by Tahir Shah
Gonzalo said it was time to get the antidote for snake bites. But it wasn’t sold in the market, he said.
“Where do we get it, then?”
“From Anaconda Man.”
We climbed aboard a dugout canoe near Eiffel’s bandstand and headed out through the floating village. Anaconda Man lived a short distance from Belen. Gonzalo said that no one would dream of going deep into the jungle without a remedy for snake bites. A boy of about seven sat at the bows, stabbing his oval-ended paddle into the water. The canoe was precariously low in the water. Gonzalo said this was normal, a result of advanced wood-rot. We ducked every few seconds, to avoid the walkways that bridged the channel. Soon we were out past the maze of houses. With a constant rhythm we jerked forwards through beds of water hyacinth.
A few miles out of Iquitos, the young boatman punted the craft skilfully towards the river-bank. Gonzalo helped me out onto the mud. As I slid up to the grass-roofed shack, its occupant came out to greet us. He was average in height, but had extremely muscular shoulders, stocky thighs, and a maniacal laugh. When he walked, the mud shook. This, Gonzalo whispered ominously, was the Anaconda Man.
We sat on a log and watched as Anaconda Man wrestled a fifteen-foot anaconda. His bravery was fortified by a swig of chuchuhuasi, a strange jungle liqueur made from aguardiente and the bark of the colossal chuchuhuasi tree. It was impressive to see the snake coil around his back and arms, constricting.
When it came to reptiles, Anaconda Man was a show-off. First he posed with his collection of giant snakes. Then he stuffed a baby black caiman in his mouth, and sucked a lizard’s head like a lollipop. I told him to stop, but ignoring me, he rammed a larger caiman down his trousers.
Keen to get down to business, I asked him what snakes we might expect on our journey to the Pastaza. Anaconda Man broke into hysterical laughter. There were too many to name, he said, yanking the caiman’s tail from under his belt. My tropical medical kit included a list of dangerous Amazonian snakes. It was a long list. The main ones to avoid, it advised, were pit vipers, bushmasters, lanceheads, coppermouths, parrot snakes, as well as boa constrictors and anacondas. The leaflet went on to say that, without the correct anti-venom, you hadn’t got a chance of surviving a snake bite.
Gonzalo slapped his hand on Anaconda Man’s back.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “this man has one anti-venom for all snakes.”
It sounded like powerful stuff.
Anaconda Man went into his shack and returned a minute later with a wide-mouthed jar. It contained dull green oil and what looked like anatomical specimens.
“How many do you want?” he asked.
“All of them,” said Gonzalo.
“Cuarenta soles, 40 soles,” replied the snake expert.
I dug the money from my pocket. Gonzalo put the jar under his arm and led the way back to the boat. I asked Anaconda Man how to use the remedy.
“When you get a snake bite, rub one of the pieces onto the fang marks. Then swallow it.”
“What are they?” I asked. “What is the medicine?”
Anaconda Man helped me into the boat.
“Son corazones de serpiente, they’re snake hearts,” he said.
*
Breakfast at Ari’s Burger was always a somber affair. Each face was drawn, reflecting the previous night’s debauchery. The scent of Nescafé and cigarettes lingered in the air. Every so often a stray curio-seller would bluster in and tout tarantulas in frames. No one ever bought them. The giant spider market never heated up until at least noon.
One old American was downing his third cup of black coffee. There were four unopened packs of Marlboros stacked up on his table. He had a long day at Ari’s ahead of him. Nearby, at the front of the café, a pair of immaculately dressed women were nibbling toast. They were coutured in identical gray and white uniforms, the livery of the Peruvian airline, Tans. They were fresh and alert. And, unlike the rest of the Iquiteños, they were too sophisticated to stare. In Iquitos everyone stares as much as they possibly can. Lecherous old men stare at teenage waitresses with curls, waitresses stare at foreigners, and foreigners stare at busty local women, who stare at the lecherous old men.
