Crossing the High Pass: A Test of Will in the Himalaya

Awaiting a delayed flight that would begin my long journey home, the spectre of an unfulfilled calling haunted me. I'd been in Nepal nearly 2 months and had already done a wonderful trek in season when weather conditions were optimum. Alas I was not satisfied.  I knew I had not achieved the extent of the Himalayan experience I sought. I’d foregone doing the legendary Annapurna Circuit trek, a multi-week trek leading into the ancient forbidden kingdom of Mustang. Bordered by the Tibetan plateau and surrounded by some of world's tallest peaks, its one of the remotest areas of Nepal.  I’d partly opted against the Circuit due to perceived time constraints (I’d wanted to attend a festival above the idyllic Begnas lake in the warm, verdant lower hill country).  But undeniably, I was intimidated by the prospect of crossing Thorong La, a daunting high altitude pass rising nearly five and a half kilometers into thin air, the gateway to Mustang, and crux of the trek.  Unfortunately, the window of opportunity for doing another trek deeper into the high Himalaya seemed all but closed; for now it was winter. 

Eating away at me was the sense that I'd given into fear; the fear of high winds, freezing temperatures, and lack of oxygen; the fear of acute mountain sickness; and fears of other kinds.  I had made the safe decision, but could not find peace. I recognised this was about more than a physical challenge, it was also about something deeper within. Sitting on a roof top terrace, the fog which had closed the airport, had lifted. A gentle breeze blew while I peered over the runway, the city of Pokhara’s colourful streets under their bright green canopy of subtropical trees spread beyond. The majestic white snow and ice-topped Himalayan massifs of the Annapurna range gleamed serenely in the distance. They invoked a sense of peace, but one I knew to be both true and illusory given the extreme environment they actually entailed.  Soon this would all be just memories.  At that moment, a lucid awareness arose within me; Life does not guarantee second chances of this sort.  I may never be back here, and always feel I’d sold myself short.  Then it dawned on me; I did not have to get on this flight.  Sure it would involve a little extra cost, and other travel foregone, but the true barrier had been a construct of my mind.  I rose, and with newfound resolve, made my way to the airline counter to change my ticket, retrieve my checked luggage, and quickly hailed a taxi back into to town. I had one day to make the necessary arrangements; permits, gear and supplies for a solo expedition into the high Himalaya in winter. I was going to do the Annapurna Circuit.

The following morning, getting over a cold and a little behind schedule due to wet hanging laundry, I headed off alone to the local bus depot. My destination was Besi Sahar, a town in the lower Marshyangdi river valley five hours away on crumbling roads from where the Annapurna Circuit traditionally began. The sense of fear that initially held me back had not magically disappeared; it was still right there with me, a passenger in mind. Only time would tell if I was being brave or foolish. As the rickety bus tottered along a bumpy winding road, Nepali ballads with their fatalistically optimistic melodies blared. Wind pipe, flute, drum, string and melodious impassioned vocals filled the cabin.  Our slow progress meant it would be too late to start trekking by the time I arrived.  A slightly-built man wearing a red traditional Nepali Dopi brimless hat and fu man chu moustache sitting beside me struck up a friendly conversation. He appeared quite a bit older, but with a twinkle in his eye and infectious gap-toothed smile, exuded a joyous youthful spirit. It turned out we were the same age; his weathered face a result I supposed of a rural life without first world comforts. Within minutes he’d invited me to stay at his home that night. Besi Sahar, was a small bustling commercial town at the foothill gateway to the mountains. Upon disembarking my 60 litre pack and poles were handed down to me from the rooftop of the bus, and we walked to a woody area upriver from the bus station where Amar worked as a ticket agent. With the sunlight fading, we arrived at his rustic house. Chickens roamed the yard while goats and buffaloes rested on hay in their sheds outside. His young wife cooked a savoury stew in a metal pot on the stone floor. Friends came by to visit, laugh and smoke. All were curious and happy to share my company. In the morning Amar got me an egg breakfast at the station. When it was time for me to depart I tried to stuff some bills in his hand. He promptly stuffed them back into mine. This spontaneous offer of friendship and hospitality is something I'll never forget; a true manifestation of the warmth and generosity of the Nepali spirit, transcendent far beyond what we in the West might perceive as material limitations.  I couldn’t help but sense these people - who most back home would consider “poor” - were happier than most in my own society.

Pack on my back and a little constrained for time, I arranged for a jeep to take me a little further up the valley before starting the trek.  On board were a young German and Nepali guy, named Alex and Uday, who’d met through a couch surfing website. Together we set off moving through a landscape of rice and banana fields, then bamboo and rhododendron forest.  These in turn gave way to deciduous, pine, rock and scrubland. Like a fellowship out of a fantasy, we trod the quaintest of earthen paths along rivers and through forests.  Before us across beautiful valleys and peaks shone the bright icy white cap of Manaslu Himal, the 8th highest mountain on earth.  I was literally brought to tears by its beauty, its summit glimmering like a heavenly temple not of this world. 

On the trail with Uday between Dharapani and Chame (Day 3)

I ended up walking with them for the next five days. As we rose, small idyllic mountain villages became fewer and farther between, wood houses became stone and mud. Hindu temples and Shiva shrines were largely replaced by gompas and chortens, the look of its inhabitants morphed from largely indo-aryan into primarily mongoloid-Tibetan. Layers came on and off as sun appeared and disappeared between soaring peaks, immense shadows arose and ended, and chill winds roared to gusts then faded into palpable silence.  

By the third night we were a mile higher. Nights were cold. Sleep became difficult; my body too unsatisfied with the amount of oxygen each breath provided to rest well.  The sun and splendour of the mountains the next day however made an uncomfortable night soon forgotten, infusing me with the energy to carry on.

After another day's trek we reached Upper Pisang at 3300m.  Mist escaped with every breath as the air chilled to freezing with the lowering sun.   That night I slept not at all. Real doubt crept in concerning my chances of completing the journey.  Thorong La Pass, still days of hard trekking away, was more than two kilometres straight altitude higher.  

Meals became all about bolstering one's constitution faced with the harsh environment and task ahead; hours of slow pack-laden march upward into cold, thin air.  Lemon ginger tea and garlic soup were staples taken as herbal remedies against the constant threat of colds and altitude sickness.  Evenings were spent huddled around the rare warmth of a wood stove in solidarity with the few kindred spirits on a shared quest onward. These ended early with worn trekkers retiring to chill rooms where they retreated under piled blankets, sub zero sleeping bags, and layers of clothing to pass the night. 

From Pisang we set off for Manang, where the dirt vehicle road ended.  From there, if all went well it would take three days to get up and over the Pass.  Evacuation, if the need arose, could only be done on foot, slung over a pack animal, or by helicopter. The trail wound high on the mountainside, far above the Marshyangdi snaking for kilometres below.  We passed through arid shrub land blanketing massive slopes and into a valley of petrified pine forest. As the sun lowered it painted the dry grassy northeast slope to our right a golden yellow. On the other side of the valley to our left, the faces of Annapurna peaks II and IV stood draped in blue and black shadow hues.  Nearly as high as the sun, only their white tips shone from its brilliance, vapour rising mystically from their crests. 

