malaria and yellow fever; this shrub is used

against impotency; that will heal wounds, cancer of ovaries and

stop dysentery. We barely walk a hundred paces to find more

plants for use in taking medicinal baths, against colds, to fight

infections, cure arthritis, cirrhosis of the heart or simply cool

one's head down. A bit of bark scraped off here, a bunch of

leaves snapped off there. A vine cut in half oozes out milky

liquid that is a sweet syrup ready for consumption; another

contains purest water, the best one can find in the jungle. We

come across a giant of a tree burrowing its wide ridges of feet

into the ground like a wrestler preparing for a tackle; a thick

vine straddles one of the ridges just like a lover would, naked

and strong and twisted. Artidoro strokes the vine where its torso

splits into two and repeats the word 'yoni' several times,winking and smiling. It is an orgasmic sight. We move along, his

short machete strokes clearing a brunch here, a vine there. At

one point he gave a quick blow to the dead trunk, from which a

rather large rat-like animal fell out onto the ground, its nose

bleeding, its body seized by involuntary contortions. Once it has

stopped moving, Artidoro wrapped its carcass into a tidy package

using a single broad leaf tied with a thin vine. Una comida, he

informed me. Good for eating. Good when dead, as its bite kills.

In the middle of our expedition he stopped in his tracks and

offered me a job. I had to ask twice if what I heard was right:

he wanted me, with my zero familiarity of plants and next to zero

knowledge of Spanish to be his apprentice. To collect the plants,

learn how to prepare medicine, learn his songs. There I was, one

week into my first dieta, weak as a ghost and barely able to

move, offered an opportunity I could only conjure up in a dream.



Imagine a beggar standing in front of a royal palace, having rung

many a bell and blown many a fuse in desperation before, kicked,

scalded and bruised just from asking stranger for a bone, a speck

of nourishment... imagine his surprise when the gates slide open

and he is received like a king himself! Guided to the table laden

with gifts of the forest, offered a bath of flowers, sung softly

by maestro of Amazonian chants and put to bed till dawn when

everything is possible - everything... There will be food is

served on every corner out of steaming pots by sun baked women

wearing colourful daggy skirts and wide-brimmed hats, cheap as

dirt busses, having come aboard one never knows where one will

end up.

It could be the narrow cobbled streets of Ollantaytambo, where

ground swirls and undulates under your feet without warning and

one walks amongst Incas hunched under the sacks of corn andpotatoes, grinning and grinding their teeth. It could be a muddy

track in the jungle where treetops sway under the gust of monkey

wind and rain down branches in the middle of a perfectly still

day. It could be that we are going back to the source, to the

ancestral grandma who loves you and accepts you just the way you

are, no questions asked... back into the golden light that only

children know of.

back into the womb...

like a baby, gently coax process into itself, guide my toes with

a soft cloth, wipe the dirt off without hurting them. Stepgently, feeling the ground under my feet, least suffering pain



from a sudden stick protruding at an odd angle. Catch a moth

fluttering inside a mosquito net without damaging its delicate

velvet wings and release it into the darkness outside. I hurt

myself when I don't take time to feel my way. I stumble when I

run into the unexpected.

Time to be reborn, in the jungle hospital: pale ghostly drapes of

mosquito nets, marked with brown spots of mud bed sheets, a score

of uninvited guests from the forest - close a curtain, fast, as

you come in.

Wrapped in a moist blanket, rich tapestry embroider with sounds

of the jungle, listen to the build up of wind, ravaging treetops

in the distance, sudden darkening... and then, a heavenly release

in the drops of rain and falling leaves bringing fresh cool air

from above that one welcomes wholeheartedly. In the midst of the

storm a man appears, bearing two covered plates in each hand,

soaked right through and smiling. There's sliced apples,

mandarins and sections of peeled orange. It's a fruit salad.

Being able to perceive what is there at a glance, at a first

sight, is a great mystery to me. Small, unnoticed textures come

to life and blend into one another to create a symbiosis of

patterns and colours, in their unity acquiring softness and

mutual resonance in which a depth of vision is only determined by

the time spent on looking in. Flattened by the sheer presence of

matter beneath my mattress, I have no strength to look elsewhere

outside. I am gravitationally bound for the rest of the day.

Mareado, seasick.

Drunk, oversaturated with medicine.

Aprendido como energia functiona, says Artidoro. So I must learn

how to function in this new forgotten way, observe how my

intention shapes the mood and perception of phenomena in the

outside world.

A sight of a jet plane in the sky that would normally instigate

thoughts of lament pertaining to the intruding ways of modern

transport made me feel joy this time around for other people

doing these incredible things, such as flying. We live in a cool

fucking world, I thought. Albeit them people being passengers ina machine, it don't matter - it will be me too one day soon,

looking out of a small fogged up window, thumbing through a

glossy magazine full of smartly dressed businessmen and their

catwalk models and ordering a complimentary orange juice.

My feet are covered by red dots of insect bites that travel up to

my knees; they all itch at the same time. Kiri says it ain't just

normal mosquitoes that bite you but also small invisible types

that you don't even see. I don't remember being bitten so many

times, not to account for an army of red dots marching from my

toes upwards, burrowing in clusters and then furrowing tunnels

from one outpost to another. I try to disrupt their communication

and supply lines by delivering frequent air-to-feet blows with



vigorous scratching and apply papaya ointment afterwards to the

raw, ravaged landscape of my skin.

What insect can produce such a high pitched sound of a diamond

cutter?... a winding of a wench? a door buzzer? Listen to them,

session musicians in the night, perfectly fitting into the jungle

orchestra while playing their own tune... I dream of a phone

ringing. It's an urgent call and my flatmate thinks I should pick

up the phone for some reason. I stumble out of bed in the dark

and grab the receiver. A man on the other end of the line wants

to know if I wish to pay for the drinks at some random place I

never heard of or been to. I don't drink, let alone drinking in

public places and paying for others. I yell back, what the fuck

are you doing ringing people up three o'clock in the morning to

ask dumb questions like that?! So I hang up the phone and go back

to bed. Shortly, it starts ringing again. I'm determined to

ignore it but it just keeps on ringing - son of the bitch really

means to keep me awake till dawn... enough is enough, off with my

bed sheet. I rub my eyes on my mattress under mosquito net in theforest, only to realise I've been listening to this particular

cricket all along, whose call produced at regular intervals had

an exact pitch of a phone...

Last night I had drunk a brew that turned me inside out, went

through my innards with a scrubbing brush and left me a hollow

vessel for a purpose, but what it is that I am supposed to be

filled with? In this vacuum I find no strength to lift my head,

let alone contract my muscles, breathing alone is enough of an

effort make, forget about walking and breathing. To get to the

kitchen, I must walk; to eat, I must walk; and when I finally

stand up, having thought it over, I realise I'm in no position to

hold the food down even if I manage to acquire it.

Forth visit to the lavatory this night, some nights its easy to

loose count. Candle flame, when disturbed, flickers and

trepidates with high frequency, lighting the page for the passage

of pen in stroboscopic flashes.

Once stilled, write.

I'd like to deal in clear cut sentences with plenty of space in

between for thoughts and musings, a space to reflect and meditate

on irony of situations. At some point one is intimately involved

in the plot, yet all is assigned a warm, dry cosy corner in the

memory banks for prolonged storage, in case it might be useful

later on; all nonsensical linguistic process which gives birth to

this text, ironically is erased by default. Its a pleasure and

pain, distilling sense and clarity from the floating mountain of

junk which would surely sink, be it not for the infernal fumes

somewhere underneath it, keeping the pile steaming and stewing at

all times except for rare glimpses of true silence. The irony of

writing is that all talk is nonsense. Yet what else is there to

do but keep on filtering, selecting, refining. So no

contamination can get through. When we go deep, marvellous things

will happen if we are clean, shiny squeaky clean. If we are going

back to the source, back into the golden light that only childrenknow of...



Nature is very gentle. There is no sudden rush of chemicals to

the brain, no needles forcefully inserted in the back of one's

head. Here is a difference between a sacred plant prepared by

indigenous medicine man and a chemical equivalent of thereof

synthesized in laboratory: ayahuaska takes one on a steady climb

to the plateau where one is free to move about and explore, as

opposed to a sudden hyperbolic arc upwards of a DMT flash thatleaves one bewildered in an alien world from which one is

violently thrown backwards with little idea what has happened. As

I was recollecting the imagery of Warchovski's scene where liquid

surface of what once was a reflection of oneself is poured down

one's throat, almost flatlining the subject, pulse seizing,

something stabbed me right in the eye sending me upwards in one

motion from a rather peaceful embryo position I was curled into

with what seemed at first like an electric shock. It must have

been an ant. They sneak up on you and bite nine times out of ten;

therefore I squash little nasties as soon as they breach security

of my lodgings.