Florita served me a cup of Nescafé. She’d been fighting off the advances of an Australian man, she confided. He was very handsome, she said, with a broad chest and dimples in his cheeks. He had asked her to Gringolandia, and he had bought her a bouquet of flowers. Pausing to apply a coat of pink gloss to her lips, Florita pouted harder than I had seen her pout before. All the weary hungover heads turned in slow motion to watch. Even the air hostesses looked over.
“I have two left feet when it comes to dancing,” I said.
“I’ll teach you to dance, mi amor.”
“I go to bed by ten.”
“Then, we’ll set off for Gringolandia extra early,” she said.
“But I’m married.”
“So?”
When Xavier turned up I asked him to take Florita aside and set things straight. While I was flattered, there was no way I could go disco dancing with her. I don’t know what he said, but later in the day Florita came over to my table. With tears welling in her eyes, she handed me another note.
It read: “Lo lamentarás. You will regret your decision.”
Xavier had come to take me to meet César. As we drove towards Punchana, he started bragging again about his tattoo. He went on and on about the pain, and about the size of the dragon. If I were to see the beauty of the mermaid and the angels, he said, I would go mad. I asked if I could see it. As before, he refused. So, without warning, I pulled up his tee-shirt. He thrust his arms across his bare chest.
“I can’t see the tattoo,” I said. “Where is it?”
Xavier pointed to a pair of parallel lines, about half an inch long.
“There!” he said.
“That’s not a monster.”
“I haven’t got the dragon yet,” he said, squirming, “but I’ve got the dragon’s fangs.”
Nineteen nylon sacks of loot were blocking the entrance of the Punchana house. They were tied up with yellow string. César was sitting on the concrete floor making calculations. All the food was ready, he said, and an outboard engine had been hired and tested.
César climbed onto the rocking-chair and smiled apprehensively.
“I have to go into the jungle on a quick trip,” he said.
“Can’t it wait?”
He shook his head.
“Got an urgent order.”
“An order for what?”
“Insects.”
As well as being a celebrated linguist, healer and navigator, César had a profitable sideline, in the giant insect business.
“I have customers all over the world,” he said, “they pay hundreds of dollars for the big ones.”
“How big?”
César motioned something the size of a small cat with his hands.
“Titanus giganticus, the biggest beetle in the world. They grow up to seven inches.”
“What are they worth?”
“Collectors in the USA or Japan pay $800 for them, dead or alive,” he said. “I have a friend in Canada who’s a very serious collector. His largest specimen is worth $500,000.”
The idea of collecting bugs didn’t appeal to me at all. But I remembered how, in Japan, the big department stores would sell live beetles once a year. School children kept them as pets. I even found a vending-machine which sold ten different varieties of live beetle.
Iquitos is a world centre in the big bug business. The Amazon has more than 8,000 species of known insect. Through middlemen like César you can order just about anything you like – from the giant Morpho hecuba butterfly to hissing cockroaches, to the Hercules Beetle and even Titanus giganticus. In these times of political correctness, where hunting animals is off-limits, insect dealing is still considered acceptable. The bugs are injected with poison, wrapped in tissue paper, and shipped out from Iquitos to insect-lovers everywhere. Tho
usands more are packed up as live freight in what’s a multi-million dollar business.
As far as César was concerned, big bugs were money for nothing. A couple of nights with a bright light and a giant net and he’d be assured of a valuable catch. As soon as he got back to Iquitos we would leave for the land of the Shuar.
When I returned to Hotel Selva the police were searching the place. The manager’s wife was answering questions. She looked very frightened indeed. I asked what was going on. One of the police officers said it was to do with a young Englishman who had been staying at the hotel. I remarked that I had met him, although only once, in the corridor. The officer frowned until his forehead buckled. It was a sad case, he said, and not good for Iquitos. The young man had slit his wrists in the night.
SIXTEEN
Vine of the Dead
A long-awaited event was taking place at an electrical shop on the main square. The most eminent members of Iquitos society were present, sipping cool guaje milkshakes. They had come to view an exhibition of American food blenders. Across Peru people were passionate about the machines, nowhere more so than in Iquitos.
