BR-156 Red Earth Road

The eyes of strangers were cast down like nets into an unknown depth, indifferent and steady. So were the fishermen, hung to their feet by the decaying dock. Others, adrift atop the concrete terraces of the upper street. Dominos, cards, beer- and stares. Men making their living by capturing creatures who, finding an otherwise good way through a stream, find it at the wrong time. Curious they were. Here was coming youth to town, one with the reputation of never being able to leave. What was a foreigner doing in these parts-alone- afar from any slightly touristic destination? In a state where over 70% of the land is protected; where, consequently, any form of movement is limited to conditions and therefore the seasons. Just as a fish, I too choose this way en route to another- a little luckier, however.

The canoe’s engine fluttered off as it neared the banks of Oiapoque. Drifting with the currents, my driver steered the haul towards a vacant space- there, where a set of stairs joined the river and the upper street; dominated by fisherman short and tall, enjoying their fraternity and lazy ease. No official anything. A river unknowing of nationalities and borders. Ping! The ferry has arrived. Tiago and I exchanged some words and finalized our dues. I didn’t bother asking him any questions regarding the town, nor of the customs bureau. I decided that I’d find out the old fashion way, by detour and chance. I took the first hook insight- knowing full well I knew not where it led. With all these burly folks to choose from, I landed on a jolly creature, fair aged and pot-bellied. Like a fish himself when his eyes went wide; when to him I spoke in his native tongue. Asked him when he started drinking and if today’s catch was any good, rolling myself a cigarette to remind me of time. Said he was well off for the day and offered me a seat next to his friends. We spoke of the species that made a home in the murky waters and the folks under the sun. Myself, a fish out of his waters and at ease, was questioned fancifully by the humble sunbaked men of simple means. We jested in that universal language, lubricated by barley and wheat, not so distant when differences are set aside and remembered for what they are- incidents of fate. The ember of my cigarette began to press my creased lips, reminding me of eternity that must constantly be put to an erratic end. The smoked digits of my right hand crumbled the flame between its flesh and scattered it into the well of an empty can. Exhaling, I asked where to, to find the center of town and the bureau of immigration. They pointed gayly over to tattered roofs towards the plaza central and informed me of the bureau that laid hidden by the avenue that sneaked out of town. Equally casually, I adjusted anew my bandana, bit the men adieu, and tossed my humble bag over my worked shoulders, now free again.

My mind was like an empty vessel, filled in by perfumes my heart so recalled for its own vagrant reasons. The wind tossed opaque and humid across my wanton hair. The smell of flowers wild caught and carried by this airy waterway enveloped my sense of timelessness and fractal reality. Shattered by the laughter of babes running adrift beyond the grasp of their parents. Misery hidden in the lines of somber smiles, portraying the tragedy of our helplessness at becoming what our inner-child once dreamt of. Content with silver and copper means- forgetting the heavens that Earth might be; if only sincerity was sought through and empathy could be shared without words; marred by trauma and linguistics.

My feet gently caressed the new village that saw me err its streets. Crisscrossing around the same buildings and groups of people as I searched for a place to rest the night, more importantly, a place to discard my possessions, to glide through the place with only my body for mass. So went the rounds, asking the prices of here and there and finally settling in a humble wooden and leafed assemblage. The hours of the sun began to let its strong rays fade across the horizon stretching into the forest, revealing scores of hidden colors as he hushed himself to the approaching of night, where slowly, he was cradled low under the stars and out of sight for all. The howling of monkeys saluted the moon embarking on her throne, full and majestic- soft and sure. The chapters were turning assuredly, so close to the delta of that mighty river that I could feel the throb of hidden serpents consuming time and shedding its ash on the fire of itself. Only to rage into the ocean where one once was all.

Possessed now, I left my quarters and went about the stores illuminated by the works of men. Belly hollow, I scanned the shelves for fruit and bread of the brow. Plenty I found and brought it to the banks of the diving river from whence I came. Broke the bread with ghosts and thanked the air. Calmly I ate and drank with them to the sounds of murmurs deep. Satiated, I dropped to my feet again and went where they led; prejudice none and fear absent. Within little time I had ventured across every stone and skirted the surrounding grasses of the town. Now, at one with its memories, I came to myself, discriminating myself from its pulse and mystery- a thorn with its own petals. So, sapped with the force of life, I erected my spirit to the goals of that blossoming end. Thoughts like new buds took heed to that delta which was to water them. Walking, slow of pace, I resolved my intent to continuation and a march towards the figment of progress. Amor Fati.

I awoke the following morning to the chanting of birds in high hum. The infant sun shone upon my visage and glistened my eyes to its fire. On the open terrace where my meal laid, my gaze wandered to the plaza- that perineal space allotted to all Latin communities- held my mind the time I daydreamed my coffee away. Matter into non-matter. The taste of no taste. Mind engrossed in empty space; projections of senses made to awaken from perception. Black, bitter. Sweetened by unreality. My cup has vanished. The fragrant bakery from downstairs rises its freshly baked treats to my nose, recalls my mind-body to return to the local play. I strapped my bandana to my forehead and slipped on my shoes. With the few reais left in my bag from Venezuela, I venture to the bakery to acquire some handmade contortions for the journey ahead. Taking less than I should, I keep the remaining coins for fresh fruit and package them all carefully.

Just as I was about done gathering my belongings, I remembered my responsibility in announcing my arrival, getting my passport stamped, and whatnot. Remembering having passed it last night, I honed on my pack and made my way out of town, where, at the outskirts, the building laid-a grand one-story concrete blob. State-sponsored, no doubt. Gingerly I entered, passing a few armed guards. The man working at the office however had a happy countenance and asked me many irrelevant questions and forgoing the standard ones. It was refreshing and a good omen, to be sure. Under laughter the official procedures were dusted- I was now legally at large and could travel as I fancied it. Leaving the air-conditioned mass of right-angled walls, I stepped anew under the 30-degree Celsius sun, marching on red dirt roads, passing the rodoviária (bus station), and setting myself under a tree-; thumb in the air, 600km between myself and the Amazon river.

It was May then, still well within the rain season which can see, on average, 400mm of rain a month. We are in the Amazon after all. Which in itself is a highly unlikely place for there to even be a road. Indeed, the only one there is in the whole state is highway 156, linking the border to the river coast capital of Macapá, my destination. But don’t be fooled, the only asphalt on it is a brief length exiting the capital. Most of it, virtually all of it, is a thin band of dirt with protected forest on all sides. Besides the commitment factor and self-reliance there called for, the road itself is continually washed out by the torrential rains (8 months of rain season) and worked feverishly by semi-trucks supplying the four very small villages that are dotted on it. At any rate, I decided id still try to hitch through its awful and powerful maw. It wasn’t raining then and I didn’t see why I shouldn’t try. Improbable as it may be. No local in their right mind travels this road, even less own or a need a car. This is village life. Still. Why not? So there, hiding from the sun now past adolescence, in its full power, I laid like a salamander, not moving, barely drinking. My breath was shallow as if time had forgotten its sway, my muscles deserted my chest and abandoned it to the swell of cicadas. Tranced, back leaning on bag, the symphony flooded my consciousness. My eyes, barely peering into the void grew heavy as lead; fell, rose, and fell. The rhythm of death slithered as my pulse drowsed under the fire of life. Burning flesh without the slightest of touch, only that encompassing heat of a world on fire. Of Dreams on fire. Of Life on fire.

“To lay one’s head upon the pillow of the hour,
A weary traveler by the barked tower,
Dents its fallen leaves- and sleeps.
”

— Writ in Chapada dos Veadeiros

The roar of an engine suddenly jumped my nervous system back to perception. A truck, a Toyota Hilux, rushed on by, picking up dirt and slathering it over my glasses, escaping to the heart of the wilds. The sun was hot still, although not so much my ambition for picking a free ride. I knew these trucks were private hire and rather costly- the only half-assured way across. Luckily, I wasn’t here for certainty. That was something searched for at many an elsewhere, and since then abandoned. Come what may, but I beware of stagnation- the sap must flow. So, I like the locals with slender means, choose to visit the rodoviária. Some people with whom I spoke the night before informed me that the last great fall of rain was a few days ago, ergo, the roads might be passable. It was a wager I was willing to take. The bus was to depart in an hour or so- giving me just enough time for a stroll. To unwind the legs before their indefinite confinement. When I got to, families and solitary citizens were filling up the under-haul with enormous bags. The same haul I was forced to store my machete in. The driver wasn’t so keen to have one on board, strapped to a green bag of bounty. Some of the locals pondered a moment as to why I should be traveling with one. Again, this is the Amazon; and in these parts, I much rather own a machete than a pair of shoes.
Mortus Viventi.

