Maiz Y Coca-Cola: Adventures, Scrapes, and Shamanism in the Amazon and Andes

By Diane Terezakis

Whether sharing knowledge attained through a sacred plant ritual, the romance she finds with a leader of the Huaorani, or the tarantulas that frighten her while she bathes, Diane Terezakis authentically shares her experiences as if unashamedly talking to a best friend. Dianes quest for the elusive, yet eclectic state of enlightenment is an inner and outer journey, where she seeks to acquire shamanic wisdom as well as to learn about herself, and although she has a game plan in mind, Diane follows the path that the Universe governs.

Part One: Civilization, chronicles the introductory voyage that takes the author through the Ecuadorian Amazon and Andes, meeting shamans she wants to return and study with, the indigenous and the gringos she befriends along the way, the scrapes she gets into, and the reflections on significant episodes in her life. In Part Two: Ecuador, Colombia, and Peru, the authors mentor, a shaman in the Ecuadorian Andes, Dr. Valentin Hampejs, helps point the way toward other medicine men for her to supplement her studies with after her disappointing stay with the Secoya shaman, Don Cesario. Enlightening rituals with Dr. Hampejs, a romantic relationship with the Huaorani, Moi, and fun times with her quasi-cousins help balance her disappointment. Chauvinism, greed, and alcohol have marred many of the medicine men that the author finds. Journeying through the Andes while El Ninos ravishing of roads has made travel dangerous, Terezakis precariously makes her way into the Peruvian Andes, plagued by recurring dreams with important messages that eventually lead her back home.

Elixir qualities aside, inhabitants of the Amazon jungle and the Andes Mountains (symbolized by Maiz) are becoming perpetually Westernized (symbolized by Coca-Cola emblems throughout South America), and the terrain is sadly changing. Oil companies decimate the Amazon daily, and cultures in both vicinities are losing their hold. As if catching fleeting moments on film, Diane attempts, through her memoir, to immortalize the beauty of the jungle and the mountains while capturing comic moments, vulnerable, endearing episodes, thought-provoking tragedies, and painful disillusionment. Dianes passages weave into an unforgettable scrapbook of her travels in South America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 3, 2001
• ISBN: 9781477172841

Diane Terezakis

An avid adventurer, seeker of higher states of consciousness, athletic zealot, and college writing professor, Diane Terezakis combines all of her resources in her South American journey through the Andes Mountains and the Amazon jungle.

Book preview

MAIZ

Y

COCA-COLA

Adventures, Scrapes,

and Shamanism

in the Amazon and Andes

Diane Terezakis

Copyright © 2000 by Diane Terezakis.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

CONTENTS

PART ONE:

Civilization

Chapter One:

Tarantula Christmas

Chapter Two:

Sex and Other Deadly Sins

Chapter Three:

Napo River Run

Chapter Four:

Tobacco to Ayahuasca

Chapter Five:

Rabies Anyone? and The Face of Transgression

Chapter Six:

Twisted Tales

Chapter Seven:

San Pedro Vision

Chapter Eight:

Dreams and Metaphors

Chapter Nine:

Mediocrity:

PART TWO:

Ecuador, Colombia, and Peru

Chapter Ten:

God’s Bitch

Chapter Eleven:

Divine Will

Chapter Twelve:

Coming up For Air

Chapter Thirteen:

Maiz y Coca-Cola

Chapter Fourteen:

Preparing for Angels

Chapter Fifteen:

Jeering Jungle Jive

Chapter Sixteen:

Which Way to Oz?

Chapter Seventeen:

The Spirit of the Jaguar

Chapter Eighteen:

Papallacta to Otavalo

Chapter Nineteen:

Over the River and Through the Woods

Chapter Twenty:

Don’t Step On The Pig

Chapter Twenty-One:

Looking for Don Camisan

Chapter Twenty-Two:

Puttering in Puyo

Epilogue

Bibliography

This book is dedicated with love to my high school math teacher

and arc angel,

Lt. Col. Tenny R. Spofford,

who inspired me to write and to seek out my calling.

This book is also dedicated to the King of all Media,

Howard Stern,

who helped me to realize that the only way to tell a story is to tell it all, regardless of how vulnerable I might feel.