First I noticed it was a moving line that stretched along a

wooden beam just above where I laid in my hammock: an

uninterrupted flow of ants in both directions was happening at

all times. Neat borders of wax appeared on both sides, forming

main vein of traffic as well as deviating branches that ducked

out of sight following rounded curve of the beam. In less than

two days a tunnel was formed over the whole length of movement

and I could no longer see ant army marching. It was also then I

realised that my back pack was being used for an ant-house; they

laid wax along the access lines traversing from one pocket to

another. I have dealt an earthquake to uninvited squatters and

sent S.O.S. to Artidoro: my hut is being swallowed alive by

uncountable enemy force. Help! Next day we were brushing off wax

and throwing kerosene around, operation in the style of

Fahrenheit 451. It was the end of it, for the ants at least; I

saved what was left of kerosene in an empty water bottle and

forgotten all about it. One day Artidoro went around the kitchen

making jokes of setting his farts on fire and periodically

belching kerosene out of his mouth. When I came back to my shack

after lunch, sure enough the forgotten bottle was nowhere to be

seen. Maestro had drunk it all.

How long have I been lying here? Incessant buzz of insects is

overwhelming. Sharp screeching saw blades rip into my brain

cells, all I can do is watch random scenes flash past from a hazeof times and disappear again into the murky pool of memory where

they came from. Familiar faces pop in to look at my mattress-

bound corpse and mutter their silent greetings, but they cannot

reach me. I am remote, neither hot nor cold, not capable of

wanting, making decisions, not even capable of the effort of

suffering. On this tiny desert island enclosed inside a mosquito

net there is no room for dreams, wants, emotions. Everything is

blended into a white mesh of nothingness. All I'm capable of is

watching a bug cross from the left corner of my field of vision

to the right and disappear again. Time is irrelevant. Sand clock

has been rigged so that the sand falls upwards with equal ease as

downwards; going backwards and forwards in time has no meaning as

I have lost whatever sense of direction I had. Who's this

grinning Indian running around in bike tights drinking kerosene?



I could smell it all over on the way to my shack after lunch.

When does tomorrow come? It is maсana, Artidoro's favourite word.

Medicinal bath for you, friend - maсana. Tomorrow, I teach you

how to cook ayahuaska. Tomorrow was two weeks ago! Yet what can I

do? Here comes jungle doctor Artidoro, always ready to scatter

into shards of laughter, give me a paternal rub on my shaven

head, pelado, pelado? I cannot fight such a man. My weapon won'ttake aim, so I gave myself in. Got a bunk in a jungle hospital

and a haircut of Tyler Durden's space monkeys. I wonder how long

I've been lying here...

I hear internal workings of my digestive tracts as gas bubbles

shift along with liquids down tubular passages, dissolving

airlocks as they make their way to the lowest dungeons where

everything stalls in front of the final flood gates that can only

be opened with a conscious permission from a higher authority to

dispense with the intestinal gathering of dregs and bodily

refuse; no matter how impatient these get I still retain a degree

of control over the rubble. With a mental order I suppress therevolt until such time as I can master getting up. My head

swerves and specs of pain shoot outward in all directions as I

sit up; now, for a breath of fresh air outside the mosquito net -

it will give me just enough energy to stumble a short way down to

the hole in the ground covered criss-cross with a few planks to

plant my feet on. The lavatory. It's a miracle I haven't landed

into the bog yet, given that my approach to the target is that of

a drunk, out-of-his-mind pilot who cares not a thing in the world

except dumping his load as soon as possible. Such procedure takes

place half a dozen times every night I drink; this is definitely

not every man's adventure, this healing business.

The world has shrunk in size to fit inside the confines of green

walls that buzz and screech all day long; sleep never comes. My

head weighs a ton and sometimes is pulled sideways by an array of

cables that little men from Jonathan Swift's book of Gulliver's

travels managed to attach to my hair while I was detained in some

other dimension and made to watch long scratched up and faded

memory reels of past events, thinking my life over and over and

over again.

I can't wait to get out of the jungle. Drinking makes me sick

every time. I felt like puking all night. I hate ayahuaska. This

fellow started laughing while Artidoro is singing. Someone is

talking. Girls giggle. That fellow wining and wailing all nightlong, then laughing idiotically. Perhaps it was a test that made

me realise I'm not ready to return home healed. I still have much

anger. Tonight will be better without the rainbow fucking

warriors, says Casper the French. As for me, I can't wait to get

out of the jungle.



[Pucallpa]

It is dark where I sit cross-legged on my blanket, I can barely

discern silhouettes of those around me. To the left is Kiri,

who's had his share of medicine for this journey already and

tonight he is resting and watching. A few paces away is Benjamin,

maestro Benjamin, whose presence is reinforced on both sides by

two old Indian women. I am a drifting flotsam on the surface of

the merciful ocean that rocks me gently on its sonic waves,

yawning and swaying back and forth, swooning in the warm ambience

of the place. In the lulls between singing and conversing come

forth into focus ubiquitous sounds of a typical village, as if

invisible deejay skilfully adjusted the mix. There's a continuous

squabble of dogs that haven't settled their domestics during the

course of the day; there's a distant thumping of bass speakersthat fail to deliver a hint of melody; there are growling noises

of motorcars fading in and out of the audible range as they come

and go. there must be at least a dozen radio voices broadcasting

orations and late night music alike, strategically placed around

the neighbourhood to create a total coverage, which in turn is

intermittently interrupted by neurotic roosters startled from

their uneasy sleep who announce their awakening at once, as if

the world would end the minute they fail to sound off their

screeching alarm of a perpetually coming dawn that takes no less

than a night to come, regardless of all their screaming. And if

for some reason there are any gaps amongst all this carry on are

to be had, one hears the insects rasping and grinding away,

who've been there all along. In short, the day never quite ends.

At least I couldn't tell at which point night begun and when it

ended. There was no sleep on my part. As far as Shipibo Indians

are concerned, in a family of which I was a grateful (that is,

paying) guest, they sleep where they happen to lie down, on the

floor with or without a rug or a cover, placing a hand under

their cheek or lying flat on their backs. There was no preamble

to the ceremony: I was served a shot glass of supposedly sweet

medicinal syrup that I chased down with cane juice straight away,

not believing a word when it comes to palatability of medicinal

substances. Others partook of their drinks and soon the talk died

down. We were Jedi knights, and our voyage was that of the inner

space. Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away.



The warm fuzzy feeling that came down upon me when Benjamin

started singing never quite lifted off; all around me is his

presence, I am lead by his melodies down the cavernous depths of

ancient caves where hunters once dwelt in darkness, drawing upon

bare rocks naпve forms of prehistoric animals by the flicker of a

torch that threw askew shadows aside, illuminating in trembling

flashes dark skins scarred by the teeth of wild beasts? And rightthere is a sacrificial altar and a sharp blade lying upon it

resonates young and vibrant, for it bears a sonic drop of fresh

dew on the very tip of it, a kind one finds on a green leaf in

the early morning sparkling in the rays of the new born sun. It

is but an opening into which two humming birds flew in on both

sides of Benjamin, and hovering on the edge of human ability to

perceive sounds delivered me heavenwards with their songs. At the

same time I remained firmly planted on the blanket, closer to the

pulse of the earth than ever, feeling my heart expanding beyond

confines of my chest, beyond the room, the house, the village?

That was when I knew and remembered the reason for coming here,

the scope of my journey lying in plain view, unfolding flat all

inconsistencies, doubts, fears. Who could have thought that this

simple room without furniture, without pictures on the walls,

without a lamp or a lampshade or any other convenience in the

traditional sense of a word, a room with no television or radio,

that this room is the place for our meeting, albeit you are not

even there physically. I am still going to give you a secret

invitation, an invitation to one and all who are ready for the

greatest adventure beyond time and limitations of the flesh and

mind of an individual human being. Friend, come!

Without saying, one needs an airplane ticket and means to feed

themselves as well as their hosts during the stay. A few words of

Spanish will help you find your way around. Also, between me and

you, it is a bloody good time to come here: Peru is ripe; it is

an immensely rich country in culture, sacred knowledge and

spirit, the very things I feel we lack the most. Spiritual

poverty is crippling all so called ‘developed' nations; all our

material possessions amount to nothing in the absence of mental

and physical health. Depression, anxiety, digestion, sore back,

neck or toe, bad skin, cancer, brain tumour? spirit is sick, how

can the body cope? Come, one can cure anything in Peru.

I think of each and every one of you, wishing you were here,

imagining how your face lights up when shadows of doubts

disappear overnight, how weight of trouble falls down from youshoulders and how blissful you shall look in the morning.