As luck would have it, either by chance or freight, no one sat next to me. I had a window seat for the eyes and an alley seat for the legs. Outstretched then, I readied myself for a road of legend. The mechanical clinks gave way to the initial torque and off we started. As the hour widened to the second, the red dirt road was dry and level, compact and easy going. Around then the plains on which we rode ended clean and now we found ourselves surrounded by dense, thick, green foliage that took up all vista. A change of pace took place, slowing down, moving up still. For the most part, the road was straight so momentum wasn’t much of an issue. All seemed well. All seemed well indeed until it wasn’t at all.

Like a fly landing in molasses, the heap of metal came to a halt as it splashed in a puddle deep enough to drown a drunk. Mud all the way over the wheels- burying itself within the wells. Fuck. Like a pool all around us. Dirt consuming what is hers. Flesh in vibrant colors caught in the metal frame of civilization in a land that repels it. Stuck. Enthralled in her bosom- in the middle of nowhere. But man is a social creature, and institutions work together in the quest for dominion, of one sort or another. This instance was no different. After a good while of waiting, a group of uninformed men with heavy machinery- road managers I imagine- appeared Infront of us all. Exiting from the window our driver jumped out, feet naked, and trod his way across the thick sludge towards Deus Ex Machina. Within an hour or so they managed to excavate a piece of the bus strong enough to endure the force of a winch and tow- and so dragged our miserable cart out of its predicament and back onto drier dirt. Onwards.

As If nothing had happened, we carried on. Some hours in now, having traveled barely anything. I dragged down the window pane on my right side and poured my head downwards and out as if a flag of rocks. The artificial wind brought by movement soothed my head-ache of mortal coil. Occasionally, splashes of mud caressed my face, reminding me of the absurd attempt at road travel. Red, green, and blue: the only things that entered my eyes and contrasted themselves to their own self. The monotonous and nauseous repetition of traveling unnaturally in a place otherwise magnificent. The terror, the absolute terror that all buses everywhere strike into the hearts of us, that ambushes the poetic with convenience. Committed. Destined. I was in the belly of the whale. The consequence for not believing. The irony of faith. Thusly dragged and dogged the succession of timeless unsubstantial time onto the thin red band, across the thick green forest, under the blazing blue pavilion of sky.

Murphy’s law is never far- and the Dharma is one with it. Indiscriminating, it discriminates us all. Great furrows that rose and fell to their own aesthetics barged us on from locomotion. Nature imitating art. Puny once again. All our virtues and years of mastery stopped in its tracks by simple mud. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. So once more the bugle is sounded and the cavalry marches. Ourselves, sitting ducks and characters of characters- standing aside of our own lives. Another, different, group of men appeared again to save us from our plight that now seemed a casual occurrence- normal as day is day and truth are lies. This time, seeing as we were not downright flooded, but merely jammed, the rescue was done quicker and in better style. By the time I finished eating a cookie, old Betsie was on the road again.

It had been about 6h now and we still hadn’t passed 100km. 500 remaining mind you and night approaching fast. As fate would have it, before we plunged ourselves into a new misadventure, we stopped at a heaven-sent truck stop. Presumably constructed for run-down folks like us. It had a buffet-style restaurant like anywhere in Brazil- where you pay by the weight. It also had showers for the public- again, like everywhere else in Brazil. Lodging too for a fee. Really, luxury incarnate. Stepping out of the hunk of mud-covered metal, I asked the driver what his plans were.
He informed me that we would be here for a while- unsure how long- until the roads ahead were passable-ish.

About then, at his last uttered syllable, dusk took hold of the sky and a coolness fell on us. Most if not all the folks from the bus sheep tailed into the restaurant, loading plates greedily, mixing this with that until you could not distinguish what things were actually put into it. I, with barely any cash, opted to wait until I could no longer, which would be a while still. To calm the temptation, I went outside and laid on the moonlit grass. There I digested in slow the passing events of the day. Glad to be at a halt and close once more to the Earth, under the gentle gaze of the mysteries of the night sky. Bare chest I laid and unwound the clatters of the mechanical world with all its freight and nonsense. The absurd attempt at arriving at one’s death quicker all the while denying it; moreover, bringing everyone and everything else with it. Let it be men. Unshroud the ivory towers of progress and raise the bed to Lilith and her womb. Realize your emptiness and the essential emptiness that space and time and matter puppeteer across this vast essential emptiness. The emptiness your eyes fool you into clinging to. Like pyres to death these stars that blaze and bless our sight, consuming their selves to the core in cataclysmic tragedies of a universal orgy. How can you be so vain as to cry over spilled milk?

With stars falling overhead to this and that direction, the moon waned and crept ever so slightly to the west, to the heart of the continent. Conquistadors of past were long gone – though their heritage remained. So too that eternal pulse of vagrancy and curiosity, so often be-mixed in one strange strand. Thus it was with this man who tempted fate as I did also. Middle age and full of stories, he wandered with his drape of jewelry from shoulder to sandalled feet. Unable, of course, to sell his wares. Not for the virtue of the lack in quality, but of overriding necessities of sense organs, adjoined to the unknown duration of our delay and finite wallets of our fellow passengers. Himself one just so. Though a Rastafari, with his own illicit needs. I suppose it was the uncanny sight of me that inspired him to come and speak of his creed. So, cross-legged he joined my circle and asked If I would fancy a smoke to Jah. Not one to deny the arrows of destiny, I let my lungs be pierced by that musk-petaled flower. Entwined in a cloud of sacrament, the air’s vibrations heightened as gravity fell to its own- transporting us inwards to perception of divinity. Of brotherly love and humanity. Of our inescapable and intimate bond with the Earth with all her prices to bear and gifts ever-given. Compassion and austerity.

Just so, as the moon waned furtherly deep into the forest- so green it is black- our circle too shattered its form to accommodate a new one. On his way, he went to the bus for safe sleep. I not pining the glinting signs of rain, gave myself to the simplest bed of all-a tree with a canopy of gold.

“ He has the most who is most content with the least”

— Diogenes

The heat perturbed the leaves above me, then found my still cool skin, and warmed it to my awakening. I brushed my eyes with my hands of clay and looked around the scenery with a new light. I yawned to the morning of jungle might and remembered the bearings on I which I relied upon. The bus, still motionless, remained parked where it had upon arrival. Appeased, I went off to search for our driver. Found him and kindly- almost detachedly- asked him for an update. Half-annoyed, he replied that he did know at all. Well then, what else but to be a cat and loiter under the sun? Following a brief walk on the outskirts, my stomach began the rumble- to make known lyrically and tactilely its feverish needs. So then, I erred back into the bus to scavenge some fruit from my trusty green bag, then hastily left and went out again. I embraced the indolence of the morning and the lazy ethos of those that surrounded me. Book in hand, I shuffled through the scribblings of old men dead. Softly I read to the seamless ripples of the air, that robbed my voice and suffused it with wisdom not mine. Like senseless signs of ink over a vast ethereal canvas of naught.

“Ma pensée est un souffle aride: - C’est l’air. L’air est à moi partout. - Et ma parole est l’écho vide - Qui ne dit rien - et c’est tout.”

— Tristan Corbiere

Just as the yellowed pages of that accursed poet- who not himself a saint- were ending upon its opening, these senses of sight, my eyes, rose to the buffeting of trucks with dusted skirts of mud. These trucks were for hire and their clients poured out in a constant trickle and into the restaurant, where some supplies were bought and the restroom used. The drivers took advantage of the stop and caped their reservoirs with gasoline tanks, ratcheted to the bed. As swift as they had arrived, so swiftly they were gone. A mirage and play; a display of inequality that remains the same. This again occurred an hour or so after the first arrival. Close to noon now and no sign of leaving. My fruit and bread supplies were nearing their end - soon I would have to summon my meager coins for beans and rice. But for how long? How long could I stretch the value of money and endure the hushing of sap that runs in my veins? 500km away and I could sense the freshwater of that great torrent rushing into the ocean. I resolved that I would hitch a ride with the third arrival of a truck or caravan of them. An auspicious aura grew from the northern road that led to Oiapoque. I remembered then the saying from home that a third always follows a suit. Time and even its adversaries were on my side. Patient and they will come.