Looking back at Upper Pisang (Day 5)

Night had fallen by the time we reached Manang.  Too cold and tired to explore further, we settled on a three story wooden lodge near the edge of town,iIt’s exterior gilded with dust from the arid external surroundings. It was larger than we were used to, but made sense given Manang was the main town in the upper district, and where the new dirt road ended. At 3500m, trekkers are highly advised to stay at least a couple nights in Manang for acclimatization.  Inside was a courtyard around which the rooms were laid out. The wood trimmed common areas were cozy and ornate, adorned with Tibetan Buddhist imagery.  A rest and launch point for the pass, there were a larger number of adventurers here than the few or none we were used to seeing.  A good dozen intrepid souls packed the dining hall bantering at tables or warming their hands, toes, socks and mitts by the wood stove in the centre of the room. There was Chase, a determined American from Atlanta 10 years my junior who we’d passed back and forth a few times on the trail; a charismatic Colombian named Julio traveling with his pretty, young, German doctor friend; Sven, a knowledgeable and talkative German from Berlin in his 40s; as well as a smattering of Brits, French, and a few others.  Chase informed he’d just purchased his fifth property, however much of the talk centred on how people were physically making out and what they were taking or doing to manage the altitude. I learned the day before two Dutch guys were helivac'ed out from Yak Kharka for altitude illness.  That night I once again slept hardly a wink, and teetered on calling the whole thing quits. 

Come morning I resolved to give it one more night to see if I slept, taking my first pill against altitude sickness, a generic version of Diamox, to help my cause.  After breakfast Sven and I hiked up to a remote monastery or “gompa” 400m higher to help with further acclimatization and make use of the time.   We found the gompa abandoned but for the wind and crows.  Prayer flags fluttered loudly.  The lama, (Buddhist monk), who apparently lived and meditated there most of the year, had left for the winter.    I learned Sven had rode an off-road motorbike from Berlin to the Gambia in west Africa the year before, and was a former member and sought after future coach of the German kayak water polo team. I coined the term “super german” for him due to his impressive conditioning that frequently left me several meters behind, struggling to keep up.

The following day, I woke having slept maybe twenty percent of the night. But, at least it was something. That, a word of encouragement from Chase, and my own deep resolve, kept me walking onwards and upwards.   I said an emotional farewell to Uday and Alex who would take a few days to do an acclimatizing side trek to the frozen Tilicho lake, and formed a new group. This time with Chase and Sven, as well as Martin, a gregarious German, and Bishu an Indian from Bangalore possessed of a sarcastic self-aggrandizing sense of humour.   Beyond Manang, we walked through more arid high mountain scenery, passing a herd of yaks along the way.  The sky was a deep bright blue hue unlike any I’d seen before, the backdrop of shimmering white himalayan peaks breathtaking.

Passing a yak herd on the high trail to Yak Kharka (Day 7)

We reached Yak Kharka, a the tiny cluster of ramshackle lodges (all but one closed for the season), late afternoon. Conversation in the lodge hall was subdued, people focused their scarce energy on replenishment and resting tired bodies. I retired early that evening to a frigid room. The electricity was out which meant no light. One could only liken it to a dark monk's cell, my water bottle was frozen in minutes. Two heavy blankets above me kept my core body temperature bearable, but needed gloves and a tuque to keep my extremities from freezing.  I tossed and turned throughout the night, time and again zipping up my body-constraining sleeping bag as I attempted to sleep. Every few minutes I’d jolt myself up gasping for oxygen, unzipping the bag in a claustrophobic fit. Upon regaining my composure I’d read a little to distract myself, soon tiring again.  This whole torturous pattern would then repeat itself, hour after hour.  At about 1:30am, I heard a crumpling sound next to me. Startled, I clicked on my head lantern, and turned over to see a dark grey rodent run under the bed beside me. Disgusted, I curse the vile thing, but too cold and tired to do more, roll back over.  The crumpling started again. I again peer over and realise it was coming from my knapsack. I aim the lantern's beam right on it, holding it there as if to blast the vermin. But the crumpling continued. The nerve of that damn thing, I thought!  Finally a mouse's head appears out of the outer pocket holding in its mouth a cracker half the size of its body mass. It looks up at me momentarily, then scampers off with its prize.

As I sat for breakfast the next morning Chase informed he was turning back and asked if I was continuing. He hadn't slept and the cold was too much.  I was taken aback. Here was the person who’d motivated me to keep going the day before, a determined man ten years my junior, taking a decision to end this agonising test of endurance and acknowledge his body's limits. Limits, that should you push them too far and not reach help, would stop you with collapse, sickness, or even death. The universe was mercifully offering me peer validation to quit, as well as company for the return.  Logically I should take it. Continuing on to a fifth night of sleep deprivation, followed by a torturous 4 or 5-hour ascent to the pass and nearly as many again going down, was irrational and dangerous.  Somehow though, I still found energy and the desire to continue within me.  This defied my self-understanding as a person who required a decent night's sleep to function. All I could think of was “one more night and one final push”.  As soon as I replied I would keep going, Chase stood up, grabbed his gear, and was out the door - seemingly not wanting to linger or second-guess his decision.

The now four of us set off towards Thorung Phedi, one of two final sleep options prior to attempting the Pass.  The other option, High Camp was 500m higher still, and a steep hour or two climb further.  It offered less of a climb upwards the next day and a not quite so early start, however the prospect of an even more hellish sleepless night I was unwilling to stomach. About 90 minutes beyond Yak Kharka, two trekkers appeared ahead, descending towards us.  It was Julio and the blonde German doctor.  After a characteristically warm greeting, they informed she was suffering from headache and nausea. They were heading back down to Manang.  The deliberations I'd had of turning back now really seemed less defeatist, but I noticed a new feeling stirring within; a flame of pride and emboldened determination. Thorong La, you bitch I'm going to conquer you!  I offered them a few words of encouragement and understanding, then continued onwards. A couple old gompas and chortens (shrines of piled stone erected in places of spiritual significance), and a steel suspension bridge decorated an otherwise barren landscape of either sparse brush, or more predominantly brown or grey scree aligning the slopes.  Pointed crags of ice and rock formed a jagged crown where earth met sky high above.   Sometimes ash-coloured rock met an azure horizon, most of the time it contrasted minimally with misty grey-white sky. Breath was heavy and laboured. I tried some pranayama yogic breathing techniques I’d learnt in Pokhara, but none of them were robust enough to provide the oxygen my lungs so yearned for. The best I could do was breath in my nose and let my exhalation fall out my mouth in order to refill my nostrils again as quickly as possible.

It was snowing when we arrived at Thorung Phedi base camp sometime after 3pm, casting doubt on whether we'd be able to cross in the morning. There were severe warnings against attempting the Pass when snow fell, especially since the tragedy of October 2014 when 43 people lost their lives in a storm.  And even if we wanted to try under such conditions, the pass could be closed. God, I prayed conditions would be favourable in the morning.  I didn't know how I'd avoided hitting a wall from lack of sleep thus far.  Another sleepless night would be too much to bear.  Nor had I days to spare before my flight. 

After receiving my room assignment, I joined the usual quiet huddle of worn but determined trekkers near the wood stove where I played a couple frustrating losing games of chess with an English bloke. I’d always considered the game a sort of intelligence test, and the fact I hadn't played in years gave me little solace.  More than half the dining room had already cleared out when I retired to my quarters around 7:30pm. Weather permitting, we'd set out at 5:30am, right after breakfast.  This was later than most, who opted to leave even earlier to avoid the high thermal winds known to blow hard across the pass by mid morning.   Air temperatures of less than -20C were enough to bear without being magnified by roaring wind and the risk of being blown over. 