Part One:

Civilization

Chapter One:

Tarantula Christmas

The bus from Tumbaco, a town forty-five minutes southeast of Quito, took about seven hours to get to Tena, the gateway to the Ecuadorian Amazon. Riding through the bumpy roads of the Andes while trying to read a book had me feeling as if my eyes were in a blender. The woman next to me politely threw up in a plastic bag. She fell asleep, with her arms crossed and holding the bag inches away from me. She hadn’t tied a knot in it, and I was too sorry for her to wake her up and ask her to be careful not to drop the stuff on my lap.

As the bus rolled into Tena, a short, local, Quichua Indian, whose smile was lit by gold fillings, approached me at the depot. Deeane? He wore faded Levi’s and a white Calvin Klein T-shirt. Tu eres la senora Deeane?

Si senor. I reached out to shake his cool, arid hand. Mine was moist with perspiration. It was hot out, sticky hot, hot enough to sit in a refrigerator hot. He hoisted my pack into the back of his Toyota truck.

Tena was a colorful town, bustling with activity. Local shops advertised jungle adventures, handmade indigenous souvenirs, and a bar’s banner boasted a rock band and imported beer. A couple of young, Quichua women, with babies swaddled across their backs, carried baskets of produce and rice, while chatting softly in their native tongue. One woman walked barefoot. Her friend wore laceless, tattered Keds. This was the Napo Province, home to the Quichua, the largest Indian population of the Ecuadorian Amazon.

As we drove out of town, I saw a man drop his pants and piss in the road. His gray trousers were miles too short, and a once white T-shirt was nearly the reddish brown of the soil.

Como se llama, senor? I asked the driver, while sticking my head out the window to catch the mild breeze. The scent of roasted pork wafted from the kitchen of a small restaurant.

Humberto. Again he flashed a smile patched with gold.

Women washed clothes against the rocks of a narrow inlet in the Napo River. Humberto’s truck rocked violently over the rickety bridge. The Napo River spanned the length of the Ecuadorian Amazon and passed through the Peruvian jungle, ending close to the border of Brazil. It was a local highway for much of the population, who traveled by dugout canoe. A car was a luxury most people couldn’t afford, and roads led a person only so far in the Amazon. The rocky terrain was enough to unhinge my eyeballs.

Nice truck, I said, my head still bobbing out the window.

Gracias. Tienes coche? Humberto asked.

Carro? I asked.

Si, carro.

Si, tengo un Subaru. Este coche es mas fuerte, I said.

Muchas gracias. Humberto shook his head in agreement at owning such a fine vehicle. The roads became bumpier, and the jungle’s canopy squeezed out the sun’s intense glare.

Humberto stopped, beeped his horn in front of a large wooden and grass hut and reached behind his seat for a bag of freshly baked bread. My stomach ached with the aroma. A young girl, no more than eight, with wispy, long, black hair and bare feet, ran to the car as her father tossed her the bread.

Mi hija, he said proudly, commencing on the road.

Muy bonita, I agreed. Tu casa?

Si, he said, looking back through the rear-view mirror.

Cuantos ninos tienes?

Siete, he answered matter of factly. He couldn’t have been older than I was. Seven kids.

Cuantos anos tienes usted? I asked, trying to get a visual on how difficult his life must have been.

Trienta y seis. Bull’s eye.

Cuantos horas trabajas en una semana?

Ochenta, ochenta-cinco, mas o menos, he replied.

Thirty-six years old, seven kids, and working eighty-plus hours a week. It boggled my mind. I counted my change mentally, so I ‘d be sure to give him a decent tip.

Por favor, Humberto, conoces shamans cerca de aqui?

He raised his eyebrows and answered, You wan’ shaman?

Yes. I swatted a mosquito on my arm and rolled down the sleeves.

Deeane, Dario conoce shamans. Dario trabaja en Cabanas Alinahui. El es guia.

Guia? I asked.

How you say… guide?

Oh, okay. So, uh… veo Dario manana? My curiosity peaked.

Si. Humberto drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, to the beat of a tune only he could hear.

My brother George and his wife, Ceci, who was originally from Ecuador, visits her family in South America at least once a year. I went with them this time, but quickly bolted and headed for the Amazon after a blow out with my brother.

You’re such an asshole, I hissed, while tightening the laces of my hiking shoes.

I’m an asshole? Keep your voice down. George tried to keep his voice even, while Rodrigo and Andres watched our family spat.

