Where the Wild Things Aren´t

Paul Newman. That´s who he reminded of. With the eyes of Hannibal Lechter. And when he spoke, it was like listening to rocks in a blender. Austrians shouldn’t speak Spanish. As their Rhinelander neighbors would say, they have a hard enough time with German.

Ah-nold. Me yama Ah-nold.

Naturally, I asked him to repeat a certain Spanish phrase.

Hah. Hah. Yah. We all know the “Hasta la Vista.”

We agreed to speak in English, so that I could stop saying WHAT every three minutes.

He would become known to me as Arnold Ayahuasca (pronounced Aya-wannafuckyourmindup-ca). And an Omen. A positive one. I think.

We were crammed together in a small, steel covered boat; motoring our way up the Amazon. I had ventured to a remote corner of Peru to visit a string of riverside villages that were the centerpiece of an American funded Rainforest preservation project. Having been inundated with Save the Rainforest campaigns for years, I was curious if there really were shopping malls on the ashes of former jungle. And wouldn’t the planet be happier if everybody, not just suburban Americans, had the welcome opportunity to allow Chick-Fil-A into their lives.

A good friend, who for the sake of his own dignity in being associated with me, shall remain an enigmatic mystery --- this mystery man had spent years extolling the beauty of this particular piece of Amazonian paradise. He spearheaded a non-profit group, since your deemed unworthy to spearhead a for-profit group, that taught reforestation techniques to local residents. Basically, they were shown the value of re-utilizing their farmland, and planting native trees, rather then a continuous death march into the Amazon´s interior, where the local denizens had spent decades chopping down virgin forest and introducing non-native plants. Like Rose bushes and Christmas Trees.

A genetic skepticism kept me wondering --- Was this No-fo-Profit simply another half-ass program, with no impact, whose real purpose is to assuage the guilt of corporate Americans looking for another opportunity to network? Gotta network. Not goin´ anywhere, unless you network. Or perhaps a front for my clandestine friend´s cocaine smuggling operation --- after you cut down those coca plants, you plant new ones. Comprende Amigo.

Arnold Ayahuasca and the Gawky Gringo were about to find out. And as I spent more time traveling down that nearly mythical river, the Austrian Ayahuasca King reminded me of something---something more profound then his shared Terminator lineage. Drugs were fascinating. Especially those that ripped apart your pre-conceptions, birthing new methods of thought. C´mon --- A bunch of trees, some birds, and a few purple colored insects OR a hallucinogenic journey into the essence of your soul. Fuck savin´the trees, I was embarking on a mission to save the soul. And maybe see some really cool colors. Oh yeah, the colors, man, the colors. Whose got the Ayahuasca?

The Austrian Aya guru has been leading tours of middle agers (of the non medieval variety) on a quest for the drug´s promised therapeutic affects. The all knowing Aya has been used for eons by the tribal residents of the Amazon. While undergoing traditional ceremonies, presumably full of people in weird masks and indecipherable chanting (the core ingredients of all traditional ceremonies), participants would undergo a body cleansing so severe that resulting hallucinogenic visions would lead the possessed to find answers to their ailing health problems. Betty Ford may not approve, but should we give a shit what she says. Many people missed their mail, including crucial deliveries of secretly packaged goods from Adam & Eve, to mourn the loss of a man, her husband, who wasn’t even elected President. Did that cocksucker mourn the loss of 3 million Cambodians while his administration helped support their Torturer, a man who brings shame to the word Pot? And if I´m going to check myself in for drug problems, wouldn’t the Hunter S. Thompson Rehab Clinic be a lot more fun?

Some people have claimed Ayahuasca has cured their cancer. Others have found answers to lifelong problems. And yes, many people have simply had really wacked out mental trips. But when you don’t know personally, all the stories only make you crave it more. Imagine never having eaten chocolate, subjected to years of glorifying stories, as regurgitated from the mouths of lonely women --- women who have now permanently forsaken the pecker for the pint. Yeah, that lady may not look so hot, but her bucket of yet-to-be-tried fudgepackin´ brownie swirl will drive you nuts.

The accommodation for the week was a half-finished house. In Amazonian parlance, this does not mean the entertainment room is finished, but we´re still waiting for the slate countertops to come in for the kitchen. You get wood planks on stilts, a palm leaf roof, no walls, and no bathroom. And when its finished, you get more palm leaves for a bigger roof, and more wood floorplanks for, well, more floor. And that fit me just fine. A mosquito net, a hammock, a some fresh river fish --- life is good. Uh….with one small detour. I WOULD NOT SHIT FOR THE ENTIRE WEEK. So I thought.

