We are sitting in the circle in the Maloka again. The guys and girls around me share the weirdest stories. Demons, aliens, transformations, visitations from the past, you name it. A circus of verbal superlatives and realizations. It all seems so profound and intense when it happens to you, but incredibly trite and boring if you have to listen to it.
I share my story with a mixture of unwillingness to expose myself and the excitement of boasting about my own realization. Yesterday I was telling them that I consider this all a malfunction of my brain, now I am telling them that the shaman is the devil and that the group leader is a soulless ghoul, as evidence by his meek and weakly appearance. I tell them about my yesterday’s urge to beat one of the assholes during the ceremony, earning myself some bewildered looks I do not care about.
The other quitters
The hot black bitch shares her vision about herself as a helper. She mentions how she saw someone jump into the lake and sent him her prayers, but does not mention that it was me. I feel robbed of my pride. At least give me credit for being.
She announces that she too will be leaving and felt something bad last night. For all I know, she just picked up on my story and wants to be a part of it. That idea makes me proud.
One more guy decides to leave and offers to lend me money without which I could not survive my remaining days in Iquitos.
Before I leave, I sit down with a somewhat cute blonde girl who says she was worried about me – oh, the pride, oh me hero – and a younger kid and we play the guitars. It is a pretty cool jam, if not outright beautiful. .
Later, we sit down and draw pictures on some cloth, with natural colors. I paint some form of spear, a black box and blood. Very abstract. The super artistic woman who leads those sessions takes an eternity to give me an interpretation. And while all the others seem overwhelmed with the horoscopic precision of her interpretations, I am not satisfied. Supposedly, I am throwing a hell lot of love towards the black box that is my family, but they refuse it. If anything, it is the other way around. I do not want that fucking love. Keep it.
The blonde chick seems somehow enamored by my abstract and confident artistry. She obviously can not mean it, because it is just a bunch of pointless forms. the profound art of my past.. At most, she probably likes the indifferent way I stand behind it. I do not care for it, but I feel a remnant of the pride I felt through all
I do not want to be a total ass, accusing her of dishonesty and making it look like I do not have self-esteem or some similar bullshit, so I ask her if she wants it. She enacts gratitude like the Machiavellian master she is. Of course. Women are all about making you feel good, even without reason. And that is so diabolic about it: They give without reason, so they can take away without reason as well.
Who cares. I do not want it. She does not want it. But she wants to make me feel good by accepting the gift, so I give it to her.enacted successfully.
I wade through the mud, away from the camp. It is a weird kind of challenge to balance through the loam like dirt and over piles of logs meant to stabilize the way. The other guy is quicker than me. The brown chick my dick likes is back with the group leader. I do not wait for them, I do not want to give her any attention. Ignore her and she will love me, that is the subconscious logic, embedded from the internet. It does not go very much deeper, though, not in my head.
We reach the boats and set off over the Amazon, through the reed. While the others engage in relaxed chatter I feel too trivial to partake in, I keep peeling off layers of skin from my head. The herbal tincture from yesterday’s ceremony had burned like hell and completely dried out the already porous and wounded skin. There are no mirrors and I can only guess what I look like.
The brown chick looks at me with worry and tells me to stop. I look at her with contempt and ask her if she thinks she is my mother. In a grown-up tone, she says that if I can not take care for myself, someone has to. Her need to ingratiate herself to me with her giving attitude infuriates me and I give her no more than a blank stare. My dick wants you, bitch, not me. I do not want your affection, I want your ass. It hurts my pride to be the object of her help, not of her desire. But I give away nothing about it.
The ghoulish group leader recommends me a hostel to stay in. Hesitatingly, I accept the devil’s last attempt to bind me to him and his network. He does know the city better than me, so I figure I will listen to him and just be cautious. Does the ghoul know he is a ghoul? His giving nature suggest that he wants to prove to me that he is not as bad as I see him. But all I see is trickery. Persuasion through showing weakness.
We arrive in Iquitos and I jump off the boat before anyone gets the chance to install those wooden planks. There is no real reason to wait for the others other than not wanting to storm off into being alone right now. And some faint idea about getting the black chick. It is enough.
We ascend from the river to the level of the street and decide to share a motor taxi. We arrange the bags in the back and I manspread at the left side of the motor taxi, using my right arm to secure the bags.
The chick sits next to me and with my arm in the back, it is almost as if I embraced her, her body close to mine. She feels unexpectedly soft and squishy against me as the motor taxi hops over many a unevenness in the street; it has been a long time since I had any form of intimate contact with anybody. She does not seem to mind. I almost instantly get a boner, having not masturbated for days. I wish she sat on me, but I am lightyears from having the courage to initiate anything like that. I am annoyed now from having grown slightly fat.
We stop to get money from an ATM. The guy and the girl exit the motor taxi, I stay inside to keep it claimed. I look forward to having her pressed against me again, but I do not show any sign of weakness. Playing it my way.
They enter the cart again and off we drive, the black chick again rubbing against me. This is likely the most beautiful thing I have felt for months. But somehow, I am on the quest to be a hero. And comfort only makes a hero weak. I do not indulge in the feeling. I let it flow like a river around the rock that I am. She is the river. I am indifferently pleased.
We reach the center of Iquitos and I decide to walk the rest of the way. I jump out and take my bags off the ricksha extension of the motorcycle. With a poker face, I say good bye and many thanks to the guy who lent me the money. I insist on paying him back and we exchange contact information.
I coldly and casually say bye to the chick while taking the last bag out. She holds her arms out and I ask her what she wants. She wants a hug. But I am too proud to lean in into the taxi for her. Come on out, then. She comes out and we hug. God, females feel wonderful. Want to dick her so hard. But a man does not beg for such a thing nor force it. After the hug, I leave her alone and say a last fare well to the guy. The chick wants my contact data. I give her my email.
Of course she will not write me an email. But the way I have played it, she can not claim that I want no contact. It is a bit girly, yes, but also smart. Why would I want to have contact with a chick who lives on the other side of the world? Oh yeah, long distance relationship. No way. And I am not going to be part of a stupid ex-Ayahuasca drug junkie reunion group chat list. Fuck me or leave me.
The military type rucksack on my back and the pain of the hot sun on my destroyed head, I head down the street to the hostel. Being a hero has its perks. Yes, you are something of a loser. But you enjoy it in a weird way. The pain, the discomfort, the sweat, the dirty city, the, the failures. It is coherent.
The cute little chicks are still around in Iquitos.
I find my way into the hostel and take some time to find the owner. There is no free room today, but I am allowed to sleep over until tomorrow in the owner’s room, on a mattress.
I agree, but my alarm sensors ring. Everything stinks like the devil here. The owner is too friendly to be an honest man. And his hair looks all weird, like of a sick and old organism.
But I know that the devil can not harm me as long as I do not mistake him for my savior. As long as I do not allow sympathy and meekness to corrupt my heart.
I fetch the book The Last Of The Renshai out of my bag and start reading. Five days to go.