I don’t want to fight, but I’m not staying here with you telling me what I can and can’t wear. Shaking my head, I compressed the sleeping bag into my pack, while tears dripped down my chin.

Toots, don’t go. It’s Christmas. Toots was a derivative of Tootsie, one of his big-brother pet names for me since I was about ten. Why don’t we go for a walk and talk? George’s in-laws left the room.

I’ve gotta go. I made a reservation over the phone with my credit card and–

Why? Why now? he interjected.

George, I don’t think wearing a tank top over a sports bra is inappropriate around here. You went ballistic, telling me how this is your family and your friends, and how if I don’t behave the way you want then I should go stay at the Hotel Quito. That really did it. He watched me brush my hair back into a ponytail.

Well, you were pissing me off. I felt like you weren’t listening to me, like you didn’t care. His voice dropped to a whisper, sounding almost gentle, the way it did when he’d forget he was a lawyer.

Clipping on the heavy pack, I was sweating in the fierce morning sun.

Forget it, I replied. I don’t want to miss the bus. Tell Nicky I’ll call him when I can.

Nicky, Nicholas, was my three-year-old nephew, godson, and best friend… even my best friend when he was still in the oven. I used to touch my sister-in-law’s belly, feel Nicholas kick, and tell him stories about our family, and about all the fun things we were going to do once he’d decide to come out of hiding. Cecibel would join in on the conversation, laughing at the bits of family smut I imparted and enjoying the planned international adventures.

Will you let me take him to Africa on a safari for his second birthday? He’ll be walking and talking great by then, I reasoned.

Oh surrr, she said, laughing, shaping her words with an Ecuadorian accent. I loved the way sounds rolled off her tongue, and I wondered if Nicholas would inherit her auditory spice.

See ya, George. I walked past him and into the living room. I thanked my hosts good-bye. Chella said a silent prayer, with only her lips moving, and made the sign of a cross over my forehead.

It took an hour and a half to drive the thirty kilometers out of Tena to get to Alinahui, a gringo resort consisting of dark, wooden cabins on stilts, joined in the center of the grounds by an outdoor dining hall and kitchen.

I unpacked my stuff on the twin beds, trying to do it quickly, so I’d have some of the solar-powered lighting left for reading after dinner. I voraciously chewed a handful of nuts, savoring the salt and looking for my canteen. A bird made the oddest chirping sound, human like, yet without any recognizable pattern. I couldn’t see any birds in the trees through the dusty screen window.

Christmas Eve and here I am in the jungle, I thought smugly. I reached for a piece of toilet paper, thinking how the last several years had been filled with one adventure after another. Out sprang a fist-sized tarantula from the inside of the toilet paper roll. I jumped off the toilet and peed on my pants, not quite finished with the task at hand. It stood on the wall, its brown, furry body with a multitude of long arms, watching me watch it. I took a shower with the cold rainwater provided, keeping one eye open on my new friend. As I dried off and put fresh clothes on, two members of his family scurried nearby to check out the new gringa in the wash room. Valium, I thought. Valium would be a nice assist to sleeping tonight. I wondered how much I had brought.

After a breakfast of coffee and fruit, I met Dario, a Quichua guide who spoke Quichua, Spanish, and English fluently. Jet black hair hung loosely around his chiseled, dark features. A real looker.

Hi, I’m Diane, but you can call me Anya. When Nicholas was just learning to talk, Aunt Diane somehow came out sounding like Anya, and I’ve used his rendition ever since.

Anya, he said, smiling, Dario. He extended his hand, and I shook it, trying not to be so obvious about taking his beauty in. We will walk today in the Botanical Gardens and then take a hike through the jungle, okay?

Sounds good to me. He led the way to a storage bin, filled with knee-high, black rubber boots, and I switched my shoes for a pair as we waited for another guest.

Merry Christmas, he said, kicking the ground with the heel of his boot.

Thanks. Merry Christmas to you, too. A small green lizard jumped across Dario’s boot and into a nearby bush. So, are there a lot of tarantulas around here?

Sure, we call them our pets. Why? You see one?

Yeah, a few kept me company in the bathroom last night. I shuddered at the memory.

They’re not dangerous, he said, looking at me quizzically.

Well, they’re not too pretty looking.

How long are you here for? he asked, glancing at me sideways.