Taking a crap is mental. Well, a big part anyway. It´s the reason most school kids could wait until they got home rather then defecate amongst the falling wet toilet paper cascading off the RestRoom ceiling. I made it 8 days once. In the Himalayas. 8 days until the explosion occurred. I only had 7 to go this time. I could do it. I would stuff my scrawny face full of rice and bread, turning my stomach into an impregnable fortress of gluten. Once your in, Nobody leaves until I say so. I would not tell Arnold. I did not want to spend my week being called a Girly-Mon.

Us Austrians, Ve are strong. Von time, I shit en my Audee, on da Autobahn. Driving 240 kilometers an hour. And you. You no shit and drive. Ha. You drive 90 kilometers hour, then look for gas station. Vere ve shit, ve do not need no key.

The mosquitoes were creating my carcass. Everytime you think you found paradise, those harbingers of the non-genital itch take it away. But despite the incessant molestation of my disease carrying enemies, life off the Amazon was enriching.

Not one incident of River Rage. People paddled their sunken wooden canoes with smiles and waves. The Children played in the river and nobody seemed to miss their Nintendo Playstations. As the men labored over their yucca harvest, jokes flowed freely across the field, a job that seems far from amusing. And while the women scrubbed the poo from their children´s underwear on the river´s banks, laughter continued to be the norm.

No body asked me for money. Never. And when you’re a white dude in a brown country, people like to ask for money. No body asked me to get them a Visa to the U.S. Cause when you’re a white dude in a brown country, people like to ask for Visas.

This was purity. Life before the development of a Consumer Society, one that leaves it´s constituents constantly craving more. There was no electricity to bring the false hopes of telenovelas. No television to corrupt the minds with products promised to simplify; products that lead to an endless quest for better, more convenient products. A drug of the worst kind: UNSATISFACTION. No magazines to distort the mental well-being of the women. No Porn to make the men want Swedish Penis Pumps. NO newspapers to remind the population that the world is a terrible place, that they should never leave their homes, except to buy the products supporting their publication. But make sure you return home when your done, OK. No Billboards promising Only 26 more miles until a SuperSized Double Artery Bacon Cheese Burger.

All the fruit one could conjure grew on the trees outside the home. All the medicine meant to cure, was found on the leaves from the backyard trees. The material to build the home came from those very same sources. The protein swam in the river. Each community had a meeting hall to discuss current events. Like whose turn was it to dig the shitting hole. Each town had a school and a park like ground to play sports or deflower your sister. All the essentials of life were here. Sure, it wasn’t perfect. There was no residential DMV. And no where to get Drive-Thru.

The only real things that these towns, and other non-modernized towns around the world need are fairly inexpensive basic things. Things that all governments should be vilified for not providing. Access to clean water, also know as a Well. Septic type system to properly deposit waste. Access to certain medicines not found locally. They don’t need any more used t-shirts that Bob´s Tavern in Aberdeen, Wisconsin sponsored. There are so many god damn clothes in the third world now, I have seen people starting stove fires with some girls pink Champion sweat pants.

Maybe the People who want to save the trees of the World should first focus their attention on the inhabitants who live in those trees. If donations were used to provide the aforementioned to the impoverished communities of the world, millions, literally fuckin´millions, of lives would be saved annually. And then maybe, just maybe that healthy population would help protect the resources that help the rest of the planet to function.

Question: Could people exposed to a more modern way of life actually revert back to the simplistic harmony of natural living? Could the residents of Amazonian tributaries prove immune to the ills of a consumer society? Would the children still spend all day playing outside rather then impaled on a computer screen? Would women still wile away the afternoon joking over laundry rather then comatosing in front of the telly? Who killed JR Ewing?

Yes. Yes. Yes. The rainforest is a magical place. Every insect is a shape and color of new origin. Trees seem to touch the sky, and the ground reeks of goodness. Willy Wonka has come to create Jungle. And it be good. But being a human being, allegedly….I associate with the people. And they are absolutely beautiful. Granted, with no walls, homes tend to be naturally open. But its the people who really made me feel welcome every time I ventured to meet another resident. Sharing their food and their stories. And with a smile in return, they seemed like friends for life.

Meanwhile, the doodie was backing up. The stomach was becoming a mountain of ready-to go refuse. Day Four proved to be the Day of the Challenge. I woke up to the sounds of the first volcanic rumblings. Fuck. The gastric juices were flowing. They weren’t suppose to flow for 3 more days. Quick. Hurry. Damn that river. But how. Bread. More Bread. I went to the kitchen. Which was a plastic bag hanging from the wooden rafters. Arnold was leaving me. Back to the Ayahuasca camp. He seemed impressed by my manly handling of the stale bread loaves. He probably thought I took a gentle Jungle dump every morning, and this was simply my Warm-Up.