Sure enough, two Helixus skidded out the woods and into the parkway, where the bus laid odd and useless. One of the drivers, with a black shirt and sunglasses, swaggered his way out the imported instrument and purchased himself a drink. On his way back, I accosted him in his native tongue, which in my favor soothed him away from the concept of the foreigner- slightly. I plainly asked if there was space left for a voyage down the 156. There wasn’t however. All full; just as the other truck was. It was that other driver that pointed out a coffin space in the bed I could wiggle in. A proposition that was alright in my book. The tattered clothes over my back must have helped convince him. For a greatly reduced fare- in fact just under what I had then- he allotted me space and then and there, there I was at the cusp of resuming motion and adventure. Just before jumping in, I ran for my bag and informed the busman of my leave, and recovered my trustee machete. Swooshed into my coffin, all glad and merry, as the engine roared off to the south.

Within a quarter of an hour, I was most assured of my decision. We were gunning down and up terrain proper to the most vehement of off-roaders. There was no chance in hell a bus would ever fare a yard, even with the highest blessings of heaven. Dirt scattered everywhere like shrapnel from an ever-exploding grenade of mad earth; red as blood and thick as all things vital. Tossing only occasionally-having barely any room to wiggle in at all- I managed to roll a cigarette; let its fumes intoxicate my head and its associated- conjoined- senses, which were being stormed by all sorts of stimuli. The heat shone high and burnt my flesh as the smoke itched my eyes, the flying and fiddling earth moistening my exposed chest, the wind scything through my ears, the smell of that great jungle overriding the hues of gasoline, faintly drifting past. So it was, so it went.

Sitting in the truck bed, second truck following us.

YIPE! A sudden drift in the afternoon onslaught brought us to a first interruption. Before us, a caravan of trucks and semis- even a cop car- attempting to cross a concave gap between two hills; buried by heaps of mighty mud. Speed and teamwork were the names of the game. No way to cross here gingerly. An all-out commitment was needed. When we arrived, it was Mr. cop car’s turn to cross- and of course, everyone laughed at the mere sight of him- then more at his impotence and struggle to get across. Finally, one of the semi truckers, the one who, conveniently happened to be Infront, threw the officer a tether to bind onto his vehicle and therewith winched the law out of its inertia. Some three semis went next, only one of which managed without a winch. Another forfeiting to put planks of wood under his wheels in hopes of traction, since even the winch could not abracadabra it out. Excitingly, it was now our turn to raise Cain. With some preparatory reversing we created a few meters for propulsion and momentum. Speeding up with the lifting gears we charged into it and now with lowering gears spun through with the ass tossing left and right- myself in the bed still- giving e’r all that could be given. Mud flew as it never had, absolutely cascading over my person; now jumping up and down to help the quest advance. Fuck, finally she soared out the pit and continued on without a crash; myself, only almost falling out. What a rush. Painted over by the merry marriage of earth and rain, I smiled brightly and laughed heartily as I witnessed the other truck which we rode with making his way as well. An interlude not soon forgotten.

Wating our turn to pass. Mr Cop is trying to get out.

We rode on and kept our speed from then on, for the most part. The remaining hours of sun-dried over the mud that occupied my clothes and skin- and so easily peeled. Still well within the deep breast of the fragrant forest, night crept over the colors of vanishing day. Soon the oranges, reds, yellows, then purples and indigos, turned to a darkling sight of light. The most splendid reminder of ages past and now long gone. A black curtain dominated by the snows of cosmic fires. Blinding. Astonishing. Terrific. To think we gave up such terror and joy, such fertile fields of myth, embers to imagination’s flight, the very spark and gift of Prometheus, stolen from Gods and Titans, to have our cities lit. Of what use to see what is close and known at the price of forgoing what is beyond? That scene, that living and breathing scene that soared through my innocent eyes and lulled its cleverness to bed will never be attained by artificial lights. Sublime incarnate. Sapere Aude.

Enveloped in awe and gratitude, certain there could be no brighter sky- and sure that this truck bed was the best place to lay, fixating the emptiness that consumes all space, I rolled a cigarette of Mapacho must humbly, sharing with the wind and earth without care, projecting intentions beyond word and definition; I brought it to my lips and lit my modest flame to join in its choir of raging silence.

“J’aimerais connaitre ces mêmes voluptés
Qui éblouisse la noire avec ses soies dorées.
Lointaines flammes vivaces et grandes,
Je joint ma cigarette à vous cette nuit;
0ù la route est longue et gratuite.
”

— Writ during the following days

As all good things must come to an end- and the holy shrouded anew, pieces of the sky began to fall. As shooting stars danced across the milky way, gems of water poured down from the flames. The clouds took hold of a vista unworldly - and under their grey gaze, I was bequeathed with the ambrosial breath of that thundering moment in time, where the sands of the Sahara fell with the tears of tragedy, stoked by the ever-renewing jungle. Naked to her ways, washed out, and baptized to death and life.

The road stretched on and anew the baptismal font opened. Through the night we raced onwards the hundreds of kilometers of red blood earth that led to the great Amazon river delta. Wet, I laid exposed in the merciful warm air, hiding from the cold winds brought by our actions. The hushing sounds comforted me in their irony. Beyond duality, the wind was neither good nor bad, not evil, nor just- not even fair. It was what was and I was at peace with come what may. Every day is a good day. Quality and quantity; dreams of emptiness and form unsubstantial birthing meaning in us all. Another mirror in this great web of lights refracted over another; multiplicity abiding in a single spark. As here I lay motionless, moving over the earth, the earth spiraling, the stars burning- I am no-one. Mind, mind only- everywhere. Nowhere no mind. Ohm.

It was oddly smooth when I awoke. The uneven ground that had rocked me to sleep was no more. I peered my head out of the coffin and witnessed the lights of metal poles strewn across the highway. We were near now. Still dark. As a curious hedgehog, I remained a sentinel and scout. Taking in clues of the city and feeling its aura. It became obvious that I would be sleeping in the streets tonight.

Drifting across the empty avenue, still on the outskirts, on inward, I readied myself for the foray into the unknown. A new dazzling city to explore by the banks of my mistress. Blessed by stars, now dim. Half an hour or so passed, as my consciousness gained in awareness, before we came to stop. Around me dreary houses with iron draped over windows, portraying mistrust and the pitiful preoccupation with material wealth. No doubt a residential area. Under the howl of dogs, our driver appeared next to me and- glad to see I was already awaking- from under the tarp, took out the luggage that belonged to a couple that lived at this address. I understood then that he would be making rounds to the homes of those who rode in the cab. Still another couple to go before he’d ask where I wished to be. Not quite downtown but well into the city, a sense of ease strange took hold of my heart. I knew this would not be a safe place to go willy nilly- but only if one carried fear, and what use is fear?

We stopped again and this time I helped heave the remaining luggage out of the truck. Whether in token of, or simple kindness, the young couple gave me a bag full of treats- cookies mostly- which they had been carrying over the course of the journey. I thanked them heartily, then had a chat with the driver. He asked where I was staying - and of course, I wasn’t staying anywhere. Not a single soul whom I knew lived here- and hotels of any sort were out my league or interest. Still, it was the lee hours of the morning and dawn wouldn’t be present for a few hours yet. He suggested dropping me at a rodoviária close by. In his opinion, the lights of the open terminal coupled with security cameras would discourage any robbery or murder. He seemed much more nervous about that possibility than I was. Stories breed belief. Conditioned. My judgment was lighter, more ubiquitous. I didn’t see why there would be a higher risk here or there, or anywhere else compared with anywhere else for such a thing. People tread left and right every day. In fact, in my own experience at least, the homeless are often the most jovial and kind-hearted. It is the world with its iron bars that break and torment with its rigid laws and con games. Like all things, the bad eggs gloss over the good, and bad sells. Be that is it may, l didn’t have a better idea and I also didn’t fancy a night walk- rather lay down a while more. Accordingly, I took up his offer.

He drove me under the dark sky silent of life. The blood-red earth, the broad green pillars, and the blue, white, black pavilion collapsed behind us. My coffin of life gave way to a play of another kind. Once more, finding myself upon the theater of men and women; with its arbitrary rules and shuffle of values, languages impotent and cultures of strife- I, your son, returns bearing the eyes of māyā. Suffer in my heart, the cloister of compassion- whose walls are of the flesh, and entrance, the senses.

