Of Pisco and Peru: Iquitos

Pt. 6

Back at the hotel, Auntie M tucks herself into her bed, rubs her stomach, and groans, “Oye, mi barriga.” Apparently, a full tummy plus humidity equals napitos time. She’s not built for jungle living the way I’m not built for breathing above 10,000 feet. Everybody has their own climate. After a few tosses and turns, she sinks into slumber.

Perfect timing.

I tiptoe over to the nightstand and unzip my backpack. As quietly as possible, I open the drawer and replace my old, blue notebook with a bright yellow one.

Passing by Auntie M, who is perfectly at peace like a drooling porcelain doll, a weird thought passes through my half-a-mind. “Would she read . . ? Nah.”

Even after a fresh change of clothes, I’m drenched in sweat just ten paces from the hotel. The humidity commingled with the tuk tuk fumes amidst chifa restaurants makes Iquitos feel like a little Orient on the Amazon.

Photo by Deb Dowd on Unsplash

I’ve been mulling over something for a while, now. In secret. My mind gorging like a fattened tick at the idea of doing something out of character.

Literature and lore are filled with stories of gringos getting swallowed up by a vast, impersonal jungle, ‘Heart of Darkness’ style.

A quick swat at something buzzing about my neck, but too late. It’s feasted on me, sucking my vitality. My thoughts shrink to the length of a mid-day shadow.

Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann on Unsplash

From the first step off the plane to Iquitos, I’d felt it. After wasting my years clocking into a middle-aged comfort womb as a flunky working for other flunkies, I’ve come to the conclusion that any sort of job loyalty was a sham. Now, I feel as if I’ve just slipped the noose. And once that thought latches on like a parasitic worm gnawing, well. . .

Now I’m dead set on taking the next Ayahuasca jungle tour.

Why not? After all, if you’re out of prescription medications, why not medicate yourself? Bend the mind. Feed the soul. That sort of thing. Maybe chat up some Clockwork Elves for company? A biochemical squeegee to wipe society’s contradictions away. After all, DMT, the magical component in Ayahuasca, is pumped out by the pineal gland as we die. The body’s way of saying, “Well, that’s all, folks. Hope you enjoyed the ride.”

Photo by BP Miller on Unsplash

And if I wind up in a drug-induced interdimensional ‘Aguirre, The Wrath of God’s reality, floating half-dead on a listless river fighting invisible enemies and mechanical clowns, well then, so be it.