Along with the other guests, I toured the displays, making appropriate exclamations of awe. But with prices that started at $70, the new stock was out of reach of most Iquiteños. For the climax of the show, a bare-breasted woman, bedecked in feathers, trouped through the shop doing a war dance. I recognized her. She was one of the Boras from the airport.
When the blender show was over, the party moved on to Casa de Fierio, the Iron House. Set on the corner of Calles Próspero and Putumayo, it’s a solid open-fronted building made from reinforced girders and sheets of steel, painted silver. The building was designed by Gustave Eiffel for the 1889 Paris Exhibition. Like Eiffel’s bandstand at Belen, it was brought to the jungle by rubber barons.
On the upper floor of the Iron House was the Regal Bar and Restaurant, run by Bill Wilkins and his Peruvian wife. An Englishman by birth, Wilkins first came to the Amazon to work on a gold mining project. His restaurant was famous for its catfish. As well as serving food, it doubled as the British Consulate.
I told him about my planned trip and where I was staying. When he heard the words Hotel Selva, he screwed up his face and took a big gulp of his Bacardi and Coke.
“I’ve just been dealing with the lad who topped himself there,” he said. “Nasty business altogether.”
“I heard it was suicide.”
“Slashed wrists,” whispered Bill. “Had some trouble with the morgue... They threatened to throw the body out on the street if they didn’t get payment up front.”
“Couldn’t the British government take care of this one?”
Bill shook his head.
“There’s a lot of red tape,” he said. “We got in touch with the boy’s parents in Blighty. They sent a check. Had him shipped up to Lima in a box this afternoon. He went by DHL.”
*
With César out searching for Titanus giganticus, Gonzalo offered to take me to a healing session. One of the most famous Curanderos in the state, an old ayahuasquero called Flavio, was going to treat the sick. Some said he had magical powers. He hadn’t performed in his native Iquitos for almost a year, as he’d been touring the United States.
Gonzalo said that Flavio had a following across the Americas, and was popular with not just Peruvians. From Vancouver to Tierra del Fuego people knew his work. He had helped the lame to walk, cured the blind simply by touching his thumbs to their eyes, and he’d even brought the dead back to life. When I asked if he believed the stories, Gonzalo seemed confused. Of course he believed them, he said, they were true.
As dusk fell over Belen, we hired a canoe and paddled down the waterways of the floating village. The blue flicker of televisions flooded through the open doorways of some shacks. In others, women were cutting up vegetables or stirring pots of mashed yuca, manioc, preparing the evening meal. There was laughter, the sound of bottles clinking together in a toast, and the ubiquitous screaming of babies waiting to be fed.
“There are so many fake shamans,” said Gonzalo, as we continued downstream. “They pretend to have special powers, telling people lies and taking their money. They say the spells will heal only when they have been paid.”
“What about Flavio: are you sure he’s genuine?”
“Of course he is!” exclaimed Gonzalo. “Not like my neighbor.”
“Who’s your neighbor?”
“He’s a maestro, but a fake. No one goes to him.”
“How do you know he’s a fraud?”
Gonzalo ran his fingers through the water.
“We know he’s a fake because of his wife,” he said. “You see, she’s got a horrible rash on her face. It’s terrible, so ugly.”
“What’s that got to do with the shaman?”
“Well, if he was any good, he’d cure his wife first.”
A paraffin lamp guided us to the rendezvous point. The jungle grew right to the water’s edge, making disembarking even more difficult than usual. Three or four other canoes were docking nearby. I heard the sound of a peki-peki, a motorized canoe, in the distance. Gonzalo said healing sessions were held in the jungle because it made the magic stronger. There was also the small problem of the police. While taking ayahuasca isn’t against the law in Peru, practising medicine without a license is.