When you fart, and you hear no noise, that´s a sign. When you fart, and you feel your hidden cavity begin to salivate, that´s trouble. The time had come. Day 4. I would face the jungle bowl.

I grabbed some toilet paper. Looked for a magazine, then realized I might need hands for support. Running into the trees behind the shack, I quickly dropped my pants and prepared for the worst. But before I could break the Great Wall of Crapina, I heard a yell emanating from the house……Not there. The bathroom is down the other path.

What. It was the voice of my host. I never asked if there was a bathroom. I simply assumed there wasn’t. All of sudden, my rectum seemed to smile. Where was that magazine?

I ran down that path like a Special Olympic champion. An inner-city rioter in an unlocked liquor store. 40´s. Need more 40´s. And as I got to the finish line – there she was --- a 12 foot tall outhouse. The local population is obsessed with tall roofs. It’s the equivalent of having a German automobile. I think people with short roofs get a hard time from their neighbors.

As I entered the Altar, I searched frantically for the bowl. A pit. Something to wave goodbye to my children in. All I found were four planks of wood with a 6 inch gap between them. Im assuming it was 6 inches. I mean, besides carpenters and constant cock measurers, who really knows how big 6 inches is?

I chose the middle board, giving myself plenty of room to maneuver in case of attack.
What would Arnold do? And this time, as I dropped my dried rice covered shorts, I realized something dreadful. Absolutely, dreadful. I had entered a Mosquito Mosh Pit. They were everywhere. I found their Lair. And I was defenseless. What could I do? Those blood sucking commies had been draining me alive all week. And I only had one source of pride left….My Virginity. That prized area of flesh running between the underside of my scrotal sac and the mouth of my rectum. They could eat me raw. And they did. But they would not get my virginity. They would not. Do you hear me? Bastards. So as I firmly planted my feet on the wooden planks, I grabbed hold of a wooden post with my left hand, for balance. I squatted, and with my right hand I began to furiously swat the impending gang of rapists. As four days of starch forced its way down the tunnel, my right hand was playing Muhammed Ali, pre-Al-Quaeda. I slapped and I paddled. I screamed obscenities in an unknown language. The Moors were returning to take back the Alhambra, and I was put in charge of the defensive. And with the deft skills of a martial arts master, I managed to avoid the rain of fecal matter pouring down behind me. Eight minutes later….I left victorious. Arnold would salute me. My chastity would be preserved for that moment of pillage once I reached the Mujahadeen paradise harem. But there was plenty of time until that fated date. But as I turned around to taunt my conquered arch nemesis, the harboring Altar seemed to taunt me. You may have won this round, but we´ll get you. When you least expect it, we´ll get you.

The Ayahuasca was eating at me. I had to do it. All these communities in the Amazon, and some witch doctor was sure to have the potion. But my research proved disappointing. The local people did not use it much. Many of the local shamans had opened up expensive retreats for foreigners, providing such luxuries as toilet bowls and walls. Much of the local indigenous population had been massacred over the years, and the current residents were mezclado, descendants of the massacred Indians and the Spaniards who raped them. I didn’t want to pay some exorbitant amount of money to be surrounded by other white people and toilet bowls. I wanted some freaky witch doctor shaman to put me into a trance. In some isolated place. And old. Somebody real old. Just like the movies.

I came close. I´ll call her the mother-in-law. Cause that´s how she was introduced. By the son-in-law. The husband had been a Shaman, but had passed away. Before he went, the wife was indoctrinated into the world of Shamanism. But this woman must have followed the COSMO edition of How to look Shaman perfectly, cause she was a beauty. Around 80 years old, with long gray hair. She wore a variety of necklaces adorned with stones, and spoke with an odd accent. Her eyes were practically clear, and when she spoke, it seemed as if he was speaking through you, rather then to you. And the son-in-law….well, he looked like a son-in-law. Portly, ripped t-shirt, chain smoking, and uttering nonsense. They were like some kind of bizarre jungle version of Penn & Teller. He kept telling me all the benefits of the drug, while repeating the price (around 6 bucks) every 5 minutes. She simply smiled, pet my head repeatedly, and gave me that look…that look that said, I know, I´ve been asking my daughter for years what she was thinking. And the daughter sat silently with her child, in the back of the house, portraying a sentiment that said, That´s my crazy Mom. Imagine growing up, all your friends asking about your mom, the neighborhood Shaman. Its like the kid who had the wierd New Age Mom. Except her Mom is a friggin´ SHAMAN. The Amazon´s first Reality TV show was in the making.