Just a few days, but I’ll probably come back. A pair of toucans playfully chased each other through the branches of a tall palm. A tall, skinny woman, with a graying mop of blonde hair, walked toward us.

Sorry I’m late. I was out walking along the river. Not looking the least bit apologetic, she sipped her orange juice and asked, Do you mind if I go back for a cup of coffee? I’ll only be about ten minutes. She switched her boots to a different pair from the box marked thirty-six.

Yeah, sorry, but I do mind. We’re late, and I don’t have too much time here, the impatient New Yorker in me answered brusquely. A moment of surprise swept over Dario’s face, and the woman took her time changing boots.

I don’t remember her name, but I do remember she said she worked in an exotic plant nursery back in California. In the fleeting moments that I found her less annoying, I poked her brain for plant information, but she knew less than I did about the medicinal and hallucinogenic plants around us.

Dario introduced us to over a dozen hallucinogens, most of which were used by shamans in their rituals. The granddaddy of them all was Ayahuasca, which, after approximately an hour after drinking its extract, allegedly assists the shaman in seeing the source of a person’s illness and in knowing the medicinal recipe for healing the ailment.

Dario, do you know many shamans who live around here? I asked, gingerly touching the leaves of an Ayahuasca vine.

Yes, he answered, studying me. I know a few who live in this town and close to Ahuano.

Where’s that?

Maybe fifteen kilometers east on the Napo. The plant woman busied herself with note taking and sketching.

Why? Dario asked.

I’d like to meet a few of them and ask them about their practices, maybe even get to participate in a ceremony if I can. I offered Dario a sip of my water.

Thank you. He took a long slug and handed it back. You want to know more about these plants?

Yeah. After I became bored with viewing dozens of beautiful yet useless flowers, the hallucinogens held my attention.

Ayahuasca is the primary plant shamans use in their ceremonies. The spirit of the plant teaches the shaman many things. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm. Maybe we will have time to meet Jamie. He is a shaman who works here and lives down the road.

Great. When do you think you might see him? I asked.

I’ll look for him later. Maybe we can see him tonight. Dario moved over to a couple of trees with long, bell-shaped, white flowers. This is Brugmansia Insignis, also known as Guardian of the Jungle.

What’s it used for? It looked harmless enough.

When someone takes of the plant, it helps him to find something that was taken from him or lost. The plant gives him the vision of where it is. Some people even take it to see the secrets of others, Dario explained.

Have you ever tried it? I was beginning to think that hallucinogen was a misnomer for the sacred vision-producing plants around us.

Yes, he answered, looking around for listeners, but it is very strong.

What happened?

I saw the spirits of my ancestors as I walked outside of my father’s house. He cocked his head back, daring me to disbelieve him.

Did you talk to them?

I tried to, but it was hard. His posture relaxed, and he came over to the tree, touching the flower I had been studying.

How much does a person take?

About this much in a cup, he explained, measuring the width of his thumbnail, and–

You have to cook it first? I asked, cutting him off.

Yes. The plant must be boiled down to a liquid.

What if I just eat it? I asked, feeling daring.

You could try it, but I think it will be tough to chew the bark.

I wouldn’t try any of these things. They’re dangerous, Plant Woman admonished from a few feet away. She stopped her note-taking and transformed into the plant police.

I’m not asking what you’d do, I answered. Dario helped me cut a piece of a branch. I whittled off the bark and chewed the branch slowly. Bitter.

Dario smiled, amused. You really want to know about these plants.

Better hope you don’t get sick, Plant Police chimed in.

I rolled my eyes at her and whispered to Dario, How much would you say this is compared to the average dose?

Maybe half, little less.

Good, that seems like a safe amount. How long before I feel something?

Half an hour or more. He shook his head, laughing to himself and wiped his forehead with a red bandanna that had been hanging out of the back of his Levi’s. You do this much, try plants?

Nope. Only thing I ever tried before was pot, but it’s not my cup of tea.

Cup of tea?

I mean I don’t like it. I turned to Plant Woman. Do you know if any of these hallucinogenic plants grow back in the States at, like, special greenhouses?

No, she answered slowly. It’s illegal to transport them to the States. It even says so in the travel guide.

Dario narrated our journey through the medicinal plant section, giving us a brief synopsis of their healing value. Brugmansia, the plant you ate, is also used to treat toothaches and sometimes used as a last hope for people whose illnesses cannot be cured by other plants.