Katsimbalis! I had this vision of an old Greek man, his white

hair floating in the wind like a flock of sheep chased to and fro

by herder's dogs amongst alpine pasture, his bare chest open to

whatever shall come to him. His breathing is easy and his eyes

are closed for there is no need to watch out. My mind wanders and

euphoria fades, still the image is there, I just have to dig for

it. Why is the man a Greek? I don't know. Perhaps its Henry

Miller's colossus of Mauroussi that I am possessed by; he is also

a shaman, a shaman literati. Bit by bit, I shall remember and

feed you the choice morsels of this incredible adventure. it

seems to never end, and I call it incredible because I cannot

believe I'm only living it now, when Peru has been here all

along. These people been doing their work all along. While I've



been hitting my head against a wall that I myself created,

hurting all around me in agony and anger. I came to the point

where nothing was a sufficient tranquiliser any longer, nothing

could suppress my pain to get out, neither work, nor

entertainment. Neither drugs, nor disciplines. No effort could

suffice. No mountain was tall enough, and if it was it would have

killed me. So I'm happy to report, after a night on medicine andmaestro Benjamin singing, tired but exalted, that I have dark

energies expunged and expelled, at least for a short spell. In

this window of opportunity I am happy to write a praise for a

shaman. one doesn't know the meaning of the word until one meets

Benjamin who sends one on a journey with a song and a hick up.

Artidoro was good, Benjamin is something else. A force of nature

would probably be most befitting description, if I was desperate

to put it down in words. As it is, I'm quite happy to quit

writing and partake in another ceremony tonight.

Benjamin and his wife Antonia at his house in Pucallpa. Sept.

2009

The liquid was thick and viscous, it slithered down the throat

and even a thimble of honey didn't clear away its passage. I

asked for my dieta to be opened last night. Benjamin said he willput chipsies into my head, to open it up to visions, as far as I



can figure it. I asked for a thorough clean up and told him about

my mental issues, anger, loosing patience at a short notice. No

problem. After a few songs, when the medicine kicked in, he took

my head into his hands and blew mouthful of floral essence over

it. I was immediately adrift in the aromatic cloud that hung

around just long enough for its sweet oversaturated smell to

overpower all other senses and then condensed and fell indroplets of fine vapour over me. Then I felt his hands grouped

around my bald skull for a right place to drive what felt like a

shard of semi-soft material in, complete with a snapping sound

that came from inside my head. There were five such ‘implants' in

total, two and two on the sides and one right in the middle.

After the procedure I was informed rather gravely of things I

should abstain from, such as all other substances, drugs, as from

now on I was in mortal danger if I do not follow the discipline.

And this goes not just for the duration of dieta, but for the

rest of my time on this planet. Once you are on a path, there's

no deviation. I am to half lunch at one o'clock in the afternoon

and no more food till the following day. Stomach must be empty;

if it is not, visions do not come. Medicine needs a clear passage

to work. At first one vomits, for there's much rubbish gathered

in the body from years of feeding it junk, both food-wise and as

far as emotions and thought patterns go. It didn't take long

before I was running for the door, a bowl in my hand, hunched

three times over. I bowed to the fence, to the pile of compost

that turned out to be a heap of boiled ayahuaska vines on close

examination before collapsing in front of a compost heap which

received most of my prayers that came out in flushes with deep

gargling sounds. It was a great relief and I felt at once light

and rather weak. I was trembling like a leaf, actually. Benjamin

is a far throw from Artidoro, that is for sure. His medicine and

his singing delivers the goods. He has unquestionable authorityabout him when it comes to spiritual guidance. I do not normally

take kindly to people telling me what not to do, but in this case

I have to go along, as the offer is too good to refuse. He

promised me freedom, and I feel it is there to be earned. I do

not need anything else as ayahuaska is a powerful vehicle that

takes one on a gentle ascent to incredible landscapes, like a

grandmother leading a child by the hand, teaching ABCs that one

is capable of retaining. I've lost enough marbles playing with

mushrooms; no more. From now on it's a healthy choice, folks.

Make me strong, I shall work hard and diligent, earn my passage

and come back for more. That's the plan, anyway.



[making soup: practical aspects of living with Shipibo]

After the second ceremony with Benjamin, feeling particularly

good, I thought it would be nice to shout the extended family a

lunch. Go to the market first thing in the morning, buy a

humongous fish, some vegetables, make a soup. That would be nice,

I thought, to sit around the table and watch everyone enjoy food.

There comes the morning, I do as I intended, speaking beforehand

to Roberto, the man of the house, about cooking fish soup for

lunch. We round up several women and they all smile and nod when

I tell them what I want. Everyone loves fish. Bueno. I repeat

everything once more, just to make sure, and go off to the marketto fetch veggies and choice cuts of meaty fish. I leave

everything in the hands of Roberto's wife. According to maestro

Benjamin, one o'clock is the time a dietero is supposed to have

his meal; I'm bang on the hour for lunch. To my surprise, there's

no gathering in the kitchen awaiting for me. There's a sad-

looking pot on the grill, leaking broth from its bottom, with a

lonely fish tail floating in it. That's all. I storm into the

house, as I do in case of emergencies, to enlist Antonia, one

woman I wasted my breath the most upon, to find out where are

other soup ingredients. By the time I have chopped carrots and

beetroot she peels one onion and hides the other two. Se с iora,

todo cebolla - all onions - por favour! Uno, dos, tres? todo! I'mdone with washing herbs, and second onion comes along. Bueno!

Where is the third one?! Again, its hidden in the basket on the



top shelf. Se с ora! Neccessito todo! I bought all this stuff for

the soup, comprende?... Same with garlic. Ask five times, get all

nods and smiles and bugger all garlic. Todo, se с ora, todo! Por

farvor! More fish I bought comes out from out-of-the-way cooking

pot. As I continue chopping parsnip and other herbs, one little

girl keeps bringing me peeled sections of garlic one at a time,

asking, sufficiente? mimicking the way Kiri speaks. Mas! Todo! Ikeep saying, until I get just about the whole lot of garlic

segments assembled in one pile. The girl has a bright smile from

ear to ear, unlike vacant looking Antonia... During the day

Antonia is an old wench stuck in her crooked ways, hobbling about

on her stiff joints of dilapidated, over-used machinery of soft

tissue, intellect functioning at a minimum capacity. Yet after

dusk she is my grandma, lover and a friend in one; she sings

wonderfully. she rocks, she is a superstar in my books. I ended

up buying her embroidered quilts later on. Anyhow. By two o'clock

I'm calling everyone to the table. Nothing seemingly happens.

Fellows come to sit on the bench and watch women who are now

frying half a dozen chickens that magically appeared on the

grill, having awaited probably since yesterday for this opportune

moment to pop out of the marinating pot. Don't tell me you

haven't planned it! Nodding, smiling, leading me on. It's ripe

time for me to notice rounded tummies being scratched around,

well-padded necks, cute baby toes... they have been eating well

all along. I'm done with lunch and stay put, watching family come

together and get into their food. Addressing all and none, I tell

them there and then that if they don't like cooking food I buy,

it's not a problem. I shall go to a restaurant next time. As a

way of replying, Roberto says that a gas stove might improve

their situation. I should be laughing at this point, but it is

not a joke. It is a way of Shipibo thinking. Or may be it's too

much wax in their ears, take your pick. Upon returning fromPaoyhan some two weeks later, same faces, same exact story. I

arrived with Gilberto, Benjamin and Antonia, plus Benjamin's

oldest son, who helped me lay a police claim, to his credit. I

buy two chickens and give them to Roberto, asking if he can make

the lunch ready by one o'clock, to celebrate our safe passage. He

solemnly accepts chickens. Some three hours later, still an hour

before lunch, I'm looking down into the drags of rice and noodles

with an odd chicken wing half-submerged in broth that is barely

tepid and called ‘chicken soup'. Gilberto asks me, unflinching,

innocent as a python with a monkey stuck down his throat, if I

went to the restaurant to have my lunch already. Calmly and

accepting things for the way they are, I hiss through my teeththat No, I haven't had my lunch because I bought these two

chickens for that exact purpose - to be enjoyed in the company of

dear friends who care about me in the most unselfish way. I

proceed with making fire, frying plantains and making best of

what I can save from the pot... Next day it's a whole grilled

chicken for me and me only, goddamnit!