We set a date. The next evening, around 8pm. I remembered the Austrian Guru´s advice. You vell throw up much. Do not eat da rice. You do not vant to throw the rice. And it must dark. Very wery dark.

I arrived at the house in my best available ceremonial wardrobe. Jeans and a t shirt that said Bob´s Tavern, Aberdeen, Wisconsin. The home was a typical river home, built on stilts with no walls and a tall palm leaf roof. It was away from the village, occupying its own plot of land set back from the River amongst the towering canyon of rainforest trees. The house was simply one giant floor with a mosquito net covered mattress in the middle. The mother and small child were asleep inside, when I arrived.

Mother-In-Law Shaman and Son-in-Law Salesman sat 15 feet away from the sleeping family. Mamma Shaman disappointed by failing to wear my imagined headdress, but she did seem to have some neat little accoutrements. A fan made up of dried corn husks. A stack of hand rolled cigars. A few bottles of mysterious liquids. All positioned around a large metal pot.

She began with a barely discernible chant. He began his endless procession of chain smoking. Then she began to fan me. Much like I imagined my future concubine. Well, a few centuries younger. She presented the large pot to me, and explained that within it´s depths lied the Ayahuasca potion, which she had spent the day cooking – a combination of local roots. I was presented a small cup, and told to do a shot. Like tequila. But they didn’t get it. I was a bit nervous. Would my life be forever changed. Would I cure my Cancer before I discovered it? Would I find Jesus, and spend the remainder of my years knocking on doors preaching the WORD? Would I be brutally beaten by the family of In-Laws and robbed of my Bob´s Tavern tee?

Before I could ponder these nerve wracking questions, I was interrupted by MeatHead….Your going to feel like your drunk, but different (he didn’t know about my past use of hallucinogens – that must be the standard line for all straight people – its like your drunk, but different) and if it doesn’t work, the next cup is free. What is this…the Ayahuasca Bar? I flashed back to the first time I did Acid in high school…I told my buddy it wasn’t working after a mere 30 minutes. He gave me two more tabs and I spent the next 24 hours wondering when the people would stop growing heads. There would be no second cups for me, pal.

The taste of Ayahuasca is so putrid, that after you have done it once, the mere thought of its flavor will make you gag. I have swallowed vomit that tasted better. So here it was. My moment of illucidation. I waited. MeatHead just stared at me, hoping he wouldn’t have to give up another cup and be out 6 bucks. MotherInLaw kept fanning me, singing pretty little songs. And I remembered Arnold´s advice…Concentrate. Ve do da ceremony to find da answers to dose things that they bother us.

I spent my days being introspective, analyzing my life, and the philosophy behind all life. I thought I could try a twist. I would speak with the dead. I would send myself into a higher spiritual realm and find some deceased person that I would like to commune with.

I chose an Uncle. A great man that I wish I knew better. He died tragically but had all the qualities most people aspire too (a loving father, respectful children, a monogamous relationship since high school, a witty sense of humor, an athlete, a musician, a job that provided for all, a sense of modesty --- fuck, lets just say he was a good guy). But not knowing how absurd his sense of humor is, I´ll refrain from ever naming him.

The trip began to intensify. My body felt light. On a cloud with slight vibrations. Warm but comfortable. And then a period of intense focus began. Uncle and I began to talk, Really. Granted, I was probably creating the conversation in my head, but it seemed real at the time. Clear as Noxema visions flooded my mind. I was able to see any incident in my life that I chose. Even that time I was asked to draw a picture of a man and woman in Kindergarten. Apparently, my photos were too graphic, and the teacher tried to fail me. Repeat Kindergarten. Like that´s real hard. More nap time and more photos of poorly drawn vaginas. But mainly this very intense conversation took place with Uncle. He claimed his specter was merely an excuse by me to avoid dealing with my own issues. He never said if he was in a better place or he wished he was back home. We laughed about random thoughts. Even MeatHead and the bizarre situation I found myself in, lying on the floor of the mother-in-law shaman´s home on the banks of the Amazon hallucinating on some mystical plant root.

I realized, at that point, this drug had nothing to do with finding dead relatives and everything to do with using the extreme mental clarity to try and unblock my own personal roadblocks. The same roadblocks that all humans spend their lives trying to overcome. MeatHead was asking if I was feeling a little bit drunk. I responded in English, that I was tripping my ass off. He seemed satisfied.