At 4:40am my alarm went off.  The weather outside was clear; it seemed the day of reckoning had arrived.  I hit play to a bassy techno set on my phone to psyche myself up for the occasion, threw another layer over the clothes I was already wearing, and went about stuffing my belongings into my pack. Inside the breakfast hall after a brief moment of hesitation the owner gave us the green light to make the attempt.  I wolfed down a garlic onion omelette, and bought a few snickers bars for vital fuel energy along the way.  

Some last minute fiddling with gear made me the last of the eight or so now in the group to set off into the dark.  The climb was steep from the get go. My headlamp was drained and dim after many hours of having inadvertently been turned on in my pack.  I stepped laboriously passed Bishu who was without a light. He pleaded I wait for him so he could see. I slowed hesitantly and shone my lamp back towards the path for him, nervous myself of losing the group and the risk that entailed. Fortunately the lead waited a little further up the path and set a pace to keep everyone together.  We made our way huffing upwards. Whenever a brief rest opportunity availed itself, I leaned over onto my trekking poles for support.  A couple of times I even found the energy to look back around and take in the otherworldly horizon of frosty white summits that had emerged by the grace of dawn’s light, all around us.

We arrived at High Camp a good hour later to find the handful of trekkers who’d slept there eating breakfast.  They were very surprised to see us.  "What are you doing here?" a French girl exclaimed. "Our guide told us we can't go!" 

"The lodge said we could, and there's no way I'm spending another night up here", I replied calmly but determinedly, unwilling to entertain the idea I could be held back, risking the mission after coming this far. She and her French companions entered into an impassioned discussion on whether they should proceed. While we’d had the benefit of the tracks of previous climbers for the first leg, no one had yet started the final climb up and the trail was covered in snow.  The group decided to pool together to hire a guide from the camp to lead us across. The guide agreed to take us as far as the top of the Pass. Nerves frayed as he took his time for breakfast and to get ready, the rest of us concerned about making it over before the winds picked up.

It was sometime around 8am when we left High Camp. One tired step at a time our energy-depleted oxygen-deprived human caravan crawled upwards. The next 3 hours were about the mind pushing the body against its will.  There were numerous false summits. Finally, as if out of nowhere, the red, blue, green, yellow, and white Thorung La high point prayer flags at last appeared; a beacon fluttering in the middle of a bleak white and black rock-bespeckled landscape between two high peaks.  We'd reached the High Pass!  We stopped for the few obligatory photos before our freezing fingers could bear no more.  I called over to Sven that I was concerned about frostbite and needed to keep going. He agreed, and we began our descent. Before us, sweeping downward at varying steep and shallow angles, lay miles of mountain slope surrounded by high snowy peaks.  Cold and worn from the ascent, we had hours of knee pounding descent still ahead. However knowing each step downwards was towards more hospitable conditions motivated me to draw on unseen reserves of energy as if out of thin air (literally!).

Shortly after beginning our descent it began to snow heavier than the night before. The only thing to guide us down the rolling rocky slopes, were marker poles spaced 50-100m apart.  Sven and I started out front, slowly feeling our way forward around rock and ice through the ever-rising snow. Following our footprints, the remainder of the group who’d set out with us at High Camp caught up and the caravan reformed for safety and support.   Soon we’d completely lost the trail. Sven looked back at me with a concerned look, and said “super German is no longer”.  A couple minutes later while taking another step downwards I jammed my left pole hard into the ground to support my weight, and it collapsed inward.  I fell hard forward and felt sharp pain as my right knee slammed down onto a rock under the snow.  Soon after the trekker behind me slid, nearly taking me out again.  Everyone was falling.  Snow had filled my boots.  On extra steep parts, people sat down and slid on purpose to avoid falling; some found brief amusement in it, then recalling their dire predicament, trudged soberly onwards. 

It was early afternoon when we came across a blue roofed refuge.  Open on one side, it had three walls and a roof.  Exhausted trekkers filed in one by one.  Judging by the toilet paper on the ground, some before had used it as a bathroom, but many, myself included, practically collapsed onto the floor for repose. Such was our fatigue. One of the French guys, a tall bearded fellow suggested people await the passing of the storm here in the shelter.  The idea did not gain traction; a good thing given the conditions, altitude (I calculated still close to 5000m) and cold, which would get much worse after nightfall.  After 15 minutes or so, people began slinging their packs back on, and pushed onwards. 

The long slow shuffling march continued.  Even if our bodies were screaming for it, there was no question of stopping. Eventually, far downward in the distance, the landscape took on a beige-green tinge; it was not totally covered in snow.  In the form of a sweeping valley, hope was on the horizon.  We began reaching partially uncovered land about an hour later.  The trail became visible again.   My shell-shocked knees ached, as did my bad toe from constant banging against my boot front with every precarious step downwards. But the end was in sight.  By late afternoon we reached the village of Muktinath, and were welcomed into a small but tidy lodge by a smiling Tibetan-looking woman.  We’d made it. 

Epilogue

I’d completed a physical challenge, greater in scope than any other I’d ever embarked on.  And, while I’d set off on my own, rarely did I step alone that fortnight in the mountains.

Trekking over Thorong La Pass in winter was on the surface a test of strength and endurance in a harsh environment that pushed my body’s limits. Deeper down however, it had become a metaphor for willpower and confronting fear.  More than physical fear, at this junction it had become a metaphor for psychological fear of an uncertain future.  My life was at a crossroads. I had left employment and was staring at a career I no longer knew I wanted, or was suitable for.  I’d been flirting with following my artistic muse into writing and visual media, but recognised at this point it was farfetched as a livelihood plan.  After years away, I wanted to be home but feared I’d have to go away again to make a decent livelihood.  All the while I was bound by the shackles of self-doubt and weighed down by depression.  The willpower I summoned to go on became a test in my mind of my inner strength and resolve to build the life I wanted.  I won the first battle.  I crossed the High Pass in winter - a symbolic victory to draw upon for strength now, and whenever winter comes and the path becomes daunting.

1. Peru Spirit Quest?

Recently liberated from my corporate responsibilities at a global resource company, I Aaron Bryan Neil,  left Denver and set off for Peru, a country I'd long had a special relationship with.  I'd lived there twice, and my most recent job had me visiting my company's Lima office every two or three months.  A few things we're driving me to go back.  I wanted to look into a couple entrepreneurial business ideas.  I'd met someone online my last business trip down.  And, perhaps I was looking for a bit of that Peru magic, being once again in a moment of uncertainty, I looked to forge my best path forward.

This time down it wasn't a first class flight and five star hotel, but rather on my own dime it was coach and one of the cheaper AirBnB reservations I could find.  Fortunately Rosabel the older lady who was my AirBnB host was a friendly as could be.  She didn't mind at all that I arrived at past 2am in the morning to her small but clean and pleasant Miraflores apartment.  The sunshine, warmth, salt air, and tasty home cooked breakfast the next morning waylaid much of the doubt I had about making the trip.  In a few hours I would meet Cecilia in person for the first time at Cala, an oceanside restaurant and lounge.  