Plant Woman continued her note-taking.

It is said that if Brugmansia cannot cure someone, then he has no chance of survival, Dario said.

Do you believe that? I asked, starting to feel a bit drunk and tripping over my feet. He shrugged his shoulders.

You feel something? he asked, watching my near fall.

Yeah, sort of like I drank too many beers.

It is coming then.

You’d better hope you don’t need medical attention. There’s not a hospital anywhere around here. Plant Police’s voice reminded me of a dentist’s drill.

It must have been at least ninety degrees, and it was barely eleven o’clock in the morning. Dario led us to a stream. He walked in and washed his face, using the bandanna, then bent over and submerged his head.

Feels good, I said, standing in the water calf high and basking in the coolness that permeated through my legs. Plant Woman stood on the bank watching us.

These berries are natural dyes. Dario took a couple of orange berries off a shrub that was hanging over the stream, and he squeezed the pulp between his fingertips. The fruit resembled orange oil paint, with a hint of neon in its brightness. People use this for dying clothes, hammocks, woven jewelry, and to paint their bodies. Dario drew a line down my nose with the dye. It tickled.

We dropped Plant Woman off and went for an afternoon hike in the rain forest. This is primary forest, Dario explained. The grounds next to Alinahui are secondary forest.

What’s the difference, besides density? Clearly, primary forest was dense and easy to get lost in, whereas secondary forest seemed more spacious.

Primary forest is pure. Secondary forest has been cut down and either grown back a bit by itself, or rebuilt with the help of volunteers from Jatun Sacha, the biological reserve station. Dario walked through the forest deftly, as if he were floating instead of walking over thick vines, rocks, holes, and narrow, winding paths. Feeling quite the part of the clumsy gringa, I often tripped and had a hard time keeping up with him.

Dario identified latex trees, cedar, yucca, cacao, poison dart frogs, and a multitude of plants that the Quichua find useful. I couldn’t tell the difference between yucca and poison ivy.

Feeling strange, I said to Dario, I feel like I’m in this hazy state of awareness, like I get just before falling asleep.

The plant is taking hold of you. He looked at me closely and took my hand for guidance. Do you want to go back?

No, not at all. I was feeling disoriented, but wanted to stay in the jungle.

We walked a few kilometers, enjoying the solitude of the forest, and I occasionally looked behind me, feeling as though someone were there, and we had to slow down so that he could catch up. Each time I turned around, no one was there. Dario, I keep thinking that someone is behind us.

You are attracting a spirit of the forest. It is normal when you have eaten the plant.

I turned around and giggled, silently thanking my possible visitor. Turning back toward Dario, I felt as if someone lifted my feet, one step at a time, for just a couple of steps. Whoa! I said, feeling as if I were inside a dream yet awake enough to enjoy it.

The green around us became greener, and the occasional accent of a pink heliconia flower spiced the forest like a bright ribbon on a large package.

I stopped at a tree and motioned Dario over. Latex.

You are learning… and walking better. I think that the plant is helping you get used to the jungle.

He touched my nose, and some of the dye came off on his finger. People here used to make their shoes by heating the latex over a fire and then pouring it over their bare feet. When the latex cooled, they had shoes.

That’s amazing. Scratching a couple of mosquito bites I had earlier ripped the skin off of, my hand was raw and stinging. Dario took out a pocketknife and made a small lengthwise incision into a tree. Blood-like sap oozed from its wound.

Sangre de Drago helps heal cuts fast and keeps the skin from scarring, he explained, while rubbing a few of the red drops on my hand. The red became a pinkish-white when he rubbed it in. The research I would come across at Jatun Sacha indicated that the sap was also used to soothe canker sores, clean teeth, soothe toothaches, treat anemia, kidney problems, and help stomachaches. I’d even read about a few shamans who believed that Sangre de Drago could cure cancer.

The jungle took on a different perspective in my altered state. In tune with the wildlife around us, I studied the multi-colored leaves of a Cruz Caspi, a popular plant whose boiled sap is often drunk by Amazonian women for birth control. The plant seemed to sigh with the passing breeze, nodding its body rhythmically. Drinking too much Cruz Caspi is said to cause sterility, and small doses, of approximately one cup, are drunk to insure menstrual regularity. Dario introduced me to another plant, Huarmi Quilambu Casha, also known as Female Scratching Blackberry, whose decoction he regularly uses as eye drops to help heal his premature cataracts. The shredded bark is applied to mosquito bites, to stave off itching, and the plant’s roots can also be used to treat diarrhea.