I paid the boy who’d paddled us downstream, and asked him to stay until we returned. I had no idea how long the healing session would last. We followed the trail of people walking eastwards into the undergrowth. High above, the full moon was bright, illuminating the path through the banana trees. No one carried a flashlight, and so I refrained from using mine. There was a general sense of expectancy, the participants chatting away as they walked. Like the others, Gonzalo knew the route well.
“Not much further,” he said. “You can see the fire through the trees.”
He pointed to the glimmer of flames about fifty yards ahead.
“Has it already started?”
Gonzalo made a click with his tongue.
“Aún no, not yet,” he said. “We have to wait until Flavio comes. That may be hours.”
The bonfire was being tended by two boys. They were the only children present. Heaping the pyre with wood, they called for everyone to sit down. The rich blend 01 smoke and sparks spiralled into the sky. I shielded my face from the fire and scanned the assembly. About forty people had already arrived. Their silhouettes were lit up from time to time, as the breeze punched the flames in their direction. Everyone was in their best clothes, men wearing long-sleeved shirts and their wives in dresses. Some of the women unfurled sheets of plastic to sit on, as the ground was damp.
The air smelled of mapacho, jungle tobacco, and of burning banana leaves. No one was very bothered by the foreigner present. They were more concerned about the ailments they had come to have assuaged. Gonzalo told me that Flavio would only heal if the atmosphere was appropriate. Sometimes he had come to the clearing but had not treated anyone at all.
“Flavio’s power depends on us,” he said. “Without the right mood, the ayahuasca won’t work, and he will tell everyone to go home. Think of pure things.”
“Like what?”
Gonzalo choked as the fire’s smoke engulfed us.
“You must think of a bird flying over the trees,” he said, “or of water running over stones in a stream.”
The ritual began long before Flavio turned up. A trio of women sang hymns. The songs spoke of moral values, of truth and sincerity. When they were over, it was time to pray. The congregation gave thanks to their ancestors, and they prayed for their families. With their hands pressed together in supplication, they urged God to charge Flavio’s healing hands with power. May the spirit of Jesus fill him, they said, and may his strength overflow.
“He will be here soon,” said Gonzalo.
“Flavio?”
“Yes... the atmosphere is almost ready.”
My mind wandered as the sound of
the prayers melted into the trees. I tried to focus on pure thoughts, but instead could only think of Sven, the Slovak I’d met in Cusco. I wondered whether Ariadne was still tracking him across the continent. As I thought of him, his face dissolved into the darkness, and was replaced by the haunting, mummified trophy head which Juan the grave-robber had offered me.
Gonzalo nudged me back into the present.
“He is here,” he said. “Flavio has come.”
Three figures were walking towards us through the undergrowth. The first was carrying a hurricane lamp. As it swung in his hand, it bathed the forest in platinum light. The next man was taller than the first; after him came a woman. She was clutching a bucket and a bag. The man with the lamp greeted the congregation. His cheeks were pocked, his complexion dark. He spoke in a soft, melodic voice. Holding his palms out towards us, he prayed.
“That is Flavio,” Gonzalo said softly, “he’s praying for our souls.”
A series of songs followed, to which one of the women danced. It was less of a dance, and more of a gyrating shuffle. When she had finished, she left the clearing and went off into the forest. She didn’t come back.
The hymns subsided, and the Curandero’s assistant unfolded a green quilt. He took care to ensure there were no creases in it. As he pegged out the corners with stones, his master addressed the audience. He had come to heal, he said, by the powers which had been given to him. But the true power was not himself, it was not human, but divine. If we respected the invisible forces, he said, they would heal. As mere mortals we could never understand the nature or the method of the healing energy. Anyone who questioned the miraculous cures, he went on, would be afflicted with illness forever. His words took me back to India, where I’d heard godmen give similar warnings.
By the time Flavio started healing, it must have been past midnight. The hurricane lamp was thick with insects long before then. They swarmed over it suicidally, desperate to get to the source of the light.
Gonzalo pointed to the bucket, which had been placed beside the quilt.