[lancha: from Pucallpa to the village of Paoyhan by boat]

Even before we hit infamous ferry boat, a crowd of agitated,

gesturing and shouting fellows surround our motorcar, grabbing

our bags and possessions at once. I fight my backpack off and

reach into my pocket to pay the driver his due five soles. There

is no change, in fact there is no wallet. First time being pick

pocketed in Peru... the moral of it is, as Duchess would put it,

that the small bags disappear easier than the big ones. Although

we are an hour early, there is hardly a space to sit down in the

cargo hold that is jam-packed with people that stand, squat and

lie in their hammocks stretched whenever there is a space to

string a rope across. Having purchased two sacs of rice in greathurry as well paid our driver off, I find just enough space to

hang my own hammock at the back, next to the engine room, as I

find out later. In the mean time I'm imagining sizzling of meat

being fried as well delicious smells of chicken, all too real to

be ignored. Indeed, there is a small iron cubicle down below,

right next to the engine that finally wakes up with a rumbling

yawn. It is a roaring beast with cables and pistons rather than

contracting muscles, spurting black oil for blood. In its

proximity one is christened by infernal noise, its tremors

shaking one's bolts and nuts nice and loose. Mechanics jump in

and out of its ribcage covered in soot, wiping sweat off their

brows with blackened hands. It is stifling hot even where I lie

in my hammock watching the proceedings and generally being in theway of those trying to squeeze past up the stairs. I venture



above and find plenty of space on the roof to stretch out between

three men at the back, quietly laughing at jokes I wouldn't

understand even if I could hear them, and a chicken coup at the

front, clucking away in the waning light of the day. As the sun

mercifully goes down, blue and pink give way till the sky comes

aflame burning in rich red that shifts towards crimson, painted

against a backdrop of a heavy velvet blue, soon to become a darkfissure cracked and bleeding the remains of the visible end of

spectrum. The death of the day is upon the world of Amazon, it is

pleasantly warm. Someone stumbles on me in the dark and walks

off, laughing. I seem to excel at the art of being an obstacle.

This time I align myself along the roof, rather than across, and

spend a good hour in the hands of Morpheus before a loud strike

of metal against metal startles me awake. Engines grunts a few

times and comes silent with a gasp. It won't be long before

Ishmael, Benjamin's oldest son, comes looking for me; we've been

stranded on a shallow spot. Marooned, in the middle of the river.

Downstairs is a commotion, people getting up from their hammocks,

flocking to the windows, a few calmly packing their possessions.

We follow suit and to find ourselves amongst the last bunch of

passengers boarding a launch taking us to another tug boat,

having sacrificed two sacks of rice that could not be fitted in

the hurry. The new boat was much larger but only had enough room

for passengers at the open cargo bay at the front. Having

wondered in search of a relatively clean place to sit down, I

settled for a nice cosy nook behind what turned out to be a mount

of toilet paper. There I remained till dawn, having fallen asleep

on left side with knees tucked in, the only position afforded by

the space.

Waking up to daylight, I realised it was rather quiet. No sound

of engine. Look overboard, no movement, either. We got stuck

second time, alright. Nothing to do but sit and watch bags of

cement being carried to the front end from somewhere down the

back by porters some of which should be sitting behind a writing

desk in the classroom, passing time pulling each other's legs and

whistling at the ceiling, as boys of twelve and thirteen do where

I come from. For breakfast there was white goo of unknown origin,

as it had no another taste apart from being over-sweetened,

served with bread rolls and nothing else. Engine revved up again,

giving everyone an immediate boost of morale, which slowly waned

as the boat swung left and right, wiggled, squirmed and pivoted

round and round where it sat in futile attempts to free itself.

What made our situation even more unbearable was the sight of theoriginal ferry we embarked upon in the first place and later

escaped in the night, swimming into view and passing us without

as much as a toot. By the time the lunch was due my stomach was

growling, loudly demanding una comida. I was positioned

strategically at the kitchen table, two paces away from the

window into the cubicle behind iron girders, capable of

restraining half of Sahara's numbers of hungry lions, where the

food was being prepared. Just when I thought it was never going

to happen, chef started banging on the iron bars with a large

scoop, startling me to death. As I ducked away in fear of going

deaf, I lost a few precious seconds which cost me running an

obstacle course of hammocks hung across all the way down the

hall, growing queue forming always a step ahead of me. Half hour

later I was handing in my docket, a proof of passage, to get a



scoop of rice, half a ladle of chicken soup and a boiled green

plantain. Just like in good old soviet times when I stood for

hours outside the bread shop with a bit of paper that clarified

our family bread allowance for which one also had to pay.

Sometimes the bakery would run out of bread by the time you got

to the front of the queue… In short, the lunch on the Amazonian

ferry had a nostalgic feeling for me. One truly knows that theyare in the same boat here, I tell you. After some food, I wished

for nothing more but to get going. As luck would have it, all the

wiggling finally paid off and slowly but surely the landscape

shifted and soon we were on the way again.

[Paoyhan]

The village of Paoyhan, where no one has any money. Therefore,

being the only gringo on the block, women flock towards you from

all over the place. I'm yet to fathom the depth of the family

ties here, but it looks like everyone is someone's relation. To

start with, Benjamin is but one of five brothers, four of which

are still living and kicking, all of them shamans, taught by

their father, all of them have great many offsprings. One got to

be a mutant possessing more than ten fingers to count those on

one's hands. Perhaps it is due to the marriage arrangements, as

in the case of Benjamin himself, who has three wives.

The village of Paoyhan, where no one heard of rugby. There are at

least three proper football fields, goals and all, and a goodnumber of volleyball nets that spring up at late hour when the

sun starts its decline. Football is played religiously every

night. There are enough fellows to make up several teams by five

o'clock in the afternoon, and players line up on the side,

waiting for their turn. A game of football also requires some

pocket money to be staked, turning it into a serious business.

My heart was overjoyed seeing schoolgirls passing ball in pairs

across the field first thing in the morning, even before the sun

showed up above the jungle. I got used to this sight as I went

fishing at dawn. What a place to grow up! A paradise for kids,

for sure. Plentiful land, rich with fish river where watercreates impression of being boiled as the fish jumps out in



flying schools scattered by invisible threat, yet a bigger catch

that inevitably ends up in fisherman's net. Plantations of

bananas and papayas with occasional pineapple flowering beneath

the palm trees, rice fields and yucca, jungle potato, make a

staple diet that is hard to refuse or get tired of. In saying so,

I'm lucky enough to be here in August. Change of seasons,

apparently, greatly affects abundance of produce and fish. Whenthe river swells up and spreads into the jungle, where does one

go to find it… it could be anywhere - in the river, in the

fields, under your porch, or miles away in the forest. As far as

plantains go, which a household of, say, ten people can consume a

sack of on a good week, they are out of stock at times of floods,

I am told, which happens between November and April. One needs a

canoe to get around, even to visit the neighbour's house, judging

by the height of stilts that houses are built on.

I went several times across the river with Gilberto, at whose

place I've been staying, to gather papayas and plantains maduro,

mature plantains, which makes them sweet when cooked. Greenplantains, boiled or grilled, taste much like potatoes do. Every

time we came back bending double under the weight of jungle

goodies. I'd cram my backpack and carry a sack in my hands,

Gilberto would tie bunches of plantains with a strap, duck under

it, placing the strap on his forehead and then huff and puff and

clench his teeth trying to stand up. It was on my request that we

went fruit picking, one has to ask for everything here. Else its

fish and rice for breakfast, lunch and dinner. For me especially,

without salt. Redilinda, Gilberto's spouse, is quite happy to

feed me nothing else but grilled fish and rice or a boiled fish

with a mere onion for company, rice on a side, calling it 'soup'.

Shipibo, I have noticed, are very set in the ways of cooking.

Speaking of Redilinda's menu, I thought it will be different from

the start, as I watched her nod enthusiastically when upon my

arrival at the house I produced lentils, peanuts, garlic, honey,

ginger, bay leaves, and other little bags of herbs. She promptly

stashed them out of sight and seemingly forgot all about their

existence. Since day one I asked my fish to be stuffed with

garlic before being grilled, since I got a big bag of it. She

would eventually do it, after being asked kindly so a dozen

times. In the end I was buying my own tomatoes, onions, carrots,

beets, eggs, everything I could get my hands on as nobody seems

to ever bother with making my diet a little more palatable. They

were happy eating their meat, milk and canned food which I was

not allowed to eat. It made Artidoro's efforts, who would go outof his way to obtain fresh vegetables and an occasional chicken,

honourable and caring in comparison to the slack (and perhaps,

selfish) cooking attitudes here. Or is it a simple courtesy that

is not a part of Shipibo culture… I watched them crack many a

watermelon and was never offered one. Or may be it is the way the

diet is supposed to be? who knows. Yet, I shouldn't complain

about my diet. Artidoro ate nothing but yucca for ten years.

Others dreamt not of a treat such as a sweet grilled plantain.

Albeit a deviation from the traditional ration, it is accepted

and actually makes all the difference. not to mention having a

papaya first thing in the morning after a night on medicine...

Redilinda's menu is somewhat unappealing at such a time: I've

been cleansed inside and out, feeling light and a little seasick.

