The Gringo: A Memoir

by J. Grigsby Crawford

  We got to the volunteer’s house outside Cuenca after nightfall. She was there with another friend. The house sat on a giant piece of property that was fenced in toward the street and opened up to a view of a giant sweeping valley out back. The next day we prepared the San Pedro. First we had to peel the cactus and take out the pulp that was closest to the outer skin. When we skinned enough of it, we sat around for hours, waiting for the cactus parts to boil down into a putrid black tea. All six of us were going to do it. I hardly knew any of them; they were volunteers who’d been in Ecuador longer than I had and treated me the way high school seniors treat freshmen.

  The first time I did San Pedro was two and a half years before, outside Cuzco. It was the most beautiful experience of my life. And it had been a year and a half since I’d eaten psilocybin mushrooms with my two best friends from college and lain on our living room floor thinking I had figured out the purpose of life.

  Now I was nervous.

  We drank the awful tasting tea around 4:30 p.m.

  An hour later I felt it.

  Chills set in. I wrapped myself in a large blanket and sat outside staring off over the valley. The last rays of light pierced through the clouds and glowed orange and red out over the butte. Earlier in the day the power had gone out in the area, so the valley quickly darkened as the sun set.

  I found scrap wood and built a fire. I watched the flames alone. Then four of the others came over giggling like hyenas. I returned to my chair and stared out across the valley for a bit. I put on my iPod and played Ennio Morricone’s theme to Once Upon a Time in the West. It was around eight o’clock and the sky was dark purple.

  The pure pitched voice sang in my ears. Clouds rolled over. I was cold but I inhaled and a blissful warmth filled my lungs and torso. Ahhhhhhhhh. As the song reached a crescendo, the electricity came back on, illuminating tiny sparkles across the valley in a wave that seemed nothing short of miraculous. It nearly brought tears to my eyes; I applauded and laughed hysterically. The others asked what was happening. I explained. They stayed around the fire I’d built making stupid jokes. When they came over to sit by me, I felt claustrophobic.

  HERE, TONIGHT, I LOOK AROUND at the five other people and there is no common wavelength. First, see them dancing around the fire making comments like, “Dude, bro, I’m tripping balls.” See them gyrate and give high-fives because of a hysterical burp. Or make potty jokes and erupt into tears-in-the-eyes laughter. Or insist on watching a bootlegged DVD of America’s Funniest Home Videos and make comments like, “Dude, that’s the most awesome pet cat I’ve ever seen.”

  And then comes the most terrifying, soul-scratching feeling of them all (as the chemicals slip deeper into my bodily tissues): that the people I have chosen to share this mind-altering psychedelic occasion with are . . . not funny.

  So do I sit and close my eyes and ponder space and the incomprehensible beauty of life and soak it all in?

  No. I freak out.

  I get up to take a walk around the property. I get some water and come back.

  It doesn’t feel right.

  I go get some more water.

  It still doesn’t feel right.

  I go back inside the house where the others are now lying down.

  “I’m not doing too well,” I say.

  No answers.

  “I mean really, I’m just all of a sudden having a bad time here,” I say. They all stare at me with dark, judging eyes.

  “What do you want us to do?” one of them says, his words spilling out all at once.

  “I don’t know. I think I just need some comfort. I’m going to lie down.”

  The one who kept announcing earlier that he was “tripping balls” stands up and looks at me for a second. “Dude,” he says, “just chill out. We’re all tripping out of our minds too. Just . . . whatever.”

  Everyone laughs. “Yeahhh, man,” a couple of them say. “Whatever.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dude.”

  I lie down by a floor heater and stare up at the ceiling and the clock on the wall.

  At 9:15, the true terror sets in. It is true, Satan-scratching-at-your-doorstep fury—a spiral of paranoia.

  You’re losing your mind.

  The woman whose house we were in, Katie, offers me milk. She is, and always was, kind.

  “This is going to end sometime, right?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “You’ll be fine.”

  “I think I just have to remind myself that,” I said. “Ehhhhhh Ahhhhhhh. Oh fuck.” The noise lurches uncontrollably from somewhere deep in my chest.