Dario, isn’t this a chili pepper? I asked, touching the small red fruit.

Yes, but we call it aji. The plant looked like a small Christmas tree, with its bright red peppers lighting up the vast bounty of green. Good for spicing foods, but even better for keeping spirits at a distance. Some parents give it to their children as a punishment.

Ahhh! I yelped, spitting out the fireball. I’d rather get spanked.

You don’t eat the whole thing, Dario said, handing me his bottle of lemonade and laughing. He took my hand, and we walked back the way we had come.

Time took on a transient form that afternoon, as if it wasn’t the kind of thing you could measure. Experiencing life hurriedly and losing its meaning dropped aside and was replaced with the enchanting spell of the moment.

Playing cards after dinner, I declined the beer Dario offered. Thanks, but I’m still pretty buzzed from the Brugmansia. Drinking a beer would probably put me to sleep right about now.

We played Go-Fish, Poker, Crazy Eights, and a round of War. For the last few hands of Go-Fish, I tried to concentrate on asking Dario for the cards I felt he might have, testing the power of Brugmansia Insignis. I won all four hands and contemplated the outcome of playing Lotto in a similar state of mind.

Things look a little blurry, I said, trying to read the label on his beer.

The plant will do that, affect your vision, but it will go away by tomorrow, he offered. Do you want me to walk you back to your cabin?

I’ve got a flashlight, I quickly responded, looking away. Dario waited for me to look back at him, and he patiently held my gaze. Trouble with a capital T.

Okay, I said weakly, feeling my mind slip away.

He finished his third beer, searching my eyes with a soft longing.

I changed my mind about the beer you offered.

Chapter Two:

Sex and Other Deadly Sins

Jamie lived on several hectares of secondary forest, in an elevated grass house with his wife and five kids. His uncle, also a shaman, had been visiting the Napo River, panning for gold and visiting the family. I took part in a cleansing ceremony, happy to have Dario there to translate Quichua to English. I could make out the sound of the Napo’s current just north of the balcony. Jamie lit the porch with candles as he and his uncle drank more Ayahuasca. A child peeped out from a door. Jamie said something, and she returned with a pack of cigarettes. When Jamie was content with the plant’s effect, he chanted for over an hour, smoking profusely, and talking with spirits in his native tongue. He blew smoke over my head and around my body, making deep guttural exclamations and occasional spitting sounds. Dario whispered that Jamie said I had a strong mind, one capable of learning the ways of the shaman. After the cleansing, I felt a little dizzy, but lighter somehow.

Why do you want to learn? Dario translated for Jamie.

I’m fascinated, and I think there is much for me to learn here. Things that I can share with people back home, I explained.

Dario said something in Quichua, and Jamie nodded.

I went on: I believe that I have a path to follow in this lifetime, and I’m getting the feeling that being here in the Amazon is part of it. I want my having been alive to make a difference somehow. I’m excited to be here, like there’s no place I’d rather be, and I know when I feel this way that I’m exactly where I need to be to follow the calling of the Almighty.

Dario ran his fingers lightly up and down my back while I spoke.

I want to understand the healing power of the plants, the simple, yet profound way the people here live, the generations of sacred teachings shamans live by, and I want to spend time in the rain forest before it’s totally destroyed. I feel a sense of urgency when I think about how fast it’s disappearing.

The younger people do not care to carry on the family tradition of medicine the way they used to, Dario said, speaking for Jamie. We are losing our heritage, and the oil companies are taking our land. Jamie shook his head, letting out a deep breath.

It makes me sick, and I’m sorry for the suffering of your people. I wish I could do something to help. I drive a car back home. I use the oil that the companies rape your forests for, so I don’t suppose that makes me much better. Hell, my grandmother even left me some stock in Mobil and Exxon when she died.

Jamie and Dario exchanged a few words, and Jamie laughed. He wants to know if you know about the diet that you would have to follow as an apprentice, Dario said.

No. Tell me, I said, leaning closer to Jamie.

No salt, aji, alcohol, or eating of strong animals is permitted, Dario translated.

Strong animals?