The station was lit; eerie yellow stains of light shone the concrete gazebo, where meager benches of wood loitered beneath. Amid the shadows, a group of men stood. Some meters to their side my driver parked the truck- idling- and there I stepped down upon the grey tapestry of civilization. Reaching for my bag, I extended my gratitude to the man for allowing me to ride with them. Smiling, he returned to his now vacant Hilux and drifted out of sight- like a dream fading into eternity. From a single step, followed by another, I walked like a phantom towards the staging area. Where just then, the shadowed assembly advanced to reveal their countenance; asking from whence I came. I Informed them, in brief, of the journey undertaken. Three of them were bystanders who had been asked by a voyager of precisely this route, and how to go about crossing. Eager to know of the conditions, I explained to the traveler that yes, a bus did run- but that they are clowns out of their waters. Aghast at the idea of being charged a rate of private hire, he wavered in his spirit. I assured him there were ways around convention. With this new light, he and the others disappeared back into an unknown city.

Alone again, for the first time since that last swinging rest by horses under my care- in another country now well behind me- I changed into dry clothes at last and set my body upon the beams of murdered wood. Here, by the delta of that great river: where the snows of high mountains celestial course through the heart of this continent, still untamed by the hands of men, rushes upwards into the womb of us all-the Oceanus pearl- my eyes closed under neon lights, in faith to goodwill and power beyond conception.

Drunk On Dharma

In Suriname

It was Carnival when I entered the country of Suriname. The broad streets laid empty where I had been dropped by the bus from Guyana. A strange thing considering the celebrations- which I only learned of later that night. I suppose everyone was busy getting ready for the annual debauchery. In hindsight, it definitely made my way across the city easier. What normally takes a meager five-minute commute to a store can scale up to half an hour of a dazing push and shove game across bodies and puddles. So, blessed then, I heaved my bag over my shoulders and wandered towards a group of old ladies; chatting by a patio facing the silent streets. I asked them where one could find cheap accommodation. Around these parts that means a carbé, a shared space where you put up your own hammock; usually with a kitchen, and sometimes a shower. Deciphering through their créole of Hindi, English, and Dutch- aided by the universal sings of body language- they turned me on towards a boulevard where I could find a family-run carbé. I was obliged and gave them thanks by answering some questions they had about me. Then I was off. It didn’t take much time to find, as there isn’t much around, even in this, the capital, Paramaribo. So, after a lengthy stroll, I found Un Pied-À-Terre, where I draped my hammock by the wooden pillars and took a breath to ease into the new country.

The exact time escapes my mind today, whether it was on the first night or the following few, that I met an enlightened drunkard from France, who recently fled the neighboring country of French Guiana (regarded as a French province) and was now staying at the same refuge that I was, presumably for Carnival. I can’t recall his name for the life of me; however, this meeting was an important one that would change the course of the months ahead. Let’s call him Keith, as the Aussies would. Besides his penchant for drinks, Keith was more profound than those shallow wells in which he dwelled. His Bukowskiesque countenance gave way to a mind steeped in Buddhist teachings and an empathic voice. There was something about him that resonated with my own past addictions and unhealthy coping mechanisms. Turmoil and alienation breed a certain beauty beloved by only a few. Those who see the pain behind the vivid pastels and the ecstasy of complete abandon. Let's just say that we understood another. So, we also drank together. We spent some nights wandering the streets, ignoring the lights and laughter of happy gun-hoe youth with their fires and booming blood, to discuss the ashes in which we were sown and raved in. The depths in which we swam with but the light of our hearts for buoyancy, fraying the waves of merciless indifference. Love that had for object no wall or line defined, yet a radiance that was denied by others in favor of riches and power. An innocence that shed like paint under the burning sun of ignorance. Bliss still. Bliss to be an heir of this timeless dance. So, health then, brother, we said, as we toped another cup with the wine of life. Recounting stories of Zen lunatics long passed that consoled a piece of us that could feel the ephemeral bond of a common spirit. KATZ!

What matters it?

Time went by, and as my liver bemoaned the passage of cause and effect, my mind erred to the futilities of plans ahead. I still had to cross two countries to get to the Amazon delta. I was making my bags when a young lady from France, a traveler too, was intending to get to Saint-Laurent-du-Maroni, an old penal colony built by and for convicts of the French Empire; now a town boarding eastern Suriname. Keith caught wind and now with low funds, needed to get back in his country. So, we set out as a threesome. Keith with nothing more than a few meager possessions-namely beer cans. The young lady was a tad out of her waters but I assured her that Keith was well-natured. In her favor, I didn't anticipate what was to come. The two countries are dived by the 612km long Marowijne river, which is crossed with the assistance of a small ferry- with the room just enough for a few persons. Not a problem. What was, was the fact that Keith had no legal bearing or right to be in Suriname. As far as the officials were concerned, he had never entered. You can imagine was sort of troubled water this brought about as we, having taken the normal route toward the port with an official check-point, caused us. Now associated, I saw no choice but to help in the exchange, whatever that might cost me. Keith didn't have a visa to be in the country either, nor a passport. The official was angry and was searching for all sorts of ways to condemn the man. He searched through his belongings and of course, only found booze. Went through my own and then the luggage of the young lady accompanying us. Finally, Keith straight out proposed to pay him off for passage. He had already driven the point that he was French, which was clear enough from his tongue and complexion. That still didn't explain how he got into Suriname, however. So, there were two bribes here. Tensions were high and our driver was getting behind schedule. Audaciously, he himself came around and told the official to take the money, so that he and our fellow passengers could be off. Keith glanced at us- we both knew he had no money. So young lady and I delved into our pockets and summoned up what we had. It managed to be enough. We were off again. Had we committed a crime? Keith tossed me a beer with a hearty thanks. The lady declined and was angry. I on the other hand accepted and toasted to success. Our driver wasn't troubled much. Though he asked that we not drink on his bus. We eventually came to the port and crossed the browned river into ''France'. Keith proved himself a Frenchman, was vocally disciplined and was free again. Meanwhile, the young lady chatted with me concerning what had happened. I defended Keith and also asked for forgiveness on his behalf. She was rather confused by my allegiance but was soft in her words as she bid me adieu.

Suriname martime border.

Keith on the other hand was by my side yet. He knew this place somewhat and together we walked to a carbé on the sea-side. It was owned by an old sailor and his quaint wife. They took us in at a reduced price and showered us with kindness. It was cause for celebration. So, even though I had a contact in town to spend some days before continuing on, I decided to stay for a night, for a last hurrah. Consequently, we went to a store and bought two 24pack of European beer for our selves and our hosts ‘’Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more’’ (Shakespeare, Henry VI). This night of stars and crashing waves was a turning point. Keith shed off some layers of mystique and revealed some recent history. Before leaving for Suriname, he was working with horses for an older woman. Horses who gave him happiness and hope in an otherwise bleak awakening. He went on about this every time he forgot that he had already told me about it. His insistence brought curiosity to a tipping point. So, I asked where this place was. Of course, he only gave me a series of blurred descriptions and insisted I go and visit. I simply must, he kept insisting. I remember how gentle he smiled every time he spoke of the horses, by name no less. Recounting stories of their individual characters and the events he shared with them. He was genuinely touched by these creatures and it showed, radiated even. Now, the squalor heat of coastal Guinea subsided into the tranquil night of Caribbean delirium. The beers were kept cold as our talk grew in heat; a communal fire of spirit and freedom, hushed only by the majesty of the ocean. Tales of grand exploration and bitter defeat, of loves forbidden and tragic losses, remembrance of family, and the erring call for solitude. All shared and all wept, all drank and toasted to the morning lights of hubris- which we could not yet see, but felt the coming. For we were as the discs of fate, thrown by circumstance; masters only of our faith. So it was, all human, before time and her serpentine scribe casts us down under. The rest of the night is forgotten, though remembered in the heart.

The call of birds and their rapid flight and plunges awoke me, still swaying in the hammock. There Keith lay, beer in hand. Myself, in briefs, wandering for an ounce of freshwater. A friend of the old sailor saw my wretched plight and showed me the way to a reservoir, from where I quenched my thirst in gulps that could swallow the sea. The morning went by then, as Keith too put feet to land, and together with our hosts we ate of fruit and partook of our merriment. Soon thereafter Keith departed the carbé, the hosts, and myself. We embraced as brothers and gave one another blessings on the long road of life- that is often too short. This would be the last I’d see his face again. He was off.

