Patterns of Tension
Paper Napkin Gifts
Like the butterfly surfing on air inches above the boat, my hand glides freely atop the wave crests of the wide-bellied Amazon. The community at Mishana fades into the receeding jungle as we turn around the bend and spot Nina Rumi beckoning us with rustic charm. On a simple wooden bench we wait, reflecting on what happened over the last two weeks and pulling ourselves back into a world outside the paradaisical jungle retreat; a world where motocarro’s, not barefeet, provide the transporation.
To my left a bright white air-conditioned rectangle crawls up the straightline road and stops. Doors open and we walk on. With our bags at the front, we sprawl out on spacious seats and feel the bus shake like tension between two worlds as it wobbles down long pot-holed roads. Bievenidos a Iquitos. We’re back.
The no sugar/no salt/no hot spices/no caffeine diet hangs up and a tasty boulevard plate calls. It’s so loud that a band of three wandering kids hear. The caller, a steaming plate of white rice, is quickly wrapped up in a paper napkin by E.B. and given away.
Although not restricted to the two-thirds world solely, situations like this certainly happen more frequently here. The endless and tranquil jungle is no more, now the patterned cement of Iquitos stretches out for miles. Children sell ciggarettes and popcorn, old ex-pats drink, emaciated dogs scamper by, and hungry cats prowl. The last one, a striped tabby, steers by way of its nose toward my fish sandwich. She stares for a moment with wide siamese-eyes before crying out, in a high-pitched tone, “meow…meow…meow”
“Just look away, look away” I say to myself.
But it keeps on coming... “meow…meow…meow”
“Dammit…alright alright, calm down calm down”.
I peel off small bits of fish and watch her fast, sharp teeth inhale. Iquitos’ jarring sounds -- the continuous honking horn and blarring radio -- are too much to deal with, so I retreat to a sleepy hotel.
Dream Interlude
While in the arms of sleep adrift in a dream world, the decor of a hotel lobby fades in. A parade of vulturous vendors swarm in from all sides and repeat “Hi-yah my friend, I’ve got your stuff…yeah yeah, ayahuasca…good energy” while shoving their products in everyone’s face. With signature Hunter Thompsonesque style I shake my fist and yell “these sons of bitches!” before grabbing as many as I can and pushing them outside. Those around me want to hug and thank me, but I decline. I don’t want to be some type of hero, I just want the pesky vendors to leave!
The Day After and So On
Outside the contours of that altered reality, I find myself in a “real” hotel lobby, about to head out for some food. Before my toes hit the pavement, my ears perk up and hear the carefully marketed phrase “hi-yah my friend, I got your stuff”. The strangeness of the wording always throws me off at first — “have I been robbed already?”
These savvy vendors have mastered the techniques outlined by the father of public relations, Edward Bernays, back in the 1920s. Namely, instill the idea that unmet emotional needs (typically unconscious aggressive and sexual energies) can be satiated by material objects. All worries can now disappear because this necklace is “yeah yeah, good energy.” Tempting, but…I decide to walk away.
Not to say I’m against acquiring material objects or anything, that would be hypocritical considering I’m inside an artisans market wearing a recently purchased vest and ogling the beaded-bracelets and ayahuasca vine necklaces. The interior is adorned with vibrant oil paintings and intricate woven clothes. Needless to say, I walk out with more than I came in with.
The rest of the day until evening is spent walking along damp roads, zig-zaging between the sights of the Belen Market, and saying goodbye to some amazing people. Around dusk I find myself at the Karma Cafe smoking mapacho’s, talking, and making plans with M., a Matses curandero, to do a nunu (tobacco-snuff) ceremony early the next morning. The night ends beneath the roof of a boulevard bar singing english karaoke tunes.
The sun ascends to its prominent central spot as our packed bus travels down a long stretch of black pavement and drops us off at kilometer 23. We continue our journey on foot down a long and glistening dirt road.
Some introductions seem appropriate: J. is a 29 year old American who has been down here nearly two years learning about the healing potentials of ayahuasca and M. is a 40 year old curandero from the Matses tribe, also known as the “Cat People” because of the whiskers they attach to their faces. M.’s very knowledgable about the local flora and fauna and has cured people of supposedly “fatal” cancers that university-trained doctors gave up on. He slices a machete into a large tree and a white-sappy liquid pours out. “This cures diarrhea” he says. Pulling apart the stem of a small green bush reveals iodine. “This is good for your chiggers” he says, and splotches it over those annoying little red dots that have colonized my leg. Eventually we come upon a small jungle hut tucked into the enveloping jungle and greet the 75 year old woman who lives there alone. I watch her mash yucca roots as M. starts preparing the ceremony…
A Ceremony with Tobacco
While the tobacco dries in the sun, M. prepares a blood-purifying mixture consisting of casllillo vine water, paujil huasca & misho chaqui (leaves from a prickly-spiny bush), betilla, cordonsillo, and itiningo blanco; he says I will “have no more sickness” after drinking this. He rolls over the tobacco with a glass bottle to soften it, then sifts it through a cheese-cloth into an ultra-fine powder. Down in the river I wash my body and sit on a wooden plank. M. hands me the blood-purifying mixture and rhythmically shakes a leaf-rattle (renaquilla, katauwilla, cumala rojo, aire sacha, matelo sanango, and catagua) as I swallow it. He scoops up the tobacco with one end of a hollow tube and places the other end in my nostril, forcefully blowing it in.
My eyes begin to water. Sense perceptions become heightened to such a degree that I tune into the unique form of each unfolding ripple in the stream. Subtle shades of green jungle leaves gleam in the daylight sun and my body tingles all over. M. repeats the procedure three or four times, pouring water over my head and rattling in between. I spit up saliva and streamline this gooey green-brown gunk out my nose. I’ve never experienced tobacco in this way. Along with the ceremony comes dietary restrictions meant to keep my bodymind healthy: no red meat, beef, duck, or milk, basically eat a vegetarian diet with occasional fish and chicken. After the ceremony, I feel very calm, “muy tranquilo” as M. keeps saying. A salad of chonta (a sort of palm bark) and lemon is prepared before walking out of the jungle and into another humorously overcrowded bus to head back to the city.
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