Yes. No pig, cow, or other large animals.

That’s okay. I was a vegetarian for nine years.

Strenuous exercise and sex are also prohibited. This is very important. Dario looked away, blushing in the candlelight as he spoke.

When apprenticing to become a shaman in the Quijos-Quichua tradition, the most important rule is not to have sex. It is believed that if a student has sex, the visiting spirit will leave out of the crown of the student’s head and then cause harm to the shaman who is teaching the student, possibly by firing poison arrows.

I recalled reading a book written by a woman who was in the same circle of sorcerers as Carlos Castaneda. The apprenticing sorceress was warned against having sexual intercourse, due to the notion that men leave energy lines, like luminous tapeworms, inside of women they’ve had sex with which move inside the womb and rob energy. After sex, the male is said to feed energetically off of the filaments he has left, and unless a woman is celibate for seven years, she is constantly being zapped of her vital energy by previous lovers (Abelar 52).

Jamie’s uncle opened another pack of cigarettes and handed one to his nephew. I brushed a couple of ants off my knee and asked Jamie to tell me more.

After about a year of teachings, it is required of the student to spend two or three months alone in the forest. There he must survive without any tools, weapons, extra clothing, or even a compass.

Dario raised an eyebrow at me, questioningly, as he translated.

It is up to the apprentice to hunt for food, to know which plants to eat and which plants can kill, to find water and shelter, and eventually to find a way out of the jungle. Many never return.

Intrigued, I tried to envision myself on such a quest. Could I do it? Parachuting in Russia with the Russian Special Forces; rock climbing in the mountains of Siurana, Spain; scuba diving the depths of Mexico’s Sea of Cortez; cigar smuggling from Cuba; and even the year I’d spent going to undergraduate school in Hawaii on a math scholarship seemed like primers for the road ahead.

Being able to come out of the forest intact strengthens the power of the apprentice, and it is then that he graduates and is ready to commence the practice of what he has learned, but being a shaman requires constant learning. We use over one thousand plants, and the knowledge is unlimited.

After coming out of the jungle, does the new shaman continue to study with a teacher? I asked.

Yes, but mostly with the spirit of the plants. They are the true teachers. Dario looked at me closely, wanting to make sure I understood. I nodded at him and at Jamie, hoping I’d get to develop a connection with the sacred plants.

I thought about the card games I’d won two nights before and about the presence I’d felt behind me in the jungle that day.

No sex. Uh, is cuddling, hugging and kissing okay? I wondered just how far one might be able to stretch the limits on that one.

Dario suppressed a grin and asked Jamie. Jamie looked, but didn’t respond. I was too embarrassed to pursue it, but I kept wondering. Oral sex? Masturbation? Or was it just straight fornication that was taboo? Dario could feel my mind spinning. He squeezed my leg, and I squeezed back.

Tell me about Ayahuasca. I hear that it’s the shaman’s most powerful ally.

On hearing the word, Ayahuasca, Jamie nodded his head enthusiastically.

Ayahuasca is our biggest teacher. We see much with its help, Dario continued.

Ayahuasca, also known as Banistrepiopsis Caapi or as Malpighiaceae, is used for ritualistic diagnosis and curing. Approximately a mouthful of the extract is ingested. The sacred plant is usually prepared by the shaman’s wife or another family member by cutting the vine into fifteen-centimeter lengths and boiling it in water, with its leaves, for a minimum of six hours. The finished product is supposed to be a reddish brown, but I’ve seen it pitch black. It is believed that ingestion of the plant not only enables the shaman to enter a trance where he can converse with spirits who instruct him how to cure a patient, but it also enables the shaman to know the blueprints of a person’s life, including his past, present, and future.

Have you tried it? Jaime asked.

No, I answered quickly. Dario related the story about my tampering with Brugmansia Insignis.

Jamie said something to his uncle, who had moved into the dark of the kitchen. Only the moving red light at the end of his cigarette showed us where he was.

It is important that you work with the plants with a shaman, or you could get lost. Dario looked at the floor, feeling the heat of Jamie’s stare as he translated the shaman’s words.

It’s not Dario’s fault. I wanted to try it, I said, looking at Jamie apologetically.

Walking back to the truck, Dario led the way with his flashlight. I lost my balance over a narrow log and was knee deep in slushy mud. Thanks for making me wear the boots.

Sure, Dario