Grumble in the Jungle

While there’s no denying the majesty and splendor of the Amazon, with its dense, lush and verdant landscape and the ceaseless, yet enchanting symphony of its exotic critter concert, I can’t say I’m particularly built to last in this environment.

Since arriving here via a complex choreography of interchanging planes, busses and boats, I have not stopped sweating. And as it turns out, this thick film of perspiration has rendered my flesh a smorgasbord of succulent temptation for every insect in this fucking jungle to dine out on.

Suffice to say, I am in a perpetual state of itchy, sticky irritation.

And yet, most of my comrades have had no problem embracing all that this terrain brings. They’ve sploshed about in the grimy brown broth of Amazonian waters. Saturated their bodies in the stinky mud baths that line its swampy banks. And waded through tangled labyrinths of tropical wilderness without so much as a sniff of consideration for the dangers that lurk within.

I just don’t think “devil may care” is part of my programming.

That’s not to say I haven’t tried to feign an airy halo of nonchalance. I spent a good 48 hours or so doing the whole ‘fake it to make it’ routine. I exuded nothing but graciousness towards the local “ayahuscaro” (healer) as he battered my head with a shriveled bunch of leaves and blew smoke in my face in honor of our inaugural blessing. I ballyhooed bon mots of “awesome”, “wow” and “amazing” during a boat trip to spot pink dolphins, when in actual fact all I really caught sight of was an amorphous blur of wet mammalian arse. And I have generously extolled delight and gratitude at the frankly bland and tasteless culinary offerings that have been peddled at us during mealtimes.

But in the end I thought, who am I fucking kidding?!

Since then, I’ve been more or less consigned to the hermetically sealed environment of my room, where I have either splayed myself out on my bed, under the soothing wafts of the fan, or lolled around languidly on the hammock that hangs in my equally enclosed, netted veranda.

Added to all this discomfort has been the horrible inconvenience of being outrageously constipated. I don’t think I’ve been able to squeeze out so much as a high-pitched fart since I left Urubamba and consequently, my stomach is now about as distended as an African famine baby’s.

But then I don’t know who is more full of shit…me, or the one or two rather more happy clappy members of the group that I find myself trapped here with. Thanks to them, there’s a somewhat interminable whiff of spiritual bullshit around these here parts. Then again, different strokes for different folks – I mean, who am I to question other people’s metaphysical proclivities?

But tomorrow begins the first of our Ayahuasca ceremonies. My chance to finally communicate with the cosmos. And if ‘Mother’ really does know best, then I hope she brings me something to assuage all these tribulations – along with the spoonful of tolerance I need to survive the remainder of this trip without doing or saying something I might deeply regret.