  I go outdoors and puke. I try to puke everything that’s in my belly, even the bile. The vomit piles up next to the woodpile by the tool shed. I have to pee, so I do that too—on top of the pile of vomit. I venture back indoors and lie down by the heater. Something evil still scratches away at me.

  My torso is in pain, like all the pain I’ve ever felt in my life is clawing to get out of there. The terror and dread come on heavy like another growl.

  I’m not coming out of this. Losing things. No comfort.

  I close my eyes and a giant snake leaps toward me. Its skin is shiny and metallic and all different colors. It tries to swallow me whole. I tell it no, with an evil giggle.

  Oh god, what a mistake.

  “I’ll get through this,” I say out loud.

  Then I whisper under my breath, “I’m here now.” I close my eyes and open them again.

  Something screams at me, why do you feel this way, huh. There are no question marks. These are not questions.

  Like vrooooooooooommmmmm powwwwwwwwwwww, there’s a beast escaping from my stomach. I growl and let it out. That giant scary serpent better never come back, I’ll make sure of it.

  I want to cry, thinking it’s a way of getting rid of the demon.

  What a pussy.

  “Ooohhhahahhaeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhhggrrrrrrrrrr.” A growl comes out of me again.

  YOU STOP IT.

  You’re a monster.

  People doubting me. People laughing at me. No one gets it. Space travel. Bicycle rides.

  I am here now. This will pass. It’s 9:35. This will pass. I am Grigs. This is me, this will pass. I will be all better in a few hours. Don’t panic. Stay calm. I will NOT fucking panic. There is no panicking here. No panicking!

  Heart leaping from my chest. Pain coming from everywhere.

  While this pain is making its way out, I may as well let it all out.

  I announce that the pain in my nuts is going away forever. (Not, as it turns out, true.) Another howl through the night and I’m dripping in sweat.

  Just wish I had someone here who understands me. Someone I love. Someone who loves me. Someone who doesn’t doubt me. Someone to hold me.

  WHAT ARE YOU SCARED OF? ARE YOU SCARED IT’S NEVER GOING TO END?

  Please, please, PLEASE. Go away.

  WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?

  I’m just living. Growing. Leave me alone.

  NOBODY LOVES YOU.

  You are losing your mind.

  YOU ARE LOSING YOUR MIND.

  I am losing my mind.

  My family loves me, I’m sure of it. This will pass and I’ll look back on this and be proud of myself that I climbed out of this darkness.

  AT SIXTEEN YOU BEGAN BEING DEPRESSED. HOW PATHETIC. NOW YOU’RE TWENTY-THREE. TIME TO GROW UP.

  Time to grow up.

  TIME TO GROW UP.

  I’m sorry. I’m trying.

  YOU FEEL LIKE A BLACK SHEEP, DON’T YOU.

  None of that’s real. All stuff made up in my head. Somewhere else.

  “Yeeeeeeeeeooooooooowwwwwwwwwwww. Ahhhhhhhhh.”

  I remember the time I lost a small red shovel in the ocean and the surf carried it away. I remember Topanga. I remember running around dressed like an Indian. I remember my first pet dog.

  I feel my life and it feels like a tin can being scraped across the sidewalk. The soul is drifting farther and farther away and g
etting scratched more across the pavement. And then . . .

  Skiing in the pure silence. Christmas mornings. Your grandmother reading everything you ever wrote and saying she loved it and thinking you had talent. All your doggies cuddling with you on the couch. Catch-22. Elephants. Bulls. Penguins. The end of the world—no, the tip of the continent. Argentina. You felt at home in Buenos Aires. You felt connected. You remember waking up in the hospital with your mom by your side holding your hand and her looking very sad. Getting wheeled down the hospital hallway. The kid in the next room having seizures. A friend bringing you a big stuffed cow. You’ve got the scars all over you. You’re proud of them, aren’t you. You’d be nothing without them. Being underwater. Swimming out at the golf club in the California desert. Climbing Longs Peak. Lewis and Clark expedition. Monticello. You remember when you were little, lying there in the top bunk during the earthquake. The fires. The mudslides. Rainy days when you were a kid. A house burns down. Visiting the Middle East with your brother. A sandstorm. North Carolina. Barbeques. Northern Michigan in the summer. Making mistakes with people’s hearts. Shooting a shotgun and feeling the strange jolt. First kiss. First real kiss. First fuck. First real fuck. Going back and doing things over. Favorite colors. Pirates off the coast of Mexico. Mayan ruins. The dream when you were little about Captain Hook taking you away in a wheel barrow. Blood streaming down your arm. Being a scapegoat. Being the class clown. Everyone laughing at you. People not forgiving you. People blaming you. All the women you’ve ever had sex with.