But I couldn’t figure out why I hadn’t puked. Everybody explained how it was a mandatory part of the experience. So I kept sticking my finger down my throat. It was pitch black so I knew nobody would see. Was it wrong to cheat at the Ayahuasca game? Maybe I was an exception. Maybe I didn’t need to puke. I could have mental clarity on my life and visions of the dead, and feel just fine.

Moments later, Murphy´s Law came pounding on my transcendental state. You weren’t going to puke. You were going to Shit. And SHIT HARD. No. But where. Did they also have a backyard altar of waiting mosquitoes? The Gods of Fecal Destruction were knocking. Knocking Hard. But I couldn’t move. My equilibrium was shot. I was a drunk on the High Seas. I literally could not take one step forward. I had been sitting the entire time, feeling perfectly at ease in my tranceful state. And it was then, that I realized the Son-in-Laws real purpose. He was what the Acid Hippie´s called a GUIDE. But unlike the Leary style guide who took you on a mental journey, MeatHead was my Bathroom guide. Nobody walks on Ayahuasca. Who knew?

So I grabbed hold of the son-in-laws shoulder as he escorted me down the steep stairs. I couldn’t hold it. Where? Where? C´mon. He guided me to an area with a lot of dog shit. Which I later realized, having seen no dogs, that the shit belonged to something bigger then a dog with a only two legs and an penchant for chain smoking.

Here I was, hallucinating on some ancient Amazonian medicine, with a complete stranger, whose flashlight jerryrigged to a belt worn around his head shined on my crap spot, and standing pantless in the Jungle. The feces rained from ass like the biblical plague on Canaan. And while the Tropical Earth absorbed my festering fish laden feces, the mosquitoes finally got their revenge. In the back of mother-in-law Shamans house, I was brutally raped by a gang of skin pricking thugs. Defenseless, zoned out in another dimension, the flying insects treated themselves to uncut primal forest. And all I could do was watch the flashlight on SoninLaw´s head and figure out why I did that THING back in 9th grade. Then, I did the much heralded Double Lindy. Leaning forward with chewed up ass in the air, I began to vomit uncontrollably. A dribble at first. Followed by ground covering blasts. Nature had been assaulted by its own by-products.

Back upstairs, fresh from the pillage of gringo sphincter, Mother inquired about my condition. And in a moment of perfect Spanish translation, I understood the pseudo son explaining that I had a mountain of shit, and he hoped the chickens would eat it. The Mom asked how much shit, and he demonstrated with his hands. Was this conversation necessary?

The fanning continued. I decided hallucinations were more fun then introspection. I desperately searched for light, so I could have external visions. And that´s when I saw it. The Ayahuasca god. Standing 10 feet tall. He took up the middle of the room, right near the bed of the sleeping mom. He didn´t speak. He didn’t do anything. But he looked really cool. His head adorned with the same dried corn husks that were fanning me and that devilish look that all tribal masks seem to have. I made trails with the ends of MeatHead´s cigarettes. Shamanic mother had me snorting rubbing alcohol. I was no longer at complete peace. A residue of nausea remained in my body. The mosquitoes were making techno music in my ears. That really bad kind. The type the Gay guys in tight white tank tops like to listen too.

At some point, the odd combo of in-laws got sick of me, and sent me to bed ---- a mosquito net covered half inch thick pad, located a mere five feet from the sleeping mom. Does this go on every weekend in the Shaman household?

And then, just as I was about to fall asleep, the rumblings started. It had been two hours since the last pants dropping. I thought I could walk by now, and since I was no longer sphincterly virgin, I figured I could conquer the Jungle crapper. Two steps outside my Net, and I fell. Moments later, a fart proved to be more productive then that. But there was nothing I could do about it in this state. But I did discover the Beauty of having your own Guide. Son-in-law arose from a dead sleep, strapped belt to head, light to belt, and escorted me back to my shitting post. Located conveniently down the row from his own favorite watering hole. I repeated the double orifice combo, wondering when my organs would start flying out.

I spent the remainder of the night pondering why foreigners subject themselves to this.
Local tradition utilizes Ayahuasca as cleaning tool. A way to rid the body of disease. And I simply wanted to experience some magical mystical phenomenon. It was certainly an experience. One that may need more personal research to determine its therepeautic affects.

As I left the floor, at the break of daylight, the sounds of nature were tantalizing. Every bird whistle. Every frog chirp. Every tree branch. It was like the jungle was actually talking to me. Could that be?

I began my exodus with a series of hugs and sincere thanks to my hosts. That´s when I saw it. My 10 foot Ayahuasca God. In the exact spot I saw the surreal creature. It was a giant Barbie doll. These people haven’t avoided the consumer culture tearing up the fabric of modern civilization. They´re THE MAN behind it all.