Godspeed.

That left me with the choice to continue on under the sun or meet, for a first, the brother of my sister's fiancé's father. A man who, having failed at art, now lived apart of Europe as a teacher of language, of French to be exact. I didn't know exactly where he lived yet. Only that it was in this town. I remembered that there was internet at the grocer's so I jotted up and attempted to give him a call. I tried this many times for two days but I never got hold of him. I alerted said fiancé and asked for some assistance. He later sent me an address- although, he also unable to reach him. An opportunity now became a duty. I had to console the worries of the family. With an address in hand now, I left the carbé with some cheese and animal crackers, knowing only that this address lead far into the outskirts of town.

I walked the better part of the day, rucksack and all, under the dirt path bemired by the sun's intensity. After stopping multiple times at random addresses seeking some confirmation of being on the right path, I had finally arrived without too much detouring, to a two-story wooden hut amid forest and greenery. I went around and up and down searching for life, tapping here and there for a response. I had none. I began to contemplate a well-intentioned break-in after affirming to myself that this had to be the place. Just about then a woman came around the bend with a mustached man. They cared enough to ask why I was about the grounds. Gladly I explained, and in laughter, they welcomed me in for tea- they, the downstairs neighbors; a literary woman from France and a seasoned musical rascal from Italy. Both, old misfits from a continent fled. They explained to me that my contact was most assuredly in town giving classes and that he seldom answers his phone. I was relieved to hear it. Giddy also to have stumbled upon this shack of free-sprits. Awaiting then, we spoke of culture and arts, politics and voyages- in short, all things that matter. The couple was sympathetic to be sure and suggested we have an apéro later that night. Moreover, after hearing of my arduous walk, they offered me their bicycle to wander around and into town at my own leisure, assuming I would stay some days. As our conversations depended and broadened, my target had arrived, wheels squealing and all. A tall madman with black hair and shirt all stained with sweat. We waved him down to come around the table, where amid fraternal eyes we met.

Typical day out with the bicyle.

Gilles was alive and well. He had heard of my presence in Northeastern South-America and relayed a message of hospitality toward me. He brought me upstairs to show me his place and invited me to stay in one of the vacant rooms for as long as I'd like. Along with the bicycle and an open fridge, I took up the offer for a fortnight. I spent my days cycling the town, drinking wine, and reading the French poetry of Tristan Corbière. I also visited the infamous penal center of the old Empire, boasting of the celebrated incarceration and escapee, Papillon. The coastal town gave ample food for thought, and the nights at the hut were warm with shared drinks and meals with the downstairs neighbors. Still, there were over a thousand kilometers before arriving in Macapá, where the Amazon river meets the Atlantic Ocean. So, after a final dinner with these artists, I arranged with Gilles to drive me to the end of town, where the highway stretches eastwards. There I would sit with a beer, thumb in the air, hopes high.

Hitching eastwards, beer and all.

It was atrociously long. The pavement might as well have been melting, but at least I had a rucksack to sit on top. I knew my beer would get warm quickly, hence I drank my spare in quick succession to the first. As cars passed by me, my mind went back to Keith and his horses. Here I was, by myself, once again entertaining a new tangent to undertake. Keith might be gone, but the horses remained. I decided on hitching a ride all the way to the agrarian province of Macrouria, where somewhere, this ranch would be- according to Keith and his swiss-cheese like descriptions. Still, though, I needed a ride some 300km. As the heat rose, I sank more deeply under my hat. Time went by dully as I sang folk songs to the absent wind and unmoving grass. Dusk was coming on nigh when two boys stopped and asked where I hope to be heading. Turns out they were taking the same turns I'd need to take. Kindly, they invited me in, and before a long haul, we stopped at the closest village for snacks and water. The ride was pleasant. The boys were friendly and asked me series of entertained questions in their French creole, which I was glad to answer. A few hours lapsed in the remaining light as we found ourselves ditching the highway for worse and worse roads. Luckily, Keith had given me the name of the road where the Ranch stood; which I shared with my drivers. Almost at random they stopped in the middle of fields and informed me that the road I was seeking intersected with this one, only a few paces from the car. They doubled checked with me and told me that it was a long road and I'd better be sure because they were to leave me here and it was dark now. I nodded in faith and got my belongings before thanking them once again.

The moon rose to her throne as I traded down for an hour down the road; eyes open for signs. A few properties I passed that seemed it could be the place, though they weren't, my intuition assured me. As the moon dances with the clouds above, dozens of howling dogs escorted my dark walk from god knows where. At long last, I came to a scene of a young boy running back into some house, from what could have been a farm. I remember Keith saying that a neighboring local boy came by often. Ergo, here I was- I hoped. Making my way across the lot and looking for lights or voices, I came up empty-handed. No one was there, nor any cars nor nothing. Only horses. I figured I couldn't be wrong. To that extent, I walked over to the house in which the child had run into. I Gently tapped the windowpane where a lady then appeared. Rather shocked to see a stranger in these parts, at this hour. I appeased her by asking if Armane was around, the owner of the ranch. Seeing that I knew her name, she calmed down and informed me that she was in the City of Kourou for the night, and would be back in the morning. I thanked her and ger my name before leaving back for the ranch. It was now quite late and I had committed to a point where I had no choice but to camp for the night. I turned on my headlamp, found some posts under the ceiling, and there installed my loyal hammock, before cooking a humble dinner. So fed, I went to bed in my briefs.

It was dawn when the noise of opening gates awoke me. I leaped out of my nest and quickly put on some pants- but had not enough time to cover my chest before being asked who the hell I was, and why I was here. I searched for my voice among a still drowsy mind and found the sparing reply that I knew of Keith and that he had mentioned this place to me. ''That filthy scoundrel'' she retorted. We were off on a bad start. Apparently, some bridges had been burnt. She asked why I had come then, face angered and all. So, innocently enough, I offered my labor to her. Within half a second she proclaimed stern negation and lack of interest to my person, yet as equally swift, she then paced and asked me if I would like a coffee. Throwback by her sudden kindness, I agreed to have a chat with her. I put on my shirt while she made for the kitchen. Was I still dreaming? The black coffee clarified that I was indeed awoken. We sat on some wooden chairs by the stables. Armane, legs crossed with scouting eyes, myself, amused and gay. She asked where I had possibly met Keith, where I was from, who I was, and so forth. My answers seemed to sway her sympathies to my favor. She was kind, I could tell. Before long she brought up my wanting to work for her. After learning of my time caring for animals caught in the black trade in the Peruvian Amazon, she asked me how long I wanted to be here for, for what rumination. I seemed to have a foot in the door now- coffee in hand to boot. We agreed that I would stay for a month, caring for land and animals alike. About a dozen horses, one wild, and an array of farm stock from geese to ponies. All of a sudden, a dose of responsibility landed on my shoulders. As it turned out, Armane was sick with a degenerative illness that taxed her heavily. I would be, for the most part, alone every day. Now and again, she would come to check up on things and bring me some care packages. This was our agreement we sought to honor. That day she showed me the grounds and animals for whom I would care for. Instructed me on the daily tasks and presented me anew to the neighboring family. So just like that, I became the keeper of the ranch.

I decided to keep my hammock as was, under the ceiling but outside, as this proximity to the horses afforded a constant vigil and safekeeping; seeing as it was an open stable and we were, after all, in the amazon. I only added a meshing to guard myself against the many mosquitoes and other insects. I remember vividly one night when I noticed two tarantulas crawling about the main beam above my hammock. A situation which Armane was quite aware of but forgot to mention. When I saw her a few days later, she asked me not to intervene, as that was where they lived. I had faith in their intentions and together we shared the meager space without complication. The geese were another story, however. True rebels. Always making my tasks harder; stealing the horse's food, biting my ass as I wandered the grounds, and so on. An altercation that often ended in a competition of screams to assert dominance- a long endeavor but an entertaining one that never got old. For the most part, I would wake with the dawn and begin to feed my entrusted mouths, and as they ate, I would drink coffee amid the morning mist, accompanied by the old poems of ancient Chinese mystics. To the neigh of the horses, I got to my feet again, let them loose on the property where they ran freely with elegance. A practice I quickly adopted with them. Running wildly at their sides in sun or rain. Exercising them as much as they exercised me. When not busy with their grooming I set off to the grounds to keep things tidy and in order. Fixing gates, cleaning boxes, macheting the high grass, and keeping the hay stores stocked. Before evening settled us in for the final-colored hours, I set off by bicycle some kilometers down the road- the one which I had originally taken- to a small store ran by a courteous lady. Here I would buy some wine and simple foods for the night. A voyage I took every day at similar hours which, consequently, made her a friend.