Last thing I want is a crusty amphibian in its scaly armour



scorched by the fire, glistening in its oil. Much rather I prefer

a hot drink of ginger and cinnamon and cloves and honey, a kind

of honey they sell in a bottle, it flows easily and tastes like a

syrup made of exotic fragrant fruit found in paradise only.

House of poo

The village of Paoyhan , where one should not believe a thing. in

disbelief, I've written two pages in my notebook while sitting onthe porch of the internet hut (there's a satellite dish size of a

small flying saucer inside of a communication compound next-door,

also housing an old one covered in mildew patterns. all one needs

is some gasoline to get the generator going to power up the

machines). A man promised to send a boy to bring keys for the hut

quite some time ago. Well... may be not today. May be my Spanish

lacks the force of conviction. may be they know well in advance

that I am not going to make them famous. Gilberto reckons that

Benjamin is better off as he has a webpage. Next thing he wants

me to make one for him. Perhaps he imagines a flood of sick

tourists assailing him in search of shamanic cure for their

illnesses. Bring in the sick and their money! I never understoodhow exactly to pay jungle doctors. They don't ask for money, but

they complain that donations are not generous enough. They want



to know how much money you got. They tell you about legendary

generous Berna Brabeck and Kiri, and of one French guy, who must

have left them under impression that every gringo is a travelling

Santa Claus in disguise, minus the deer carriage. Bells and

whistles all the way, listen to them jingle. Sure, why not - you

want a webpage?! I was hoping you'd say that. Cause am a man with

a plan. A manager, no less! I shall manage your account. I shallbring people in. I shall tell them to pay one hundred soles per

ceremony, nada mas. No more than hundred soles per week for your

two-by-two meter cubicle you call 'habbitacion'. Porque? Because

I bring you a sack of rice, because I hunt and gather while your

cousins lounge about all day long waiting for their five o'clock

football game. So you want a webpage? Great! I'll make you

famous. Let us sit down and write it up. No ma с ana - ahoritta.

Nowish is the word! Gilberto is all yes and si, si and bueno. I'm

sitting behind a table, pen in hand, idly hovering above a virgin

page, waiting for the word. Gilberto, my man. Think of the

tourists. Smiling, sweating gringos that have come strapped in

high-tech adventure gear, huffing and puffing under the load of

modern vacuum-packed convenience they have to carry everywhere

they go, middle-aged self-appointed gurus in search of furthering

their spiritual credentials, young hippies from a no-man's land,

whatever their country of origin might've been, clad in cool

embroidered garments hanging loosely around their undernourished

frames, looking for Amazonian zang. Be it Shizam Gasem Zang, it's

the same thing. Looking for a good kick up into the higher plane

of reality and a smooth, painless comedown. All sorts of spaced-

out pilots, ayawaskanaughts, wanted and equally unwanted pirates

on their restless search of a booty, shunned by peaceful majority

that does not believe such nonsense as inner flight of a

shaman... look here, here are lost souls, mad, sick, with purpose

and random, dying and kicking, you name it - men and women of allwalks of life, colour and age lumped together by invisible hand

into a common ball that rolls out so easily from local's tongue,

'tourist'. Think of it, Gilberto. Many a year you've been

learning the ways of your old man, many a plant swaying there in

the forest runs the magical sap that will make their feeble with

western sickness bodies strong again. Many a song you've learnt

by heart begging to be heard by an open ear.



Bueno, says Gilberto, but he won't come to the table. Sits on a

stump and watches the fire. Chases chickens. Digs a drain.

Ayawaska is boiling in the cauldron, it is the medicine cooking

day. Takes about eight hours. my pen is no longer content

surveying bare page and descends upon it aimlessly. Yep yep yep,

says Paradiso Paul of Granity. People are same same same, no

matter what continent you sail to, be it Alaska or Peru or the

west coast of the South Island.

Is the table no good, I ask finally.

Table is good, reaffirms Gilberto.

Then vamos! Let's do it, I say. I say, lets cure tourists. Tickle

their toes. Dust off their wallets. Think big! The world is big

out there. Many sick people working day and night jobs they hate,

jobs that make them sick, so that they can earn their dollars and

bring them to you, shaman Shipibo-Canibo of great Amazon,

curandero and maestro.

Okay, says Gilberto. He stands up, sits back down on the stump.

Watches fire. Watches rain. Anything but. My pen is all over the

page, pleading, requesting, raping. Twenty minutes later Gilberto

has finally arrived to the table of negotiations, clutching a

broom in his hand. Every sentence takes a bit of sweeping in

between. I fire questions at the maestro through his nephew to

get a little more perspective on his one-off mumbles. They seem

to talk a great deal amongst themselves in native Shipibo

language and all I get is a three word statement, no more.

To Gilberto, I suppose, trying to describe to a tourist how

ayahuaska works is both a futile and irrelevant task. It works!



It cures headaches, stomach aches, cancers, tuberculosis, brain

tumors, what have you. Chronic Depression, Parkinson disease,

broken heart, alcoholism. Depending on severity of condition, one

may need to stay for longer than a week. One may need to start a

dieta, a process in which a physical body undergoes cleansing by

purging toxins that requires certain restrictions on intake of

foods such as sugar, salt, meat, milk, etc., while the shamanworks on fixing energy patterns that caused the illness in the

first place. Also, there are specific dietas with specific plant

preparations for specific illnesses that may be undertaken

consecutively or concurrently as you wish. Jungle is an all-hour

pharmacy to a shaman, filling prescriptions any time of the day.

Scrape some bark here, bleed some sap there... mix it, fix it,

drink it. Rub it in. Leave overnight in water and have a tonic

bath next morning.

I've been dieting since I was twelve years old, says Gilberto.

Practicing medicine for over forty years now. All of the above

comes between sweeping, cleaning and pacing to and fro grabbing

stuff and putting stuff down. His shirt flung open, rounded belly

protruding outside, a rough-and-tumble version of Bilbo Baggins

struggling with his dragon after a night of beer drinking. Messed

up hair, far-off gaze in his fogged up eyes. That is another

thing I don't get: neither Gilberto nor Benjamin have clear eyes.

Is it age? Or, perhaps, they are not well? Benjamin's feet appear

to be swollen . He doesn't move much. Sometimes during the day he

may appear distant, as if lost in thought or watching something

that you can't possibly see. Whatever he's contemplating seems totake place in another world. Gilberto, on the other hand, is more

likely to be homely somehow, in spite of his chronic lapses into



Shipibo dialect for the lack of Spanish. Once I fell asleep

during a ceremony and dreamt of Gilberto pressing on my back

every time I was about to exhale; I was convinced upon awakening

that he massaged me all along. I was incredibly rested, as if I

slept for a good many hours. which is a genuine bonus,

considering that one goes to bed with Paoyhan's resident deejay

Bryan Adams, latest techno beats and 'everything he does he doesit for you', his favourite lullaby. this infernal radio

repertoire is meticulously hand-picked from a collection of

popular back in you-name-it era and aired each night from the

navel of the village called 'punta', which is in fact a pub where

drinking goes on sometimes past midnight and of which activities

one is made aware through a booming karaoke machine. I definitely

prefer rocking out with shamans, grooving to the polyphony of

Shipibo tunes that chug along, like a train, complete with

hissing steam and a whistle; here comes a fork in the tracks and

the train deviates, sending a wave along its spine and individual

carriages fall out one by one, softly humming now, conserving

momentum for a spell... only to pick up where they left, come

together again and soar into the starry night propelled by sheer

abstinence, denying gravity and reason, without a crutch, without

a drumming beat, unaided in its flight that is measured only by

the pace of the heart. If one is so inclined as to indulge in

partaking of beverages, beer does not stand a chance among a

multitude of native brews that having had its effect cause

nothing apart from lightness in the morning, as if one has not

fully landed yet. I do not understand why alcohol with its

narrowing action upon the mind has spread so vast in such short

time here. It could that it is a part of symbiotic organism

comprised of gas, tax and money. These seem to thrive together in

a lovely bunch, uprooting ancient cultures whenever they go,

scattering them around, stomping out old knowledge wherever theycan. You wait; there will one day be a new entry in the oxford

dictionary: 'a shaman' - same as a terrorist, a vagabond, a

threat to progress and to beer drinking. With the shaman there is

no TV. No fast food. One is not even allowed to put salt on his

rice! Shaman does not give a damn. Shaman is always chilled. Here

goes your freezer packed with stowed away meat and beans, your

genetically modified frost-proof corn, your cryogenic capsule

into the future. Here goes every security so painfully acquired

in adult life. Can't trust a shaman! Before you know it, you

shall be in the village of Paoyhan, the paradise for

disbelievers. First of all, one doesn't quite believe he is

here... I must be one of them sick, sick tourists.



