Documente Academic
Documente Profesional
Documente Cultură
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
…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 are
the 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.
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 of
obligation, 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 can
get. 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 experience
and to satisfy youre need.then join me when I go to equitos somewhere in july.and dieta with me and my
teacher for a month.if you cant pay him 300 nz dollars a week at least,dont bother.
like a baby, gently coax process into itself, guide my toes with
a soft cloth, wipe the dirt off without hurting them. Step
gently, 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.
Mareado, seasick.
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.
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 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 you
shoulders 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 and
maestro 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.
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 will
put 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 in
droplets 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 authority
about 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]
[Paoyhan]
House of poo
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.
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 to
take 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 does
it 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 they
can. 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'
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 were
Arnaldo, 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 spit
into. 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 sorts
of 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 a
flashing 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.
[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.