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.