Gilberto Ochavano Mahua, aka 'Soi Meni'

Plata quando siento como un million dollares, maestro. I shallpay when I feel like million dollars. There we lie, listening to

our stomachs grumble and bubble as gasses pass through the

intestinal labyrinth, pushing obstacles out of the way. It's a

carefully considered decision to stay put in one place, as my

bowels should protest at the slightest jarring and cause

distraction to the feeling of unity that blissfully descended

upon me after conversing with Gilberto for some time. instead of

going to sleep I'm writing this down by the light of the candle,

having had a epiphany that there is only so much room in the

short term memory of the brain for the cluttering of thoughts and

it must be emptied in order to have another epiphany. One can

saviour a good thought only for so long before becoming dull in

the wits. I was thinking... how this whole shamanic shebang isvery much a parody in appearance that, nonetheless, delivers a

real punch from time to time, above or below the waist, no one

cares about your balls here. In this clown outfit there is a

reverse side to the costumes. think of Pirates of the Caribbean

and all the masquerade that goes with it: disheveled, cheap-

looking characters that scratch the bottom of their hole-ridden

pockets to buy a descent eye-patch, not to mention forking out a

gold coin for the gathering of pirate captains!... a mottled crew

of sticking-out bellies, missing buttons, coloured shreds tying

together loose garments and gnarly, twisted smiles that reek of

rum and freedom. fresh breeze and salt, a patch of punk art

flying high on the mast of every vessel and loaded canonscarrying screaming monkey on every canon ball... all-singing,

all-dancing weeds of the world that thrive where others perish,



grow carbuncles on their bodies and fight dirty, with zest and

defiance, to vanquish in the heat of the battle, only to come

back swinging on the end of a rope and deliver potentially lethal

blow to their opponent, whoever it happens to be at the time.

They are a haphazard school of brawlers who really need a good

knock-out before being able, or being bothered, to reach the peak

of their performance. Tyrone, come drink ayahuaska, you bloodythunder of Spanish seas! I know your thirsty mother... you'd

merry a wooden barrel if it had a drop of rum in it. The best of

all, the more you drink, the better you feel in the morning. No

remorse, no pounding headache. No broken furniture to repair. All

bones intact...

When you write, it's hard to go to sleep as there's always a

thought lingering on, a lonely customer after the closing time

that still hasn't paid for his purchase. It's a quarter past

three in the morning; I might as well stay till dawn and go

fishing first thing in the morning when it is cool and agreeable

to move. [Speaking of fishing, it is done with a simple rigconsisting of a two-meter stick, equal length of green cord tied

to one end and a hook, nothing else. It doesn't matter how close

one throws the line, be it under one's feet, fish is everywhere.

I have originally purchased a reel of nylon and since then lost

many a great catch due to nylon notwithstanding a good snap of

jaws. My line would tighten and tremble under the mighty pull and

then break just above the hook, a very disheartening experience

evoking a range of emotions from being dumfounded and unable to

move, eyes wide open and staring blankly into space, to that of

being outraged, frothing at the mouth, and running about the

river bank, threatening to come back with a dynamite stick.]

Well, being true to myself, meaning contradicting every word I

say, I fell into slumber, instead of trying to capture every

little syllable that came knocking on my skull, clatu viratu ...

doesn't matter. Some magic needs to be saved for other times too.

I did go fishing, however. Got myself just enough for a soup

which I cooked later for lunch with all the spices that I brought

and that Redilinda never opened. Bay leaf, cloves, oregano , etc.

the only vegetables I managed to obtain on this occasion were a

couple of dwarf tomatoes that didn't add up to much taste wise.

my plan was to cook lunch for everyone, a two-course meal of

soup, number one, and rice, number two, embellished with carrots,

beetroot, onions and garlic, all of which I ordered from Pucallpa

the day before, together with much anticipated roll of film for

the camera. None of these items arrived, they were merelyforgotten. Next on my list was internet, for which I had

purchased gasoline in advance, but for the mud on the road it was

no go. Half an hour of Amazonian rain made all the difference

between a leisurely stroll down the street and a slurpy wading

through wet clay that sticks to one's shoes with a snowballing

effect. What to do? I go to see Benjamin, pay my hundred soles

for last night's ceremony and he informs me it is to be followed

by another one this evening. I was counting on some rest, by the

looks of it, not today. Doesn't matter. Who am I to plan ahead?

On close examination I am same as others - eccentric, fluctuating

currents of energy that flip, flop and whirl along the spiral of

space and time, bumping into each other just like any other

random particle would, being repelled and attracted for no

apparent reason yet in perfect accordance to the overall fractal



pattern of life. A kind of pattern that takes a lifetime to

observe, may be more, for there is a permanent foggy film on the

surface of our inner eye that blurs vision and prevents us from

seeing where we are going. Therefore one must trust intuition

blindly, which is somewhat a challenge. Especially when putting

logic and reasoning onto the back seat. As I have mentioned, both

Benjamin and Gilberto have milky glaze over their eyes. Is thatan attribute of illness present, an old age, or is it that the

information carried by visible frequency of light has become

secondary to what one perceives with ayahuaska vision? I have

been here only a week, yet I feel I know these people a great

deal. May be because they come as they are. Tricks aside, genuine

human beings, profoundly simple in their ways. all gang-ho and

now-or-never, sliding barefooted through the switch-blade jungle

grass, bent double under the weight of produce, swimming amongst

piranhas like any other fish, dying in droves from foreign

diseases, stabbings and stunt driving but never of heart failure,

being born again tenfold, smoking tobacco from hand-made pipes

and curing cancer with tobacco smoke in the same breath, singing

in high elfish voices notes of such joy that would make dead

dance... while twisting colourful artesano threads and spinning

tales of deceit by gringos with a curved down smile. There is no

Indian blood in me, but I am not a gringo either; half-baked

potato, at your service.

It's 4.30 am, no sleep for two days. Yet I am fully awake - and

fresh like a bun straight out of the oven. Last night was the

first ceremony at the house of Benjamin; the crowd has a new

flavour to that of Gilberto's. There was Ishmael, Benjamin's son

in law, who lives across the road with his wife Melina,

Benjamin's daughter. They have three kids, I believe. Then there

was Oscar, official medic by day, whose main duty is listening to

radio and keeping informed of incoming river boats. He said he

saw me in his vision the night before, but due to my abortive

knowledge of Spanish I failed to find out in what context he saw

me, exactly. then, a slightly chubby fellow named Carlos was

seated next to me, a son of police chief of Pucallpa (a jungle

city of 250,000 people), towards whom I was much disposed as he

was a helpful and considerate companion. He spoke of Cusco's

magnetism upon finding out of my travels around Sacred Valley,

its underground labyrinths to the north and a lost city they were

once, as well as a vision of Incas that his friend had while

meditating there. immediately I remembered what legend of Jasper

says about Incas: they are still there... then there wereArnaldo, Benjamin older brother and Gilberto, his right hand in

the matter of drinking, as well as Antonia, one out of Benjamin's

three wives that seems to travel everywhere with him. She sings

beautifully with a high childlike voice and burps gruesomely

afterwards, as if she had a swamp toad stuck deep in her throat.

I'm buying her embroidered stuff tomorrow. Bags, blankies,

whatever. That's all whom I know by name; there are also a couple

of Benjamin's disciples I never learnt names of. A stellar line

up, all in all, that really delivered me to my home planet in the

end, a place I feel I truly belong to. Half a glass of ayahuaska

amarillo, sweet as a sugar syrup, also helped to transport us

where the gravity has no effect upon movements and one is free to

come and go as they please between the worlds, surrounded by

companions who cherish this liberty to the highest degree.