Afternoon reading in the bed.

Of course, she wasn’t the only person I would see. As the days turned to weeks Armane and I would chat for long hours about life- hers, mine- the worlds. We became good friends and shared many commonalities. We would sing folk songs together, laugh, and share the secrets of our hearts. Every now and again she brought me to Kourou for a night out at the bistros, or home dinners with her son and daughter. I still remember the quaint cobbled streets of the seaside and the violin playing not far off. I was glad to be here, part of a bigger picture and bringing aid to a woman in need. When at the ranch, alone at night and free of the internet that shackles us so often, I would write profusely the poetry of the wind and the earth that suffused my being. Overall, it was a creative time and one of reckoning. Past values brought to examination in the infinite clamor of silence. A haven foretold by Keith.

“De ferme en ferme, erre le vagabond.
De jardin en jardin, il mange de ses mains,
Noir de terre et de joie.

”

— Written at the ranch

Come what may, as every blue-collar worker knows, incidents are always hidden at the bend. There happened two events that still preside over my mind with awe and gratitude for the outcome. The first was rather mild but could have gone south in different circumstances. I was macheting the grass by the entrance of the ranch and had ventured into the ditch. Out of nowhere a strong piercing burn stung at my leg followed by a symphony. In haste, my eyes cast down their gaze in freight to witness a horde of bullet ants marching their way over my right boot and well past my calf. In a hazed delirium of pain, I sprang out onto the road and flayed my leg in an attempt to remove the boot- now covered. At last, it rocketed onto the gravel- a mass of 1-inch ants. Now running to the house, still besieged, I entered the shower, clothes and all, and poured a heavy fall of water down my enemies. Stripping naked I examined my body for any remanences and heaved with a relief- now only suffering the swell of past wounds. After fetching for my boot, I took the day off besides the core care of my animals. How lucky I was to be close to running water during the event. The pain of a bullet ant is fierce and many have succumbed to the loss of consciousness because of it; which in turn has passed to worse.

The second event was more chaotic still. A day of strong rain set the backdrop. An ex-military who had just arrived that day for a brief internship and I were doing chores when we heard the splitting of wood and the wild rumble of animals in distress. Alarmed, I ran towards the clamor and found the scene thus: our wild horse had broken through his box and three gates to reach our mare who was nursing her foal, along with three older (no longer alpha) males. He was attempting in earnest to mount her. The foal was dumbstruck. The other males, in vain, trying to kick him off. With a loud voice, I shouted to the newcomer as I re-made my way to the stable to grab lassos for him and me. In a sprint we entered the melee, dodging hooves and bodies in an attempt to lasso the wild horse, simultaneously tacking him off the mare. At long last, we both had the strand at his neck and both on separate sides, we put on our weight to his flank and dragged him through a closure- unable to retrace the steps that he had taken. Our plight was not yet ended. Opposite this fence was a younger horse in adolescent bravado. Now both took turns asserting dominance. Jumping the fence, I got control of him and brought him to his box. Then again joining my friend, we maneuvered our way through gates and onto the front lawn, then again to a series of gates that led to his shattered box. Here we roped him to the strongest wood and quickly hammered in planks to secure his box. When all was done, we assessed the injuries of all at play. Besides some minor cuts and frenzied spirits, all was well and the mare did not seem inseminated. We passed the remaining hours under torrential rains repairing all the gates that had broken. My god, what grace to not have been alone. I still do not know how I would have done without the aid of another soul. That night we drank and sang. Little that I knew this man had become a reggae artist preaching unity to the ghettos where he was raised. A fine musician, and a great cook of simple foods. Never did sardines and rice ever taste so brilliant.

My month was coming to an end when Armane asked me to stay for another. I explained to her that I had promised a family with which I had been living in Peru to help them build a community center by early summer. She understood but needed the help and so offered to drive me to the Brazil border herself if I stayed some more time. I accepted and so remained some weeks under the same routine. I began to know the Chinese poems by heart and my relations with the horses grew more profound. I began to understand the smiles behind Keith's talk of the horses. How he remembered all their names, even when drunk. I wondered where he was now. My body had become a clock to the horses’ needs, my intuition grasped their temperament from neighs alone. I would gaze into their eyes for minutes at a time, conversing on topics that language only serves to confound. Laying in the grass they would come, nestled at my side, resting together. Free from the outer world, the ranch had become the sacred navel, the Axis-Mundi.

Mid-day run with some of the horses.

As it does, time went by and before long my bag was ready for the last hours it would share by my side in this country. It was mid-morning when Armane arrived with a friend whom I had previously met. After giving my farewells to the horses and even the geese, we threw my belongings in the truck and jumped in for the hours ahead. Laughing, they asked that I open an ice-box that laid between us. Cold beer and treats for the journey are what laid there. I in turn laughed as I passed one around for each. As we drove the 233km towards Saint-Georges by the river Oyapok, we raved, talked, and reminisced. This was our last feast, and the last time we would see another. This improbable meeting brought about by improbable means. Improbable dreams that seem unreal still. The Unreality that weaves the only meaning we can reckon with. Our lives, empty cups of intentions made.

“With a laugh and glee of eye
The ambrosial path glistens
-But to it, I pay no mind;
And keep my sight to stars
Of firing lustre above.
”

— Written at the ranch

I remember a military checkpoint en route where the gendarmes had suspicions on the state of our minds. Granted, my accompaniers were a tad silly with their manners and inconsistent in their explanations. At last, the prescience of a foreigner en-route to the border eased the gentlemen’s sense of investigation. Somehow it went by without issue, assuming they had bigger fish to fry- probably the poachers of gold and exotic game. It was a casual reminder of the freedom found in these parts of the world. We continued on past the small village of Saint-Georges, winding our way through denser and denser forest. Getting drunker and drunker, until the last couple of kilometers began announcing the border. My friends had planned on driving me over the bridge and into the Brazilian town of Oiapoque. So, mint in mouth we drove on over and stopped at the French border, where I had to stamp my papers. Alone, I walked in and informed the officer of my leave. They looked at me funny as if I didn’t realize something evident. As it turns out, the land border closes on certain days- probably due to lack of staff, or was it a Sunday? Whatever the reason I asked them to sign me out of the country. I would find a way, no matter. Drifting back into the truck I shared the information with my drivers. It was then that one of them remembered the old way into the country which was still used- the canoe.

We made a U-turn on government ground and headed back some kilometers into the heart of the village; parking by the old church where a beer store was conveniently located. Here the lot of us erred the streets towards the riverbank, beer in hand; shades over eyes. We stopped by the beach some minutes where we shared our last cigarette with gazes out to Brazil. As the days' heat shone, we lingered our beers low- letting them warm so as not to finish them. Stretching our words and repeating sentiments. Then it happened. The beer had been drunk and the day was fading. It was time. So, we went down and talked to the local fisherman from whom we haggled a ferry. I let the man grab my things as I took in the last moments. I thanked my driver for his skill, smooth talk, and morale. Then Armane and I embraced one last time as she blessed my road and further voyages, tears and all, making me promise I would stay smart and be safe. She saw me off as I embarked on a small canoe to cross the dividing river. I waved goodbye as my body left the firm ground. Making way to a new unknown- with a chest full of gratitude.

Canoeing towars Brazil.

“Heaven sinks beneath my feet,
Where laid hitherto the stones of fate.
So, roaming on clouds of gold,
I raise my soft eyes to the Zeniths’ yonder;
Wherein I pine the brazen fires
- Of Infinity.
”

— Written at the ranch

Roraima; A Thousand Steps

I had been living in the Amazon basin for enough time now to think of elsewhere. That’s what happens when your so-called Zen-mind is besieged by photographs of remote peaks. Easy prey really. Only a year before my arrival in the Peruvian district of Loreto, with a mind full of nervous ambition, petty (but genuine) attempts at shamanism; recollections of Anacondas and massive amounts of vomit, and now, having worked in animal rescue and very far from the comforts of Mexican taquerias and drunk poets; which I had left begrudgingly for a so-called revealed path in medicine (intersected by a few months of living from a tent on the Magdalene islands; hidden under prickly conifers so that the bulls I was sharing the land with wouldn’t rummage through my meager possessions-or lay and kill me; just so as to be working out a kitchen which offered, besides the savings I needed, showers and sustenance – also abuse and other kitchen truisms), now my mind was off on a tangent again. This time to the Sacred elevated plateau of Roraima. A 2,810m, 31 squared kilometer summit with clouds breaming bellow- as if pouring from its hidden creeks. A sacred mountain indeed, rising as a plateau from level ground to all sides, precisely where three countries meet (Venezuela, Brazil, Guyana). Now my problem was how to get there. How I would climb it would be a problem for future me.