  You remember driving to Graceland. Graceland. You remember the wind blowing through the windows between Nashville and Memphis. Graceland. You remember Sun Studios. Graceland. You remember Tupelo and Birmingham. Graceland. You remember the jungle room. Yes: Graceland.

  You remember the English professor in college who stood in front of your class in a tweed jacket and said, “Someday you’ll look yourself in the mirror and realize that one day you’re going to die. And it’s a strange feeling.”

  You remember talking to your friend about Hemingway and how he said, “I challenge you to find one story of his that isn’t about death.” And you keep on looking.

  The spiral of terror comes and goes.

  Oh man oh man, oh my, don’t lose your fucking mind. You’re smarter than this. Don’t lose it all.

  Landslides of thought.

  Take a deep breath and it swells the belly full. Feels good. Exhale and rub like a satisfied bear.

  YOU’RE BITTER, AREN’T YOU. It rasps at me.

  I’m so sorry. Is this ruining my brain? No, I’ll be back. This is scary.

  I get inside a sleeping bag that Katie lent me for the night. It’s warm in there. I love that warmth. Second best thing next to comfort—the warmth.

  I can’t find any comfort with these people here. I’ve got to get it on my own. A beast of pain leaves my torso in an outward rushing funnel of bad energy.

  Take the bad energy and turn it into good. Do it, now. Flip it upside down like a giant pendulum swinging vertically. Flip it. That’s what you’re supposed to do.

  I yell more and announce that I’m getting rid of the pain. I am pushing the pain out of my nuts forever. The pain doesn’t stand a chance. None of it. The tears still won’t come.

  This is cruel and unusual.

  You’re losing control. Reel everything in your life back in.

  TAKE CONTROL.

  Love.

  YOU ARE LOSING YOUR MIND.

  I am losing my mind.

  The soul has left the body. It might come back. “Rahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh zooooooooooommmmmmmmm!”

  YES. IT’S ALL TRUE.

  Someone from across the room: “Grigs, man what do you want to talk about that would cheer you up?”

  “Tom Wolfe.”

  “Who the hell is Tom Wolfe?” They all laugh like hyenas sucking on helium.

  Philistines! Fuck!

  Darkness. Vines. Washington, D.C. Amsterdam. Africa. Ocean liner. Oil. Dictators. Bananas. Mustaches. All the mouths you’ve ever kissed. All the drinks you’ve ever drunk. All the steaks you’ve ever sliced. All the sidewalks you’ve walked. All the swear words you’ve ever said. All the people you’ve hurt. All the times you’ve cried. When was the last time? Crying in the shower in high school. Crying in the middle of the night in college. Crying in a therapist’s office and not wanting to talk about it. Feeling it bottle up in the bottom of your throat. A girl touching her hand to my chest and feeling it go down down down. Golfing. Driving to the mountains. Crossing the border. Cormac McCarthy. Seagulls. Natural History Museums. IMAX films. Wind chimes making you feel lonely. Hot tubs in the snow. The view of earth shot from the moon. Launching into outer space.

  A million more thoughts. It goes on and on, motherfucker. Yeeeeessssssssssssssssss . . .