I arrived at Cala a few minutes late and walked up the wood stairway to the second floor dining room.  Busy waiters in white shirts buzzed to and fro.  I noticed Cecilia straight away across the floor, her thick curly brown shoulder length hair was unmistakable - "ovejita" little sheep was her nickname due to those locks.  I slid right into the chair right at ease as it wasn't my first (dating) rodeo.  She on the other hand was noticeably nervous and shy at first, as she warned me she would be, but gradually warmed up as the conversation progressed.  Cecilia was definitely attractive with her almond Peruvian eyes, slim but shapely form, and classy conversation.  Was it enough? I wasn't sure, but a lot of anticipation had built up online.  An hour and a half, lunch, drinks, and a hundred dollars later we called it a date.  

The next day I started checking around supermarkets and contacting suppliers of superfoods, one of the business ideas I wanted to check out.  Peru produced many exotic food products with high nutrient, antioxidant, protein, and other desirable properties.  On a number of levels this business idea made sense;  I spoke the language and was familiar with the country, and was interested in health and working in trade and naturally grown products on top of my business and trade background.  I wasn't sure if I was in love with some of the more mundane and mechanical aspects however e.g. inventory, regulatory requirements, labeling, customs, pitching to stores etc. The other idea I had involved setting up a network of healers for traditional medicine tours, focused largely on the thriving but controversial ayahuasca traditional medicine industry.  A "psycho-spiritual" concoction, its power is truly transformative but at the same time I had reservations regarding its potential risk, and social acceptance factors.  Meanwhile my friend Josh, who'd at the last minute accompanied me on an ayahuasca retreat five months prior, was moving full steam ahead at buying a property for a lodge in the jungle.  I'll keep walking down this path I figured while being open to other eventualities that might arise.  I'd been in valleys of uncertainty before, and always found the pass.  

Cecilia wanted to go to the cliff top park in Miraflores the next eve to watch the sunset, which sounded like a perfect date.  We played the questions game, and watched the sun set over the pacific.  Its fading light projected an orange mauve hue on the wispy clouds scattered across the sky.  That evening upon returning to the new more private hostel I was staying at, a message from my old friend Josh popped up on my facebook messenger; he would be in Lima next week.  

2. Dubious Directions

I was struggling in regards to my motivation for two of the main reasons I'd journeyed to Peru; the super foods business idea and Cecilia.  My drive for each I would characterize as about 65% percent.  

Maybe I could make an interesting living creating the story of my own brand, linking it to the jungles, highlands, and traditions of Peru, help communities along the way and afford my self an interesting lifestyle between the countries I loved.  At the same time it was hard to get myself motivated about stocking and shipping inventory.  I'm not a minutia guy; I'd always had an aversion to record keeping particularly where numbers were involved.  This possibly stemmed from grade ten; the time Mr. St. Jean ridiculed me in front of the class for not being swift enough with an equation.  

Cecilia was a lovely, intelligent, and attractive woman.  She was also 30 and had always lived at home; a sheltered existence compared to my own.  Independent travel and camping, two things I adored, were not part of her realm of experience.  We got along well enough, but our level of connectedness was nothing out of the ordinary.  And, there was another issue; Larissa.  Larissa was a very cute girl I'd met passing customs where she worked as an agent, on one of my business trips.  We'd gone out a couple of times and stayed in touch.  Now that I was back in Peru, she wanted to see me.  And I realized I wanted to see her too.  But how to do this without upsetting Cecilia, who was communicating as if we were already in a committed relationship.  I got it; I'll just tell Cecilia I'm heading to the jungle (town of Iquitos) for market research, a few days earlier than planned, and see Larissa in the interim.  

I continued my superfoods research during the day, meeting with a couple of suppliers on the dry and dusty outskirts of Lima.  That night I connected with Larissa, a young beauty, who also suffered from anxiety disorder and depression.  They say there's someone out there for everyone, but now that I reached my 40s I was beginning to wonder.  In the meanwhile, until I found the "full package" I would have to make do with dating people who had some of the attributes I enjoy in a partner.  The date was enjoyable, and before bed I browsed Facebook while eating a cup of yogurt, and made a random post.  

I woke up pensive struggling with my life and dating direction, and as such was looking forward to Josh's arrival the next day.  I'd known Josh the better part of a 15 years, since we were young interns in Lima on a 6 month government of Canada program.  Josh had always been a resilient man.  At 23, I'd had the time of my life in Lima, and was  enamoured with my then Peruvian girlfriend Jessica.  However when my six month internship was up, although I wanted to stay, I'd lacked the courage to do so.  Josh, on the other hand, had endeavoured to stay on in Peru.  He'd started dating Jessica's best friend Cindy  and secured a full time role at the company he was interning at.  He ended up marrying  Cindy, and eventually they'd moved to Florida and had three lovely kids together.  Josh, lost his job during the financial meltdown in 2008, and with four mouths to feed in a dire economy started a business renovating repossessed homes for the banks.  Many of these had been trashed by their resentful former owners.  The stories he'd tell; scrubbing shit smeared walls!  My point is, Josh was a man with the ability to overcome adversity, who always found a way to reinvent himself. Hopefully some of that entrepreneurial spirit of his would rub off on me.  Just then I noticed a number of texts from Cecilia "what you're in Lima?".  My heart sunk to my chest, Facebook must of indicated my location as in Lima when I posted.  I was busted.  

Needless to say it wasn't my best day, I vainly tried to make up an excuse to recover from my deception, but knew it was no use.  If there were a silver lining to my doldrums it was that I recognised my pain while real, was at about a 7 level.  It was as much the shame of being caught in a lie, as anything.  Despite my flaws, I do have a conscious.  Were I mourning the loss of whom I saw real life partner potential however,  I'm sure I would have been at least an 8 or a 9 in grief.  Life goes on. 

The following day I rendezvous'ed with Josh at the Lima Int'l airport.  You couldn't miss him, six foot and large, reddish face and hair that had gone very white at a young age.  He didn't so much walk but strode with his arms swinging out in front then behind, especially his right warm which he'd swing almost in an arch shaking his hand at the wrist every time his arms reached full extension in front or back.  "Hey buddy!" he said.  "Are you ready for a great adventure in the jungle".  "Yessir Tex" I said,  I called him Tex as his parents wintered in the lone star state and he was a bit of cowboy.   On the flight I learned that he was getting the gringo run-around trying to secure the deed to the property he'd been trying to purchase in the Amazon since shortly after our Ayahuasca experience about five months prior.  He'd been back twice to Peru, and still didn't have it in his hands.  He explained he already paid an advance on the property, but every time he went someone needed money for something, be it the owner for an errand related to the transaction, Elisa a local contact of ours who was helping out, or some corrupt official in the lands office needing a greasing to get it on top of the pile.  

The plane gradually descended over the eastern slope of the Andes, clearings in the clouds revealed snaking rivers through dense tropical forests as far as the eye could see, no sign of roads, clearings, or man's intervention anywhere.  Finally the imminent landing bell sounded and you could see the square and rectangular shapes of simple houses and buildings amid lush green palms and tree tops as we hovered over Iquitos.  Peru's jungle metropolis had always fascinated me; a buzzing city of several hundred thousand people and the largest inland city of its size in the world apparently. that could only be reached by boat or plane.  Thousands of kilometres of jungle and rivers surrounded it that no highway had ever penetrated.  When we stepped out of the plane down onto the the mobile metal stairs to descend to the tarmac, a delicious wave of heat and humidity hit immediately.  The air fragranced by a combination of moisture and the endless abundance of flora as it was surrounded and enmeshed by perhaps the most naturally vibrant region on earth. We quickly grabbed our bags off the single carousel, and waded through a dozen or so hawking taxi drivers, to grab a moto-taxi, a scooter pulling a covered cart, into town.  