Luckily, I still had some savings. I still don’t know how but I was glad. I could have sailed part-way downstream the Amazon and into Manaus, then taken a series of long buses, but that was too easy. I eventually found a cheap flight into Guyana by way of Barbados. That was as far ahead as I thought. Some odd days later and a quick dip in the Caribbean, I found myself in the capital of the country, Georgetown. Guyana is an old English colony settled by Africans during the slave ships, now independent. Its character is far from what id been used to in the Americas. Luckily, I had the chance to luck upon some easy-going youth that eased my stay with copious amounts of ‘’relaxing herbs’’. That was also a lucky strike seeing that Id come into the knowledge that this country and Venezuela, the latter not recognizing the other, had no border. So, I found another way; a 549km stretch of shabby road that serpentines through amazon forest, has ferry crossings and ends in a dessert town, Lethem. A rugged haven of native cowboys and religious groups, only a fair walk from the Brazilian town of Bonfim. So, I went out to town to buy some snacks and haggled a seat in a cramped minivan with more people than seats.

Myself with two ganja friends in Georgetown

The odyssey lasted just under 24 hours. Next to me was an older woman from Britain who came this way for some other god-forsaken adventure through what really was a pristine landscape. I don’t recall exactly what it was or what for- there needed solid reasons to be here. It’s far from being a tourist destination, much less an enjoyable ride. We sped up through turns in the night, hearing from a distance the howling of monkeys, lulling us with the smoke of a young local and his cigarettes (no more than 13) who was laughing and making conversation with me. Every now and again we would stop to fill up on gas, which was strapped down to the top of the van. I only remember getting out for the ferry ride across a torrenting river, brown as dust- common in the amazon. I sat with idle empty thoughts as we made our way through the last segment of the jungle and into the new dessert. Finally, we arrived at a hut- the final stop.

Filling up on gas. Luggage is strapped atop.

After wandering through town hungry and haggard, I met a man who wanted to show me his so-called backyard. After meeting his wife and children, we climbed a small mountain with an overarching view of the native reserve of Moco Moco. We spent some time here, as I listened to his stories. After a while, we went down and, on our way back, chopped down some banana trees and threw them in the back of the truck, which was also my seat. At his place, we ate one of his cows-part of. I had never tasted such silken and rich flesh. I was vegetarian back in those days- but custom and respect brought me the knife. After a nice time around the table, the family was dressing smart for a religious service – some sort of Christian sect. We dropped the bananas at a village store on our way back to town, where he dropped me with the dusk. That night I set up a hammock where I found some old beaten poles and slept some brisk hours until the first light. A quick eat and I then set out to cross the border into Brazil. Still, on the road, a bus stopped to ask if I needed a ride to Boa Vista- my next transit before Venezuela. I hopped on and paid the fare.

Atop the mountain with my benefactor, wielding a machete.

The ride was short compared to last- some two hours across the plains. My excitation began to grow. Things began to feel funky. The Brazilin flavor washed upon me; the gaiety, the colorful rhythmic language, and the warmth of unknown eyes. That night I had planned to meet the only two people with a couch surfing account. Boa Vista is a pretty big city and the only one in the province. I was glad to have a roof for the brief time I spent there. Once I arrived, I wandered to a phone booth and dialed up my Portuguese, letting these guys know where I was. They gave me the address and off I went on a hunt that was embarrassingly long. I came by just around the same time the stars began to shine. Turns out it actually wasn’t their address but a place that one of the guys was employed to sell. It had a pool and was somewhat upper class. It was late so we ordered pizza and finally I had a chance to bathe- the first since Georgetown. The guys were pretty nice, paying for the food and the later beers we dosed with at a local pub after dinner. I don’t remember much of that night besides sleeping on their floor and waking up later than expected. I stayed another day, visiting some of their relatives in and out of town. The next day I double checked all my stuff before heading out for Venezuela. I doubled checked my stuff to make sure I didn’t need to get anything from the stores here before leaving, since at that time and still today- Venezuela was in crisis. Some might say I was insane to go there at the time, but I didn’t think much of it. Stay humble and keep to the locals- I’ve always been safe that way. Besides I didn’t own anything of value besides some books and a stove. At any rate, I wrote the lads a quick poem of thanks before my leave and set out for the bus station. There I sat outside, sharing some tobacco with the local bums, and chatted up the local scene as I awaited my departure time. It finally rolled around and I was off the last kms north of the country.

The border was a shitshow. Long official queues with bureaucratic nonsense. People haggling for currency exchange. Coming and goings of families and delinquents. The usual border I suppose. I tried getting in without my stamps on a chicken bus but got turned around. So, the long and tedious timer ticked as I walked back to get my papers in order. God knows how long that actually took but it might have well been forever. The people there weren’t very talkative either, so I just kind of sat there, the only foreigner. Things finally came around- although the Brazilian official didn’t quite understand why I wanted to leave and go north. I didn’t bother arguing with him. Just told him what he wanted to hear. He stamped my pages and I walked back to the Venezuela side. Things were much quicker here, no questions really other than what my profession was. I laughed and wrote whatever nonsense and continued on the road. Barely a km in and some guy acknowledged my thumb and stopped for me to get in. A funny local from Santa Elena de Bolivar, my destination. As we joked around, he asked me what I was doing here all alone just hitching into murder and robbery (according to the view of the time). I told him I came to climb Roraima. He was pleased that I took interest in his country and dropped me off in the town center, blessing me and my journey. The rest of that afternoon I walked around taking in the energy and pondering how I was to do this climb while respecting local custom- or not. It wasn’t anything to do about climbing ethics, but rather the permit. It wasn’t only some mountain but a sacred one to the Pemon people of the plains. One could only be granted access if they were accompanied by a local Pemon, or rather, pay to have some guy at your heels making sure you shat in a bag properly. I contemplated working around this but a bunch of issues came up that made that approach more problematic than it had to be. I also didn’t want to pay for nature (or much else really). So, I came to the thought that someone here must need a hand doing whatever labor. Perhaps, I could do that labor in exchange? So that became the game plan. It didn’t take long until I came around Vago who was aspiring to build an eco-village on the outskirts of the town, on the reserve. He had a place elsewhere with his wife and he took me in. I would work for him a whole month, day in and out, meriting my voyage to the sacred plateau. The deal was on.

Brazil- Venezuela Border

I did many things during this time. From banal housework to tough laboring, from fetching Brazilian currency over the border and switching it on the black market for stacks of Venezolanos, all the way to helping the guy out in his turbulent relationship. There’s not much I didn’t do. And I smoked all the time. A lot. Enough that he never really called me by name- but Mapacho instead, the name given to a sacred strain of Tobacco, considered the grandfather spirit of the Amazon. It is used in conjunction with Ayahuasca and other ceremonies but also solely by itself- especially when alone in the bush as protection against malevolent spirits. So, whether alone reading or barefooted in a ditch shoveling out a septic tank for the eco-village, I had this at my lips. He on the other hand has his aspirations and dreams at his lips; chattering about this and that and how I shouldn’t get married if I had a chance. We dint like each other all that much but we were of service to each other and that’s what counted here. The month went by long and at times we would leave the house to sleep at work or at his mother’s, not for any reason other than the turbulence with his wife. But I didn't mind. I didn’t mind eating pancakes every day either. Not that he liked it anymore, but it’s all we could afford to get our hands on (flour and salt) The country was in a crisis and it was hard to get by things. We usually had to go to Brazil and I would help out financially. Sometimes we had cheese, a sweaty kind made locally and actually pretty good. Other times we had meat- cheap and fat from Brazil’s huge fazendas.
I began reverting to being an omnivore here, not by choice but a necessity. Meanwhile, my appetite for the mountain grew.