  Eric Clapton’s autobiography. Bob Dylan’s autobiography. My autobiography. Bill Clinton. Kofi Annan. Cape Coast. Magellan. Apollo. Zeus. Corsica. Portugal. Sailboats. White. Deep blue. Bright orange. Blood red. Pitch black. Mustard yellow. Hot. Cold. Drowning. Planting a root. Twenty years. Twenty three and a half years. And what have you done. People who don’t know what you’re going through. What you’ve been through. Where you’ve been. The places you’re going. People always disagreeing with you. Whale watching. Polar bears in the zoo. Lawrence of Arabia. East Asia. Long ropes. Medicines for pain. Medicines for the cold. Medicines for malaria. Medicines for pain in the balls. Doctors with pens in their pockets. Doctors sliding across the floor on wheeled chairs. Love at first sight. Yossarian. Britain. Twisted ankles. Playing baseball in the heat. Not getting strikes called. Teachers telling you that you’ll be successful. A teacher on the playground saying you were a bad kid. Having to tell a teacher why you missed the exam when you were too depressed to get out of bed. Missing your ride to school. Planes crashing into buildings. Fuel-efficient cars. Politicians. Liars. Newscasters. Cheaters. Brains colliding inside helmets. Dairy Queen. Strawberry-banana smoothies. The Alamo. Mount Rushmore. Newport. Florida. Crows. Thanksgivings with family. The giant willow tree in the backyard. The Red Hot Chili Peppers. Van Morrison. Mowing the lawn in the morning and the way the cut grass smelled. A fly buzzing over your head when you wake up. A guitar that feels great in your hands. Naked bodies. People embarrassed of themselves. People being self-conscious. Orchestral music. Plays. Stand-up comedy. Dressing up in a suit. The time your grandpa looked at your mom and called her his baby girl and you smiled to think that she was still somebody’s baby. The elephant painting. Wild tusks. Whooooooooooooooo.

  ARE YOU STILL SCARED.

  Not so much. It’s slowing down.

  YES IT IS. AND YOU’RE GOING TO MISS IT.

  This is just a time and I’ll get through it.

  You don’t even know if you’re talking about this instant or something bigger.

  Maybe it’s one and the same.

  IT’S SLOWING DOWN.

  A little bit of bliss comes on.

  It’s 10:45. The darkest part is over. I feel embarrassed and self-conscious. All these people think I’m some sort of freak.

  Still a million thoughts. I kinda feel empty. I kinda feel sorry. I kinda feel glad and happy. I’m not even sure what happened.

  I thank Katie for bringing me the milk. “This is true. You understand people. You understand things.”

  The belts and axles that make a car go are slowing down in my head. The film reel of images is slowing down. Sighs of relief. The big machine in the sky is turning off.

  Listen to some Kings of Leon. Some Gershwin. Some Tom Petty. Let it wash over you and cool you down. Eat a bagel. Drink some juice. Rub your toes together for a couple of hours straight. Lay on your side. Keep your eyes away from the TV screen. Block out all the hideous laughter. Exhale deeply. Ignore everything else. Take off your shirt so your chest can feel the coolness. Lights are off all around now. No one else understands the music but it’s okay. Close your eyes and know that love is somewhere around you. Somewhere in y
ou. The thoughts are slowing down and you’re taking them where you want to take them. You’re getting through this. Good job. You fought like a lion. Ohhhhh. Remember the Roman Coliseum. Ahhhhh. Sweetness. Milk and honey. Parades. Spring season. Let it all out. Freud. All your kind professors. A bar where you can drink a gin and tonic and hear yourself think. Love is—yes, it’s all around; maybe not right here right now, but you’re never far from it.

  Everything’s going to be okay. I am here now.

  “I feel it,” I whisper.

  Yes, you feel it.

  Maybe you don’t understand what any of this means. Quiet. This is peaceful. You’re going to forget about everything that doesn’t matter.

  Things aren’t so cold anymore. The night is still. Out across the valley, the sky is dark but the streetlights glow like small fires. There are no more battles in the silence. Hush and wane. The candles are blown out. The music is turned off. A layer of ego has been peeled away.

  Feel the coolness.

  Feel the way the storm moves through and out your body. Hear the way we say the things that aren’t there.

  There’s a wild buffalo spirit inside you.

  CHAPTER 30

  I got back to my site on November 2. Around then I started working with the Department of Environment at the municipality. This came after an aborted attempt to work with Raúl, the womanizing former mayor. When everyone at FODI was fired, Winkler suggested that I help Raúl with his new foundation, which had some sort of environmental theme to it. My work with Raúl lasted exactly two meetings. In the first, he invited me to an “important session” he “needed me for” on a Saturday. I sat and listened as he talked to a group of tilapia farmers for over three hours; my only contribution was when he told me to go downstairs and across the street to fetch everyone some water.

  The other meeting took place at his house between the two of us. During the conversation, he winked at me as he admitted he was using the foundation to launder grant money he received through his brother who worked in the provincial government.