I'd always loved riding in moto taxis in warm tropical climes, Iquitos, Saigon, Yogyakarta, something about the warm tropical wind blowing against your face, open air, and a being in a different world with scores of moto-taxis, tuk tuks, or whatever the local term depending on the equatorial region you found yourself.  In Iquitos as in many of these places, the scooters far outnumbered cars, buzzing by and around in droves.  As a gringo/white person sticking out, you were often the subject of stares and smiles.  I just then noticed Josh preoccupied with his phone. "Its Elisa" he said, "she won't stop bugging me".  Elisa was a guide who worked with Esteban Antonio, the shaman I'd found through a trusted contact in Iquitos.  Josh had ended up bedding her, and then later got her to help him with the land purchase.   Josh wasn't looking for anything more.  She was after all ten years his senior and a grandmother at that!  Albeit in his defense she was fairly youthful looking for her age. Still...  Elisa however had become enamoured with the gringo fever.  At the same time she was in need of work and money, which turned out to be a bad combo for Josh.  Josh agreed to meet up with her at Arie's burger in the "Plaza de Armas" main square.

We both checked into our respective rooms in the Hotel Reina Victoria, a long narrow hotel fronting on Jiron Prospero, a block and a half from the Plaza.  For fifteen dollars a night, the small rooms weren't bad; a worn double bed, tiled walls, small bedside table, cabinet, old TV, bath and shower.  While Josh went to meet Elisa, I decided to take a stroll towards the Amazon river boardwalk. Iquitos had seen its hay day in the 19th century rubber boom.  European traders had come by the thousands to the predominantly indigenous city, whose first European founders were the Jesuits about a century prior.  The city became the center of export of rubber production from the Amazon Basin and was the headquarters of the Peruvian Amazon Company. The operations of PAC's forces in the Basin, who kept indigenous workers in near slavery conditions through use of force and harsh treatment was investigated by Roger Casement, the British consul-general in Peru. He had investigated labor conditions for natives in the Congo Free State when it was under King Leopold's control, reporting on the abuse of thousands of workers. His 1913 exposure of abuses of Peruvian workers caused a reaction against the company among the several British members of its board and many stockholders. The company struggled financially and lost backing in the UK. In addition, rubber seedlings had been smuggled out of the country and cultivated on plantations in Southeast Asia.  Asian competition and then artificial rubber precipitated the city's long decline.  Remnants of its former splendour could be seen in some of the historic venetian tiled buildings with Julienne balconies, most in varying states of decay. 

At the corner where Prospero met the main square, stood the "Casa de Fierro" an iron mansion designed by Gustave Eiffel himself.  I took a right and headed to the boardwalk catching my first glimpse of the mighty Amazon.  Peering across to its islands and vast green southern bank, you'd never guess there was a major city at your back.  I was by now hungry and thirsty, so headed over to one of the boardwalk cafe's built into the old historic buildings on its edge.  A strange looking European fellow with dirty blonde hair and large bulging eyes peeked my attention.   He reminded me of a slightly better looking version of the guy from Wes Craven's "the Hills have Eyes".  Out of curiosity I decided to sit down at the table beside him and strike up a conversation. 

3. The Lost Boys

So I sat down at a table on the sun drenched patio, and after a minute or two, leaned over and commented "traveling?".  My intriguing neighbour responded with a grin "Kind of but I live here now" with a central European sounding accent.  It didn't take me long to uncover that Dominik had come originally seeking the "plant medicine", code for Ayahuasca, the mother of psychotropic "consciousness altering" or hallucinogenic plants discovered by Amazonian healers or "shamans" hundreds of years or more ago and used in their healing rituals.   It's a vine and main ingredient of what many claim as a miraculous cure to psycho-spiritual ailments; substance addictions or psychological disorders; the "baggage" that people consciously or unconsciously carry around which prevent them reaching their full potential and happiness.  It's been attributed to curing heroin addiction, alcoholism, depression, amongst other severe afflictions.  While many travel to partake in an ayahuasca ceremony in the hope of treating a specific ailment, others do so simply for the experience or in the hope of having the wise insights of "Mother Ayahuasca" imparted on them.  I count myself as one of the latter, but if I had to guess, I'd say Dominik was one of the former.  After ten minutes or so of getting acquainted a couple of other travellers showed up; a mid thirtyish looking guy with a short stuble beard and baseball cap, and a slightly younger appearing asian gal wearing a brown bohemian style sleeveless dress, and bead jewellery.  John was from New York, and Astrid was Russian-Vietnamese, who had lived many years in London prior to coming to Peru to study the plant medicines.  We fell into the near instant type of camaraderie that open minded travellers tend to develop in adventurous locations off the beaten path.  It didn't take long for instance for John, an amicable guy, to completely open up to having been in Iquitos several months already treating his issues with alcoholism and other issues with a number of plant medicines.  They seemed quite a close group, but appeared all to have met while seeking what they were looking for in Peru.  Just then a dark haired, light skinned, hazel eyed girl showed up that immediately caught my eye.  She smiled and hugged all her comrades, and even lightly and amicably me, saying "hola, Rory" giving her name with a smile.   She had nice almond shaped eyes, a soft roundish face yet with pronounced cheekbones, and slightly below the shoulder thick dark wavy raven coloured hair.  I also could not help but notice her healthy curves. 

The chat indelibly wound back and forth on the topics of plant medicines, spiritual retreat lodges that a couple of those around the table had worked at, and friends and acquaintances, mainly fellow travellers, the group had met.  I then felt a slight vibration in my pocket.  Pulling out my phone, three messages popped up on my screen “where are you dude!?” “I’ve got BIG news.” “I’m at La Flor de Tejas with a pitcher of Crystal” (Peruvian beer).   It was Josh, who’d been trying to reach me.  I realized I’d been gone quite a while, lost in conversation with this strange group of travelers, with whom I’d felt a natural connection.  I told my new acquaintances I had to go.  I’d already got Johnny, Astrid, and Roman’s Facebooks.  I went around the table giving half shoulder hugs, and when I got to Astrid she said “I’m having a going away BBQ for Roxy at my place in Laguna Negra Friday, night.  My heart unexpectedly sunk to hear Rory was leaving, but I was happy to oblige.  “Yeah I think so sounds fun. Can I bring my buddy?”  She said “sure, we’ll be all throwing in for food, and there’s a beer store nearby.  Text me Friday, and I’ll send directions, its’ on the edge of town”. 

I paid my bill, and head down the boardwalk towards the Flor de Tejas a couple blocks down around the corner towards the plaza.  I had a spring in my step, happy I’d connected with an intriguing social circle, and delighted just to be in this place, as a gentle breeze off the river tempered the warm tropical air.  Josh was sitting on the wood framed veranda at a similarly deep brown coloured table, one hand holding the handle of the pitcher, and the other his sty.  When he saw me a big grin appeared on his face, and he kicked out the chair in front of him so I could take a seat.  “Buddy I got it”.  “What the deed?” I said with cautious optimism”.  “YES!”.  “What? How? Awesome!”  I’d learn that Josh had sent his crafty Peruvian buddy Ivan from Lima a couple weeks prior to either get his money back or make sure Nita came through with the deed.  I sipped on a cold one as he recounted how Ivan had shown up to Nita's place with Freddy, his cop friend in uniform, saying that she was under investigation for fraud from a Gringo, who had provided proof to her of their agreement, either she had to sign off on the final papers or return the funds, or else would face jail time.  Elisa had showed up with Nita at Ari's, more than eager to sell. When Josh paid her the $7,000 remainder for the land a fortune she’d never seen equivalent to all her adult life’s earnings, she was only glad to leave her drunk husband and move with her two young children a couple hundred kilometers up river to where her mom lived, and open a shop.  In parallel Ivan had provided a facilitation payment to the lands office coordinator, and a couple day’s later, Josh was the owner of eighteen hectares of prime riverfront Amazonian rainforest land.  I rolled my eyes, laughed, and we both took a big swig, smiled, and high-fived.     