Vago & I beginning the sceptic tank

Luckily there were some things to keep my spirits occupied. Vago had introduced me to Niklas, a young German vagabond who came here thumbing like myself- all the way from southern Brazil. It was quite the feat. I was intrigued by this crazy rambler. I'd go see him sometimes at the café and heladeria he was starting up with this wife, a local Venezuelan. Niklas was all consumed by the area and customs. Plant medicines are what brought him here originally, primarily Yopo. In his own words, ‘’a fucking space rocket man, Ayahuasca is a soft carpet ride in comparison’’. Evidently, I was stoked. That fire never did come around though, for better or worse. What did, on the other hand, was an invitation to a ceremony that a traveling shaman was organizing, on behalf of some of the villagers. It was to be held at night.

That is the same night that I learned of a curfew. One which the national guard was enforcing after the supreme court had dismantled the parliament (presumably by order of the president). I had been walking for half an hour from the house down to the village when I was stopped by para-military with rifles and high eyebrows. I wasn’t supposed to be out. Lesser so on my way to some meeting. They put me to a lighted wall and began asking all sorts of questions, assuming I was the worst sort of foreigner. God knows where this could have gone if it wasn’t for my nonchalance and experience with the Mexican equivalent. I half-joked the whole way and laughed when they very seriously went through my backpack. They didn’t find anything incriminating because I didn't put anything there. I knew better. They talked to me some more and let me go, convinced with whatever story I gave them. That easy.
I kept on my march until I found the place that would be the stage for the night’s howling. Niklas was there all eager looking. Some of his friends too to whom I was introduced. Some time went by before the cloaked man from Colombia came around with his assistants. Something was off- but I let it roll.
I stayed and participated in the introduction then led me eventually to swallow some cups of that unmistakable musky putrid nectar. We all were asides to one another, distant, in a large field. Silent.

This wasn’t my cup of tea. From my own studies, the tradition of the Shipibo, Ayahuasca is only half of the equation. Icaros, or sacred songs, are the key to navigating the nether world. A world in which one must be protected while she voyages. This, by holding sacred space and the smudging and smoking of Mapacho. The songs were none. When I lighted up I was told to stop in sharp tongues. People were left to the Hells with this imposter. Still, I was under the influence. Part of me wanted to have more- Id manage by myself. My intuition knew better, however. This was not the place. Nor the people with whom to be with. My derailing attitude and solitary spirit had enough of this shame, conjured its strength, forgave himself to the spirit of this realm- and went about leaving in the middle of the night. Hopping fences and navigating the darkness back to the road. I took the long way back home; conversing with nature and my own deep wells. I put my head to rest upon arrival.
Safe. Sound.
Some days later I learned that everyone was looking for me in the morning.
O well.

Village in the distance

The month was rearing its end when Vago began talking about needing a tour for us to go up to the mountain. I felt cheated. The deal didn’t involve that aspect. He said he needed the cash to maneuver our way to and fro. The days ahead were drawn to tension as I kept tabs on this. Over a week or two passed by, still working throughout while the suspense rose.

I was at the house in my usual hammock, reading about some case studies on psychedelic experiments in the 1970s, when this tall young man came by.
I don’t remember what the first things we said to each other were, but we were quick to get into spirituality and our experiences. Jackson was kind and sincere in his way of speaking. He was well educated and still a misfit at heart. We got along fast. Some time went by when Vago came around to present us to each other. Jackson was here for Roraima too. He was the tour.
Albeit my distaste for all tours, I didn’t mind the idea of exploring this sacred space with him. I was glad of his presence and looked forward to this clearing and turning of chapters.

Jackson had his own adventure in venturing here, all the way from Rondonópolis (Brazil), and had high spirits for the upcoming trek and climb. We took a few days getting things in order; logistics and all. I would be a food porter, one of Vago’s friend another porter, Vago also carrying goods- and finally, Jackson had only his self to carry. I honestly didn’t mind being strapped with 60pounds of sustenance. It somehow felt right and the blisters to come were well welcomed.

We left Santa Elena on a bluebird morning and drove to Paraitepuy where permits were officialized, things checked, and rules were given.

Paraitepuy. Roraima in the distance

Camp #1

There we set off to the start of a two-day trek through the plains, crossing rivers and shooting the shit. On the second day we began to gain some elevation and slept on a stunning vegetated terrace. Our meals were meager but still quite an improvement to pancakes. We ate and laughed by our stove as the sun set and constellations made themselves visible to us. I slept well that night.

Camp #2

In the morning I set off before the rest, following my intuition as I waded through dense vegetation, going up switchbacks and ramp systems. The going was good until I got to a point where I was faced with a waterfall and wetted slabs to the sides. I pondered some time and realized this had to be the way- crazy as it was, made worse with a 60pound bag and running shoes. I suppose the mountain did not dislike me, seeing my negotiation of this section went without any harm. Constant vigilance and awareness of the consequences of a fall kept me sharp. The way then led to a talus field which was a joy to scramble around all the way to the plateau. Here I dropped my load, put on a layer, and waited for my team, with eyes cast out yonder.
Alone. Peaceful. Content.
Some time went by before voices gave way to approaching figures. I saluted the team and after a break, for their sake, we continued together. Although the plateau seems flat from the ground, from above you realize its 31-square km of summit rounded on all sides by cliffs rising 400 meters is far from being flat. Navigation here was earned through prior knowledge. The topography was complex and often hidden in mist or clouds. Creeks ran, caves hid, quartz quarries radiated, canyons menaced. We spent four nights circumventing the area, discovering its splendors, and of course, shitting in bags.

Summit camp. Sheltered in a cave

We ate simple and washed with nothing but cold frigid water. Somehow the landscape reminded me of the Artic. Desolate and sublime. Here I didn’t smoke. Wasn’t allowed. But no malevolent spirits trod here. We were alone with the naval of the world, embraced by the sky itself. The nights were cold-very cold, and the days scorched us like ants. The dichotomy was humbling. Our time at camp was spent fraternally, telling stories both true and fictive. Shared our thoughts and learned from one another. Other times we sat silent; eyes cast out to the heavens. There wasn’t any light pollution here and when the mists subsided you were granted one heck of a show- a fair and unchanged view to the past that our ancestors knew.

Myself, enjoying a mid-day ‘‘Clearing’’

What did change, however, was our dwindling food reserves which called for the descent. It was raining when we awoke. The coffee warmed our bodies as we contemplated our way down this beautiful realm. We set off in austere silence and made our way down the talus, the waterfall, the ramps, the terrace, down the whole way to the plains where the dazzling micro-climate changed to familiarity. We slept an additional night here before making our way to the trailhead. Jackson and I reminisced about certain gems up there and enjoyed our tea in friendship.

Navigating the ‘‘plateau’’

The next morning, we arrived at the official’s checkpoint and emptied our garbage, and signed the forms. The truck was waiting for us and, half-dozed and starving we drove back to Santa Elena, where a huge feast awaited us. With a full stomach and clean clothes, we celebrated as a team under the scrutiny of Vago’s wife. Jackson and Vago asked me where I was going to go, now that my goal had been reached. I told them I had plans to sail up the Amazon back to Peru, setting off from where it meets the ocean. I would need to cross four countries, hugging the coast, just to get there first. Jackson told me he had some free days before heading back home. Just enough for us to assist the Rodeo event in Lethem, Guyana.

The following morning we left, tracing back my steps to Lethem. Jackson bought a hammock and we found a place close to the ground to set a hobo camp for a few days. There we spent the festival eating rice and drinking boiled water, getting drunk with cowboys, and laughing hard-and free.

Fiesta

Jackson eventually made his bags and was ready to return to Brazil. He helped me find some cardboard first to make a sign for my attempt at hitching all the way back to Georgetown. I thanked him and we bid adieu. We would see each other again some years later in his home town, quite by chance. But that’s another story. When he was out of view I kept along the road- the only road- out of town and stopped by some bushes. There I sat most of the day viewing trucks that passed me by. It’s only when the old familiar dusk came around that a family honored my sign. However, their truck was full, both the inside seats and the outer bed. We had a quick chat and figured out that If I just held on, helped with some rope acting as a braid, It could work out just fine. So that’s just what we did.

Hitching and praying

The few remaining streaks of light faded as we left the savanna and entered the immediately cool jungle. That night, alone in the bed, grasping for dear life, amid the howling of monkeys and the intimacy of pouring rain, I felt gratitude for this adventure I was returning from- going towards still. The stars shone and the ropes were loyal. The cigarette, though wet, burnt on.