Transported magically into sixteenth century in the grand silent

hall of the Russian Museum, I feel the warm texture of soft

canvas, life-size subjects framed by rich deep shadows, here are

Shipibo Indians all around, lying, smoking, sleeping, talking,

nodding. suave image painted by the yellow light of the candle,

trembling shadow beneath the flame floating across the surface of

the wooden floor split with a gaping crack here and there to spitinto. speckled with brown from inside plastic bottles of

ayahuaska in the middle, to the right of Benjamin who is sitting

cross-legged, a different kind of Buddha, more human, more flawed

in features, more susceptible to being challenged by a painter.

or a mosquito that infiltrated our mosquito-proof refuge. I know

where it came from... I was ambushed by a flying squad of those

in Benjamin's open-air, hole-in-the-ground loo just before.

plenty of breeding moisture there. if I was an alien queen, I'd

surely lay my eggs there too. it is the spider web weavings of

mosquito net that induce a cocoons feel of being enclosed, as if

we are incubating on this floating island of imagination in the

vast, unexplored cosmos outside. being born of bellies sticking

out to the sound of breathing and exhausting train whistles,

swaying with the movement, pending in the moment, without

hesitation. must leave the anchorage of mind, go beyond words!

the only message that I managed to retain in my brain having left

its confines. mind is a machine. we are batteries, as Morpheus

puts it laconically. vibrating with energy, all made of swiftly

moving atoms which create an appearance of solidity so secure

that it weighs down the scales of logic on which our society is

based. Logic that enables communications on this primitive, in

cosmic view, standard. I believe that as far as flesh is

concerned, it is but a transformative tool in converting,

refining the crude energy into its pure, light form enabling

further travels and adventures for all pirates, flying all sortsof flags, argh! what is singing if not the air accumulated in

voluminous space such as a gyrating belly, for instance, of a

shaman, that is expelled through a complex tubular passage

shaping its sonic content and volume, as well as its pitch. the

vocal aspect of singing put aside, it is a transformed, refined

and fine-tuned energy oscillating within a great range, expansion

of which is our own responsibility. immaterial, ephemeral essence

is the future of what now seems a crude, solid reality of

tangible form that possesses curves to follow, distance to

measure, external texture to be described to the attentive

listener in minute detail, felt under tentative finger, tasted,

licked, swallowed, sold as a corner store for less than a buck,taught at schools and smashed to pieces in universities - a

higher education!- and further abused, its corpse left out in the

sun such a long time that it mummified into a genuine relic. a

final drop is that the great advantages of form are gossiped

about at international conventions of renown scientific persona

whose revered opinion is widely available in thick volumes

available in public libraries, condensed bursts of friendly fire

from the press and continuous carpet-bombing from above for one

and all over broadcasting media, whose sole existence is

justified by the loss of our intrinsic ability to communicate on

higher frequencies. call it telepathy, I don't care. I believe in

pirates, Jedi knights and all sorts of magic as of late, having

had a epiphany which fixed all broken links in my brain for aflashing moment, lasting just long enough to gift me a residual



glow in the dark recesses of memory to bring out the goods to the

surface for immediate consumption- good things perish easily in

the eyes of scrutiny. a more gentle approach is necessary, I

believe. good things need love and tenderness that is a domain of

a child, who believes in magic and can abandon his form freely in

order to partake of all essences, experience all states...

crawling, grabbing, wide open eyes staring inquisitively,undivided attention - I could learn that all over again.

Breathing. No one ever asks, how does one breathe, exactly?

Through the nose, through the mouth, forcefully gulping air of

letting it to be drawn in softly... or stop altogether for a

temporary repose to scratch a parasite nesting just below the

skin, have a frightful panic attack about shoes left in the rain,

vacant baggage, pre-booked tickets, unsent postcards and in the

background there's all this arranging activity going on to manage

bodily functions that continue misfiring and malfunctioning

resulting in stoppages, intestinal traffic jams and stagnant

acidic pools bubbling with rich sulphuric gasses in the presenceof which one doesn't want to breathe anyway. My body has managed

breathing all my life, why ask how to breathe now? A dumb

question, seemingly. Yet I know I am smart, and there's always a

new discovery in finding the answer. In this case, it occurred to

me that I have been exposed to prolonged periods of schooling,

fearing and anticipating retributions as well as acts of random

violence, be it physical or emotional, in the artificial

environment removed from the steady pulse of mother earth and her

soft, homely tunes and lullabies. My mum only knows one lullaby,

learnt by heart from mine and my brother's eternal requests to

watch a ten-minute television program for kids that occasionally

played cartoons featuring cigarette-smoking reckless wolf

punished and laughed at by a smartly dressed bunny with a

collared shirt, big cute eyes and prominent front teeth

maintained at razor-sharp point to facilitate grating carrots, no

doubt, teeth that drum up a rapid staccato at times of distress

and murder which inevitably fails to take place, as the show must

go on, resulting in shameful demise of the hare's best enemy and

his best buddy - wolf. Tom and Jerry in Siberia sort of thing.

Welcome into my head, a clogged-up attic of an accountant that

never throws away his paperwork. So many unpaid bills, receipts,

expired offers, carefully drawn plans and arrangements for any

number of possible futures now rendered obsolete, all wrapped in

a tangled mess of spider webs and sprinkled with breadcrumbs ontop to attract flocks of incoming messenger pigeons that fly in

for a feed, shit all over the place and leave in panic when I

come shooting my cork gun, swearing to clean the place out for

good. Those who know better don't bother moving from the spot,

the regular customers. I swear, it is time to take a gaping yawn

and let them all go. Let everything go down the street on its

merry way: yelping dogs, clucking chickens, small kids drilling

your back with their unblinking stare in the wake of your

passage, apprehending out-of-place phenomenon of a stranger,

bigger kids that miraculously learnt your name in ten days that

you've been here, folks cruising around with machetes dangling in

their hands, mirrors of eyes reflecting back at you what you are

made of, beaming midday sun baking clay banks of the great river

Amazon till the banks crack into fissures of unknown depth. brown



tepid water strewn with shreds of pallid-yellow foam skimming

over its surface, a dolphin in a middle of piranhas suspended in

their flight just long enough to show off a pink rose stamped on

the sparkling armour of theirs... in one giant yawn take it all

in, and halleluiah! - there's a booming voice of a priest

delivering his flock of the devout through PA system bought

exclusively to spread the word of God. Everyone is welcome to mudcakes and boxed-in ears, peppermint lies and enticing promises

dangling like a shiny lure just out of reach of the one who

desires.

To walk past uncaught, unaffected by delirious smells of food

being cooked on the grill that make your mouth water, ignoring

wound up whining baby alarms. Ride a bumpy beat of a Peruvian

radio now running on a car battery thoughtfully charged during

last night when generators came on. Glide through scenes rich

with impulse and momentum as if you were a well-greased ball

bearing doing one more turn around the axle of the world.

Think not of unfinished sentence, standing at the ruins of once

so elaborately erected monument to the mind and accept it as a

tool and a friend. Annoying and futile as it may be, it's the

only buddy who will never refuse a yarn, any time, any place. By

God, ask questions. Spell yourself out, if that's what you have

to do. One syllable at a time, know thyself. I distinctly

remember having a splitting headache as I strived to leave the

confines of my brain during the closing session with Benjamin at

the end of my dieta. In India when a man dies and is placed on a

funeral pyre they crack the skull open with a hammer right at the

top to facilitate a passage of spirit. Things you think about at

night during ceremony while struggling to sit up, fighting

sickness, shrinking into a tight knot until you know you ain't

getting anywhere and you may as well lie down and rest. Stop

trying. Let go.

There is another way, which is to breathe, relax and wait. So I

start feeling this pull as if my head has been magnetized and

allow myself fall into a narrowing gravitational hole that seem

to compress my being into a condensed supermatter without a

thought, a voice or a reason, a singularity of awareness in which

this weird process is happening and I am nowhere and everywhere

at the same time. I cannot shrink any further than this: this is

it, ground zero. A critical point of giving up, having busted

myself trying.

People like me, we need a good thrashing. I dare say it must be a

universal law that requires one to screw all bolts nice and

tight, squeeze all stale air out of lungs in order to taste fresh

new wind that fills the sails and makes your vessel free to roam

the ocean. I am free, at last. Expansion became possible only

after total contraction, and hence forth happed by itself without

any effort on the part of the doer; preliminary journey was

admittedly arduous, yet ultimately rewarding... Deeper you go

into yourself, more golden glow surrounds your being. Make me

feel like a million dollars, maestro, I will pay you back.



[back to the city]

'Es mi Vida', as I lie in a hammock, speaker's blaring right

above my head, I don't understand most of the words yet the vibes

penetrate through sheer volume, air is rich with vibrations and

my soul resonates with a trembling note released like a

fluttering bird from its musical cage of accordion to the old

fashion motif of tango. It makes one beautifully sad without

reason. perhaps it is the clarity of the instrument, or the rowsof hammocks strung up all around, its occupants swinging lightly

to the hum of the engine that keeps its monotonous beat steady,

assuring of the due arrival to the port of the destination, even

babies are silently content, lulled by invisible peaceful

presence of something old, caring and darn familiar, yet I'll be

damned to put a finger on it and declare, "this is it!".