We began planning the big build right away.  At this point I hadn't yet told Josh that I was going to stay, but my mind was moving swiftly in that direction.  What greater adventure than building a lodge in the Amazon; I day dreamed of holistic business opportunities in super foods, herbs, and maybe the transcendental yet controversial healing powers of ayahuasca, amongst a half a dozen conventional and non-conventional ideas, let alone the personal growth and life opportunities doing that would engender.  Between my severance and savings, I could pay off all my debts and would still have about sixty grand in the bank.  I figured I could live on half of that well for a year in Loreto, but out in the bush it would be much much less.  The butterflies stirred a combo of nervousness and giddiness as I felt on the brink of doing something completely unconventional and out there; something that would break my own mould.  

The next day (Wednesday) the planning continued in earnest.  There was literally nothing on the land but Nita's shack.  A two small room and patio, wooden hovel, with no insulation, no plumbing, not even glass windows, rather push open wooden ones.  It was slightly lifted up from the ground by its wooden base to provide some protection from floods, snakes and other ground hazards.    We needed to turn that into our temporary base of operations from which to live in to direct the big build of the lodge.  A good drinking water supply was essential, we figured we'd need at least 10 litres a day, considering a crew consisting of Ivan, Josh, myself, and a couple local work hands skilled in wooden construction.  A saw table and outdoor extension chords.  A diesel generator would be required to provide electricity for the wood saws, drills, edging and other power tools we'd also need.  A dozen or so litres of fuel to run it daily.  We'd need food for half a dozen men, two or three meals a day, depending on how local we could find the help.  That probably meant hiring a local woman to do the meal preparation.  Gas stove and canisters.  What to do about refrigeration?  Dig an outhouse, toilet paper supplies, bug spray, first aid supplies, hamocks, sleeping bags, the list went on and on. 

On top of it all, Josh warned that it was a bit of an adventure just to get there.  The route out to the property consisted of taking an old bus 45 minutes to Nauta where the main road ended, another 25 minutes in moto taxi over poor dirt roads, to a small river port, and then another 20 minutes by “peke peke” or put put motored canoe hired from the village.  And that if everything worked out seamlessly, which it rarely ever did in the tropics.

4. To site

The next morning we picked up a few basic supplies; water, canned pasta, beans, fruit, sleeping bags and cheap plastic rain ponchos prior to  heading out to see the property, me for the first time.  Our plan was to overnight there to better get a sense of the logistics and everything we'd need for the build, and to make the place home for the 2-3 months we figured it would take to build the "Eye of the Amazon" lodge, as Josh had proudly named it. 

With our hands full of bags and supplies, we climbed on board the bus to Nauta; an old Korean-made coach, bright yellow in colour with white trim, rusty and beaten on the edges. It was already full so Josh and I had to balance standing up over our belongings as it careened off with loose suspension.  Josh nearly landed on an young indigenous looking woman holding a baby, which wouldn't have been pretty.   We weren't the only ones carrying a bunch of supplies on the bus, there were at least a few chickens, half a dozen sacks of potatoes and beans, and other random wares piled around amongst the passengers.  We managed to get seats by the time the bus hit the outskirts of Iquitos, and headed more comfortably for the remaining half hour east to the end of the road.  We got off where a dirt side road crossed the highway, there were three lads with moto taxis waiting for passengers there, after a small haggle we agreed on a price, fifteen soles, and hopped on.  

It was nearing the rainier season, so the road was muddy.  Rainier, because there was never a true dry season in the heart of the Amazon.  the first kilometers or so were flat, but as we encountered our first hill, the tires spun a couple times on the ascent, then it was downhill fine, and fun.  We had a straightaway, and then another hill.  Then the pattern repeated, and it started to rain.   Light at first, and then harder.  The next hill the tires skid more and "s" slid.  Chunks of mud were landing on my legs below my khaki shorts and my head was getting wet.  We weren't exactly a light load with Josh and I in back, particularly Josh, I might add, who was hootin' and hollerin' away, loving every moment.  We motored forward with the buzzing of the motor partially muted by the rain  until we came to a bigger hill, which had become quite slick.  Without saying a word to another, we both silenced our enthusiasm.  The hill was steeper and the dirt road an oozing slick.  The driver gunned it, but his 30cc scooter could barely gather speed on the muddy straightaway.  We made it up perhaps 30metres on momentum, but the wheels spun propelling their splattering spray and sank in.  We oozed to a standstill, wheels spinning and stalling.  After about 10 seconds we both intuitively hopped out our sandals and sneakers sinking into the mud to our ankles, leaned in and pushed.  Josh while trying to dig in on an incline slipped forward covering himself half in the gunk, and cursed. He got up with a momentary look of frustration in his face, when I started to laugh and said "hey buddy, this what its all about; adventure!  His lips curled up too and he bellowed out a cowboy "woohoo!".  We pushed, one sloppy step at a time, and the moto-taxi advanced upwardspraying us as it advanced.  As we rounded over the top of the hill, light broke through the clouds and the rain slowed, almost symbolically.  A view of Amazonia opened up before us, the riverine village of Santa Anita about a kilometer away as the road sloped downwards ahead, beyond lay a vast green landscape with a river snaking into the distance.  "That's the Ucayali, the property is on a smaller river that branches off of it. We'll hire a put-put (canoe with a motor) from Santa Anita to there", Josh informed. 

About half an hour later our hired peke peke driver cut the boat's motor and we were gliding towards the grassy side of a river.  Strange  hanging birds nests hung from the snaking branches of large trees overstretching the river, their residents darting about and chirping overhead.  With a soft thud and a grainy braking slide, we came to a stop.  Leaving our supplies under a shady tree hidden from river review near the bank we followed a small trail through the grass up the embankment. The sky had totally cleared and the mid day sun was beating down on us.  As we levelled over the embankment the shade of the forest gave us welcome respite.  First on the right was the house.  Well, to north american eyes it was a shack on stilts, not more than 6 x 8 meters .  We climbed up the rotty wood steps on to the small open porch and set down our supplies.  There was a small main room with a few old rags, dirty pots, and a broken toy or two.  Adjacent there was a rustic plank on hinges that made for a door, and beyond a 1.5 x 1.5M room with just one hole in the plank floor "la toilette said josh in a bad impression of a french accent.  On the opposite side a small room with an old bedframe lacking a mattress.  "Home sweet home?" I said sarcastically.  Josh said "yeah I guess, but hopefully not for long, and we can also just sleep under the stars.  Let me show you the rest of the property."

