When we walk under the Gamarra tram station, on Aviacion, Auntie M points to two large crocodile heads splayed on a plastic tote along with a gargantuan boa constrictor carcass. A tall, sturdy man in a colorful chullo sidles up to Merlina with a big jar of snake fat, claiming it’s a cure for arthritis. Yep. We’ve arrived.
We venture down the maze of everything dead, stuffed, and weird. It’s a street of crocodiles, snakes, frogs, quail eggs, strangely-scented fruits, dried llama fetuses, slimy mixtures, incense, amulets, and monkey skulls.
To the right, one stand overflows with multi-hued beakers filled with potions, each with labels listing what a witch in Peru might need to concoct an elixir for those suffering from asthma, impotence, anemia, parasitic growths, and possibly even Mad Cow Hairy Black Tongue.
To the left, it’s a cram-packed macabre menagerie, from the whimsically quaint to the quite odd to entire displays that look like the Halloween party decor underneath a serial killer’s trap door basement.
Auntie M and I join Merlina, who’s busy staring at a multi-colored candle shrine.
Merlina presents a dried llama fetus in a glass jar filled with liquid gunk. “This is for you.”
“Uh, no thanks.”
A playful grin. “Oh! And if you see a guy with a little monkey in a box, look away.”
What? Why?
A tall salesgirl with dark pigment spots on her face and a receding chin approaches us with a crooked squint and gesticulates at the candles like she’s casting a spell.
The salesgirl demonstrates every eccentric candle at Merlina’s beck and whim while I walk up to Auntie M, who sees my approach and puts down her phone. “So, what es you going to do, Dougito?”
“The truth?”
We nonchalantly drift about like corks in an ocean of relics that look like something out of a psychopathic clown’s primordial wet dream.
“Sí. Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know. . .” Wow! Whatever the fuck we just passed will NEVER be unseen. Ugggh. “No, you know what? Fuck it. You wanna know?”
Auntie takes one step back. “Uh, I guess so.”
“Fine, I’m gonna piss away the rest of my cash on a fucking trebuchet, fucking lighter fluid, five fucking metric shit tons of alcohol, and a kick-ass, righteous sound system. Then, after a final flight check, I’m gonna blast music thundering ’til it shreds my eardrums, take an absolutely heroic dose of LSD, pull my nutsack over my head with both hands for good luck, and launch myself into a fuck-this-stinking-flesh-and-searing-lungs-end-of-my-existence.
Then, with flames burning the skin off my face, I’ll toast myself with a big fucking farewell jägerbomb as my consciousness hurtles my fucked-up soul towards oblivion at nature-raping speeds, pointing at a black hole somewhere in the vicinity of Bulgaria. God willing.”
She stops. I think that got her attention, but she’s stuck for something to say.
My big, warm, happy Bogart smile. “How about you? What would you like to do for fun?”
“Feeling better?”
I look around, self-evaluating, then bob my head up and down. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Es you. . . eh-serious?”
“Let’s just say it’s something I’ve been thinking about from time to time.”
“Why Bulgaria?”
I pause, searching for a thought. “Why not?”
“Dougito, that es no option.”
“Oh, Bulgaria is always an option. It’s just not a particularly fun one for most people to think about.”
“You just gotta has faith.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re going to be a big-time voice actress, remember?”
She places her hand on my shoulder, carefully. “I knows my odds. . . I just accepts them.”
“Well, then we’re in the same boat. A special friend of mine once said Time has a brilliant way of dealing with all our best-laid plans. . . it just doesn’t give a fuck.
“Eh-special friend?”
“Gus.”
“Oh, he’s eh-special, now.”
I look into her eyes, coldly. “Yes.”
She winces, then smiles. “Then gives me your credit card.”
“My credit card?”
She leans in, her stare overpowering mine. “I wants to help you.”
“Magdita. Magdita! Eso.” We both gawk as the salesgirl hands Merlina a candle molded into a pornographic wax sculpture. Merlina grabs it with gusto, eyebrows raised.
“Chevere.” Auntie M nods. Merlina purchases the erotic waxwork, mentioning something to Auntie M about her husband.
I delicately tap Auntie M’s shoulder. “What about that thing?”
“Aye.” She barks in Spanish over at Merlina, who speaks with the salesgirl.
The girl nods, her dark eyes shooting zigzag looks, before pointing directions further down the way.
We wander from shop sign to shop sign until we finally arrive at the moment of truth and time-space: a small booth with a tank full of live frogs on the counter.
Auntie M summons the young man with a black T-shirt and closely cropped hair behind the counter. As soon as she points at me he grins. With nimble fingers, a specimen is plucked from the tank.
Like a lithe automaton, he rips apart the writhing frog in front of us, throwing body bits into a boiling pot. As Auntie M and Merlina murmur behind me, he adds ingredients from a nearby row of plastic buckets.
I stare with morbid curiosity. Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s leg, and owlet’s wing.
Then, he takes the potion and throws it in a blender.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ! The ladies laugh nervously while watching my face pucker. I’m trapped, my stomach sinks watching the ground-up body parts spinning at dazzling speed. Frog Smoothie. Gamarra’s answer to the Bass-o-Matic.
Finished. He pours the slurry into an espresso-sized coffee cup and reaches over the fish tank without a hint of emotion. “Eso.”
I cradle the cup, still warm with gizzards. All eyes stare at the orange-ish, filmy contents. The point of no return is at hand.
I wanna flee this crime scene, like a disgusted blackjack player going bust after he’s bet his wife’s wedding ring, but the guts of no return are literally at hand. No matter what, poor Kermit doesn’t die in vain. Waste not, want not.
One last look around at the small mob of gawkers.
How do I always manage to set myself up, again and again?
Shooing flies, I squint, releasing one last sigh. Then, with a deep breath and a bit of fear, I dump the contents down my gullet. Voices squeal.
Auntie M takes a pic. “How does it tastes?”
“It’s warm. Pretty good, though.” Pretty good is quite the stretch. “Wanna try some?”
Reaching out, I extend the cup towards her, but she backs away and raises her hands like a judo player. “Aye. No gracias. That es desgusting.”
A contained burp dredges up a gnarly aftertaste. Yes, desgusting it is.
My mom once gave me a jar that was a conconction of pigfat and fiddleheads so I can relate. Needless to say, I had some issues with it at airport security: https://www.mostlymyth.com/p/advice-to-passengers
Mmm frog smoothie ala Lima. Thanks for Sharing EG!