Fleeting, undulating feeling of warmth at the pit of my stomach -

happiness! Give me a Nobel Prize now, 'cause I'm coming home. For

the first time in my life I actually know where home is. I am a

good will messenger, delivering goods to your doorstep: knock-

knock, who is there? Who could it be, still the same but

different, slightly more crazed than ever before, raving with his

mouth closed through the portal of eyes, travelling faster than

thought - I am already there! Catch me before I fade out, before



I shrink into the familiar den between my ears, dissolve into a

stranger in a crowd on a busy street entering in wake of other

customers a discount sale of refurbished revelations rearranged,

touched-up and otherwise made look palatable and fresh. In

essence, I am a pusher of beautiful junk that will do you a

jingle and a dance for a coin's worth of laughter - if you can

afford it. I ask not, I am merely suggesting approach lessarduous than taking seriously my merchandize. Let me sell you a

round-bellied shaman hanging half-way out his hammock, snoring

heavily in spite of a sonic storm raised by radio, kids and a

hefty motor propelling up-stream our three-storey tug boat. Radio

is playing a Spanish version of a House of Rising Sun now. A guy

next to me just bought a monkey on a string. Tomorrow I shall be

claiming a fraudulent sum of money at the comisaria de policia

and buying tobacco at the market most of which will be

confiscated upon arrival back home. There will be a police

officer wanting to know what I do for living and how long I've

been away. I will say I am a farmer. What does my farm produce?

Goat manure, mostly. Three goats, two bantam chickens and one

cat, but I don't mention the exact numbers. Who's looking after

the 'stock'? My girlfriend. Why didn't she come with you

travelling? What sort of relationship are you in to go off to a

foreign country for three months by yourself? Welcome back to

Naziland. A liberal kind, I say. A kind that doesn't require one

to stick your tongue down anyone else's throat to show your deep

concern. I will clutch to my story, my cacao syrup and my

medicine. This bumpy ride I am on shook loose all nuts and bolts,

the brain machine is puffing along a rusty railroad track driven

by sheer momentum of habit, from mechanical point of view its

functioning is highly dubious, if not impossible. Every ayahuaska

ceremony could potentially be a life-altering event, even if one

doesn't see any visions there is a feel of the path one istreading and a sense of collapsed time in which the past, the

present and the future are all moulded into one amorphous glob of

apprehension and anticipation that resides in your chest like a

crab jammed in a crack between wet rocks, waiting for the tide to

come and set him free again. I don't know any of these brown-red

half-Spanish, half-Indian people yet here I am, lying in my

hammock, a bag of money safely clutched between my feet, feeling

very much a part of the scene although I don't understand most of

the words coming out of the speaker above my head, vibrations

penetrate through pores in my skin, soak and saturate me with

trembling notes that condense somewhere inside and moisten my

eyes cause I am feeling it, I am coming home. I'm singing, it isme singing on the radio words I do not understand, and hammocks

swing to my tune. All is in perfect harmony somehow, there is

nothing to be changed or to be done, and people will go about

their day exactly the same way as before, regardless of whether

you are there or not. I am happy there is nothing I can do. Let

them drink, brawl, laugh, die, peel bananas from the wrong end.

Let them be born with a scream on the tips of their lips, let

them grow and fill the space between their ears with words,

dreams, metaphors. Let them drink ayahuaska and go down on their

knees, spewing their guts out. Let them come crawling and begging

and give them nothing, so they stand up and realize they had it

all along. They had a perfect chance, a perfect opportunity, a

perfect world. They had rivers of sparkling clarity, mountainstopped with silence and mud pools of bubbling laughter. They had



everything - everything. And most of all, they had each other.

Just one person is one more world to discover. So worth the

trouble of the journey. And here I am - to deliver Goods. A

messenger, no more.

Knock-knock! Who is there?... Nobody. Thought I leave you a note.

I am going back to the matrix. When you see me I'll be wearing a

straightjacket and there will be a zipper on my lips.

[Pucallpa to Lima]

At the bus terminal an old man wants me to buy his bottled water.

No, gracias. He lingers on a moment to make sure there is not a

sole in me for him before approaching other arrivals with the

same unintelligible proposition and mad insane glint in his eyes.

There must be some remnant of a hunter's instinct that no

invasion of tourists could ever smooth over. Now and again he'd

swap bottles from a girl with a bucket of water nearby where she

kept replacements.

I watch a slightly psychopathic-looking vendor of haphazard

selection made up of candy, chewing gum and cigarettes, mostly,

carefully arrange a selection of one-off shampoo sachets, vacuum-

sealed razor blades, chewing gum and colours strips of various

pills between the fingers of one hand. He'd tentatively approach

his would-be customer, presenting in best light his selection ofmerchandise, get a quick 'no' for his efforts if he is lucky to



be paid attention to in the first place, most often getting

nothing at all, and being simply ignored turn absent-mindedly

away, forgetting where he is for a moment, for what purpose? In

this dusty God-forgotten centre of commotion size of a small

parking lot, an island of activity in the deserted landscape of

brick walls, shut garage doors and dust, interrupted by a small

tide of transit passengers waxing and waning to the rhythm ofconnecting busses, in the terminal exchange of final goodbyes.

What are you doing here, peddling your time away, while everyone

else is leaving? Old man has by now forgotten I don't want any of

his bottled water, or perhaps he just want to talk but in any

case he keeps rattling his coca-cola in my face. I counter-offer

him a snack of chancha, fried maize, of which he takes a handful

and shuffles off to the side to resume his routine. Shipibo women

keep dangling their beaded necklaces in my direction, hoping I'd

pay them a look - wrong thing to do, unless one is prepared to

hear stories of sick relatives dying in droves on hospital

doorsteps without the medicine. There's a sick child up the

sleeve somewhere in need of urgent operation, you can bet on it.

I look at my feet, I check out padlocked display of frozen

sweets, ask again when the bus is leaving - one can never be sure

- anything to gobble up an hour and a half of waiting.

The old man is finally rewarded with a coin from a freshly

arrived passenger and hustles away to get a new bottle; Shipibo

woman licks a stick of chocolate ice-cream; psychopathic vendor

of pills gets nothing. I'm in the bus, pulling plastic wrapper

off my seat. They keep them on as long as they can, in a manner

of a careful child tucking a toy back into the box it came from

for safekeeping. A woman sitting next to me by now has raised her

loud concerns about me destroying the bus. Attendant comes and

helps me to adjust the footrest, one of the few that still retain

a handle for adjustment. My neighbour ain't so lucky, she turns

away to look into the window, I can tell she is bitter. I finish

pulling plastic off and take my shoes off, the street outside is

gliding past - we are finally on the way. I make friends with my

neighbour on the left and almost instantly fall into disgrace

with my neighbour at the back who is disturbed by my humming as I

try to learn some songs. Electronic thermometer on the wall gives

reading of 33 degrees, in spite of air-conditioning. I am out of

water. There's a road block up ahead, and a certain chance to

procure refreshments. I wonder if roadworks and frozen sweets

vendors are in a symbiotic relationship with each other. I

stumble out of the bus to buy chilled apple water that comes in asealed plastic bag of pallid yellow. I tear off a corner and

squeeze the contents through a small opening into my mouth. Half-

way through the bag explodes into my face and drenches me with

sweet apple water that makes my shirt stick. I am sure the whole

bus is watching but I only have enough air in my lungs for a

modest "damn it!..."



I am stuck in Buenos Aires for a whole day. I could leave the

airport but it's gonna cost me getting back in. There's no rest

in the rest lounge, just rows of vacant seat skeletons, stripped

of any comfort they may have offered otherwise. I'm scouting one

cafe joint after another for free cups of hot water to soak my

oatmeal in. I could get a cheap meal for twenty American bucks,

but I don't. Because an Indian woman spends a week on a piece of

embroidery she will sell for half of that price. It is a three

day's wages for a man who's lucky enough to get work in Amazon. I

meander and watch people get up from their tables leaving their

plates half eaten, even untouched. There's nothing else to do but

drink coffee, shop or watch others shopping. There is no day and

no night; one looses sense of reality sooner or later and buys

into the notion that one could half this bottle of Scotch whisky

for a very special price or that box of Swiss chocolates in the

shape of seashells since it's tax-free and labelled with a

discount stamp. One cannot ignore it, there's a man-made mountain

of it blocking the passage way, sparkling in glorious gold

ribbons. Why can't I forget how to count and open my pocket wide,

just this once? Any guru will tell you just that - your money isyour prison. There I am, living and breathing money, clutching to

my wallet in my sleep, my best pal, my power, my security. I will

not let go a cent of it if I can help it. Unless, of course,

there is a cause more noble than stuffing oneself at the airport

buffet. Hopeless, I am. There's nothing of any significance to be

bought in the world. Great things are given as gifts of free

will. By the way, I am selling Shipibo embroidery, if you want

some. May be I am stuck here for a reason. To learn patience and

the art of doing nothing. I'm going to lie down on the floor

right here and practice doing nothing. If I am lucky, I will go

to sleep.

I woke up late and would have surely missed my flight if it

wasn't delayed. A final sweep over freshly vacant tables rewarded



me with two plates of potato balls and a scoop of creamy

mushrooms, the first mushrooms I ate in long while. I was going

home, at last.

amazon scribed

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