We continued up the grassy path past bushes and smaller trees, some in flower, and rounded a bend.  There before us stood a giant.  Its roots alone were almost as tall as we were in places.  It stretched upward at least 100 feet into the canopy, its massive trunk sprouting huge mangled branches reaching outwards.  Various species of vines curled up and around it.  Bromeliads inhabited its branches.  A chorus of half a dozen or more different bird songs or animal calls could be heard around us.  "The Mother Tree", Josh said this was one of the reasons he bought the property,  I saw his point. She was majestic, whatever species she was.  Not more than a couple minutes walk beyond we came to a spring coming out of an exposed earth and rock face.  "Here's the second reason" Josh proudly exclaimed with a grin.  "Is it potable" I asked. "I think so, but I'm not 100% sure. Nita says it is. "I wonder if Nita had tapeworms" I replied.  We both laughed uncontrollably.   After taking a couple minutes to regain our composure we trekked on; climbing up through the forest, stepping over the odd log in our path, stumbling over roots, and dodging the odd prickly branch.  A few minutes later an area with more sunlight breaking through could be seen up ahead.  There we emerged on the top of the hill.  Walking out into the centre of the semi-clearing, I looked around, you could see the river below looking forward, and further in the opposite direction the Ucayali snaked its way towards the Amazon river.  The view was nice.  Josh squinted in the sun, the look of a man with purpose, surveying his land.  "What do you think of this place for building the lodge" he said.  "Could be, but is it a little far from the river?  I'm wondering if all your guests will be fit enough for the climb?".  "Well, we could build a better path with wooden steps".  "Yeah could be I said.  Great piece of land you got here".  "Half of it can be yours, buddy".  "seriously?" "Yeah, I'm going to need more capital to build the lodge".  I reached out my hand and we shook it.  "Yeah buddy" Yeah buddy". 

I'd just took the riskiest decision of my life, but took strength from one of my favourite mantras "risk nothing, risk all", but felt proud of myself for doing so.  I'd always followed the safe "sure" path.  My parents were professionals, a lawyer and a teacher, and had raised me to get a "good job".  While it wasn't my nature, nor in my upbringing, I admired entrepreneurs, and secretly dreamed of becoming one.  While this might not be the "big thing", it promised a taste of risk taking and making something tangible, that was also tremendously adventurous.  I smiled to myself as we descended back down towards the river, the midday sun beating heavily down upon me, sweat streaming down my cheeks. A few minutes later we arrived down by the river and a small sandy riverbank beach, the icing on the cake.  We stripped down, jumped in and celebrated.  The rest of the day, we talked more logistics, costs and finance, e-marketing, and special markets like veterans suffering from post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and upper middle class millennial drug addicts, whose new age parents might fork out big bucks to cure their lost offspring.  We soon realized we'd need a decent propane stove, as the canned pasta wasn't going to be something we wanted to turn into a regular meal.  We had plenty of water and fruit though. 

That night, the air cooled down just enough, we decided to Camp out on the shack terrace in our sleeping bags, staring up at the stars.   Josh recounted his ayahuasca experience to me again, as I'd already herd the abbreviated version the morning after we had the life-changing experience.   "How'd you feel when it was first coming on?" I asked.  "Not much really.  I kind of all of a sudden felt that my thoughts were being guided.  Maybe, come to think about it, a bit of a warm tingling feeling through my body, but very subtle.  Not much at all.  I was listening to Esteban sing those songs."  "Icaro's" I responded.  "That's what they're called".  "Cool". "So yeah, I was kind of just fascinated by that little ceremony and singing, Icaro's as you say, and noticing the glimmer of the candles, little shrine, the rest of the room dark around us.  And then I guess my thoughts went wandering off.  I thought of Cindy, and the kids, but mainly Cindy.   It was weird, and intense man.  I saw every single little argument we had, and when I said mean or belittling things to her.  Dude, I was an asshole sometimes.  A lot of times.  I really regret it man."   His voice twanged with emotion.  "Cindy wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she was a good mom.  And, we had great sex." He sighed".  "I remember this one time I'd been working all day in this really dirty re-posess". Josh had made a living cleaning and fixing up re-posessed homes in Florida for banks, after he found himself out of work with three young children in the aftermath of the 2008 U.S. financial crisis. "I'd literally been scraping shit off bathroom walls, dude.  People were angry, you wouldn't believe how much trashed some of these places are".  "All I'd asked Cindy, who wasn't working, to do was to pick up some cleats for Styles' as he had his first soccer game that eve.  Do you think it was done? No. I get back with 15mins to spare to get him to his game, and I find out he's got no cleats.  Cindy says (with her thick spanish accent) "Jason I don't know what kind of cleats is good.  I told her to use her head for once, and gave a little knock knock on it "hola is there someone home".   But dude, I swear, I must of saw every thing incident over the years, stuff I didn't even think I remembered.  It was like a movie playing clip after clip.  "It's incredible technology isn't it?" I said. "Yeah!" "I needed to apologize man, it was too late to save our marriage I know, but a weight lifted after that, they I didn't know I was carrying.  And, our we get along better now, around the kids you know, and that's important.  Although I still can't stand that little weasel she's shacked up with now".  "Ha I don't blame you.  What about the second night?".  Well part of it was the same, but I also wanted to build this lodge".  "Crazy man. Me too".  "She's like that.  Mother Ayahuasca.  She know's what you need, and wants to get out in the world.  To heal it".  "Yeah! Said Josh, its really the truth! Tell me about you again." "She took me through everything, all the important relationships in my life that I have and don't have.  God, family, women, a potential future soul mate.  I was also infused with a great sense of confidence and unbound potential.  I was really reminded I can do anything.  I came out wanting to honour my parents, who won't be around forever, at least not in this lifetime.  I was compelled to make the time to have meaningful experiences with them, tell them how important they are to me.  Talk about God and the afterlife with them.  Likewise to cherish my siblings and my friends.  My belief in God was reinforced, and his people Israel.  I also saw myself in my career and work relations.  I was shown that the sky's the limit for me, that I'm as smart and capable as any man out there, to reach whatever heights I want, and not just on my current path, but any path I choose!  I could remain and grow in leadership in the corporate world, or, I could become a consultant with the freedom to live where I choose and be my own boss.  Or, I could break my mould and become an entrepreneur and start a completely new businesses, or several.  The one path that kept coming up for me too though, was this one.  To build a lodge, create a network of certified shaman's to safely bring this psycho-spiritual medicine to a sick world with lots of lost souls, hurt and pain.  She wants to get out to the world, and is calling on us to help." 

We awoke to tropical birds chirping, and a light only slightly cool breeze traveling off the river.  My back was only slightly sore from sleeping with only a thin mat over the deck planks but I was happy to be in this place and the future that lay before me.  I did a few stretches as Josh boiled some water for coffee with the small propane burner we'd grabbed at the hardware store in Iquitos. Nescafe never tasted so good!  Not only was I excited about this venture, but also for the party at Astrid's place this night.  I'd nearly forgot about it, but it was a sweet thought when I remembered.  I felt a butterfly pang in my chest with the thought of seeing Rory again.  I hoped to engage with her.  I hoped she'd reciprocate the interest.  It wasn't long until we heard the baritone buzzing of an outboard motor in the distance.  Felix our peke-peke boat driver was on time.  The day had started out well.

We arrived back to the Bellavista hotel in Iquitos around noon, I enjoyed a shower and clean bed and got lost down the internet rabbit-hole.  I had a lot to do now that I'd committed to the craziest, most spirit-filled venture of my life. 

5. Jungle Ceilidh

Around seven I started pestering Josh to get ready for the party at Astrid's.  "What's the rush, lets grab a beer at Cori's Chicken".   "No there's going to be food there", "I want greasy chicken, pollo a la brasa, not all that vegan shit" mock-laughed Josh.  I said "John is on BBQ duty, there's going to be some meat".  "I want to break bread with people, so to speak, and bond with the group, rather than be the vultures that swoop in later for the booze and the leftover women".  A couple physical finger pokes in the gut later, Josh was showering up, as I checked my pockets, phone, room key,

After the usual bumpy mototaxi ride out to Laguna Negra, a rural neighbourhood on the outskirts of Iquitos on the edge of a beautiful jungle lagoon.  The cooler temperature and wind in our faces from the velocity of our revving moto-scooter taxi was a pleasant respite from the heat of the day, and we soon arrived at Astrid's place.  As we got to the door of her house, mellow glitchy melodic electronic music could be heard not too loudly as well as the light buzz of friendly conversation, coming from inside.  John greeted us with a hand slap and half hug as we came inside.  We cracked our beers, and conversed about the past days events.  Josh headed outside into the backyard, and I brought up the topic of Rory's imminent departure upriver.  John's tone sobered some. "I'm a little worried about her you know".  "Tehuaca Huamachi, who goes by Tete, is who she's going to study under.  He's a near legendary shaman but some say he's not such a decent guy.  He's smooth talking, and highly intelligent.  He was taught by missionaries who were the first foreigners to arrive to his village in the LOWER HUALLAGA in the late 60's, and he speaks perfect English.  Those missionaries were later massacred by natives in the same area.  Some say they did not want to give up some of their darker practices." "What have you heard I asked", already feeling concerned for someone who I hardly knew.  "Well that he pays special attention to the attractive young foreign girls who go to ceremony with him.  Some suspect worse when they are not their normal conscious self. Nothing's been proven however.  To his friends and supporters in the shamanic community who look up to him, he's a legend, and they counter these tales saying that those who say these things are just haters and envious.  I think he's a little dodgy myself.  "Rory's going along with a french girl too, and will stay with his female relatives in the village, so she's adamant she'll be fine."  Just then, Rory appeared with a bright smile placed her hand on my arm exclaiming,  "I'm so glad you made it, talk to you in a bit" and then fluttered off high on the buzz of the social gathering and ocasion".  

I headed out the back sliding doorway and saw a few clustering of people; 5 or so around a small bonfire, where the jungle grass yard sloped down towards the river, a few including Josh around concrete cylinder charcoal grill, and a local looking guy chatting up a "gringa", the Peruvian slang for any westerner, about midway down the yard.  I hi and smiled passing the couple and headed to the grill where  Josh was swinging his arms wide in his typical fashion when relaying a story.  This time it was the topic of his Russian-English language exchange to Moscow in the nineties in the initial euphoric times when the Soviet Union opened up to private enterprise, foreign investment, and gave previously unknown freedoms to its population.   It was one of his many stories I'd heard before, this one from the legendary Red October bar, when a newly rich former communist or former KGB official who'd wrestled off some former state asset, announced free drinks on him until close.  Semi naked bartenders pouring vodka down patron's throats from atop bar stools, as torches blasted into the air to pounding electronic dance music.  Josh said he left with an attractive Russian babe on his arm, until he puked in a snowbank, and his entourage let out a guffaw.  The next hour or so,  I made the social rounds around the yard, thoroughly enjoying the chicken, sausage, roast veggies, beer and wine.  In the back of my mind in hopeful anticipation of getting to know Rory better before she departed.  She was the guest of honour, and a lovely one at that, so was constantly being engaged in conversation, but a smile or two from her had spiked my endorphins and let me know that she had'nt forgot me.  Or perhaps that was my wishful thinking and she was just being polite when she caught me looking. 

Feeling like a social breather, I headed down to the river by myself finding the large twisty roots of a tropical tree to take in a contemplative moment.  The pronounced symphony of insect calls eclipsed the sound of music and chatter from the gathering.  I guessed cicadas or crickets, but realized it could be emanating any unknown variety of critter in a jungle such as this.  I was high largely just from being in this raw, alive, place, and from being among these kindred spirits; grateful for the adventure I was living.  It was then that Aurora unexpectedly slipped up beside me.  "Coincidence finding you here", she warmly proclaimed with a smile that shun through the shadowy night. "Yeah, well, I just wanted to grab a quiet moment, and take everything into perspective".  "Really important for your wellness, ensuring your on your genuine path" she commented.  "If only I could be sure" I chuckled, making light of the uncertainty I really felt inside.  "You should stay until the path becomes clearer.  The forest will tell you, if you're open and listen".  "I am staying actually, Josh and I begin the build next week".  "Amaaaazing!  Maybe you can hire me when I graduate from my apprenticeship under Tete", she winked.  My heart dropped, but seeing her genuine enthusiasm and unsure of my place or the facts to tell her otherwise, I simply wished her the very best but to be safe and come back if anything didn't seem right.  She said I will, and gave me a hug.  As her plush chest pushed into me, I felt both a deep sense of affection and arousal for her at the same time.  A tad flustered by this unexpected emotional and physical response, I was momentarily at a loss of words.  Seemingly oblivious to it, she asked about my life and what brought me here.  I told her about being a voracious reader as a boy about books of history, adventure, nature, adventure, and far off places.  How cultures and civilizations fascinated me, and how once after leaving Peru after a three year gig at the American Chamber "Amcham", I'd shipped all my belongings back up to Colorado, keeping only a back-pack and river-boated all the way down the Amazon river to the Atlantic, sleeping just in a hammock.  How the random assortment of books I'd read on those long days on the boat had formed my belief systems in God nature and the universe as one source.  That where science and psychology stopped, spirit began. How premonitions or foretelling dreams I, or close and trusted people to me had, led me to give credence to prophets and prophecy.  Rory smiled and took it all in, acknowledging she shared some of these core views on the mysteries of life and existence.  Where she may have differed she was accepting and open.  I asked about her and "How did you come to be in this place?".  She responded about growing up in the Ukraine to a part-Jewish mother and Catholic father who lost his job as a nuclear engineer in the years of turmoil after the fall of the Soviet Union, who took his own life after a brain tumour diagnosis.  That her fondest memories were the days when she was a child and would pick blueberries in the forest around their dacha, or chase butterflies in the garden while her mother would pick beats to prepare borscht for the family dinner, when her father would get home from work from the plant.  Within a year of her father's passing as the economy got worse, and her mother's school teacher salary could not make ends meet the family, they considered migrating.  Finally the unwanted attentions of a local organized crime syndicate towards her while she was only fifteen was the last straw.  Her words drew off, and  she looked away slightly. And then silence.  Her voice wavering some "So my mother moved us to Israel, which was taking anyone who could prove one Jewish grandparent.  It was hard to fit in there not being raised Jewish and lacking Hebrew.  But I learned, and did my mandatory two year military service, making a few friends along the way.  After the army I came backpacking to Peru, and found my calling in this place" her voice now largely recovered.  She grabbed my hand and gave me a tug "come on, lets go back up before we became the subject of any gossip!" this time being her turn to give me a wink. 

As we headed back up the lawn, the party had converged around the bonfire.  The crescendoing trance music was amped to full speaker capacity. The revellers were passionately stomping, hopping, and hooting in tribalistic dance.  We joined in, each of us syphoning off to greet different companions.  Quickly the collective energy had grabbed us and we were soon fully a part of the dance.  It was not until dawn that Josh and I motored back to the Reina Victoria in town, tired but glowing from a night to be remembered.