Lost in the Jungle Read online

  He paused, sipped his steaming tea, and then went on.

  ‘I have some kind of power. I’m some kind of medium. That was the way I decided to come to South America. When Monica suggested the trip, I tested the idea with the needle and thread. The answer was that I should go. I didn’t want to. I kept trying, hoping that the needle would go to the left, but it kept moving to the right, ordering me, ‘Go!’

  ‘I believe in that type of thing, though I am a good Christian. I do say my prayers.

  ‘Monica didn’t believe in such things, but she loved me nevertheless. I thought I would die when she wrote that she was leaving me and asked her to come see me. I knew she would not refuse, but when she arrived in Peru, it was horrible, just horrible. I felt myself losing her. Then I heard about a brujo [witch doctor] in Lima and went to see him. He told me that it was all over. There was no future for us. Before I left, he warned me that he felt danger hovering over me in South America. ‘You or someone close to you will die here. Be careful!’ I knew he was right, but I didn’t care. There was no other place for me to go. Not then. Not after I lost Monica.’

  Later at the old-folks’ home I thought how lucky I was to have come on this trip. I had wanted so badly to avoid going along with the crowd, walking the well-worn path: from kindergarten to grade school, from high school to the army, and then on to university, work, marriage, a child... Stop! Yes, I was lucky to have escaped all that after my military service.

  There were hordes of mochileros like me in South America. The mochila (backpack) is what characterises them. These packs are all they have. In them you’ll usually find a pair of patched and faded jeans, a sweater, a raincoat, a Coleman burner, The South American Handbook, which the mochileros call their bible, a sleeping bag, a few toilet articles, and a small first-aid kit. That’s it. They keep their money in a money belt inside their pants. Some, like Marcus, even more cautious, cut a slit across the inside hem of their pants leg and stick rolled bills inside.

  The idea is to carry everything on your back, forget your troubles, and let tomorrow take care of itself. You learn from the natives to live for the moment, not to hurry. You travel to breathtaking places – the kinds of places tourists dream of seeing – but you’re not a tourist. You’re a mochilero, a drifter, and there’s a big difference. You’re in one place today, someplace else tomorrow. You may stay for a day or a month. You make your own plans, every day full of surprises.

  You meet a lot of drifters like yourself. You usually find them in the cheapest hotels in town or in restaurants that could pass for soup kitchens. You get to know the local people, who are usually friendly to strangers.

  South America is overrun with mochileros of many nationalities, but Israelis are particularly numerous among them. I don’t know why that is. Perhaps the long, mandatory military service in Israel has created among its young people a need to break out of moulds, and there is no better way to do that than packing a mochila and wandering.

  Anyway, we Israelis are privileged characters: in almost every large city in South America, the Jewish community has provided some kind of hostel for backpackers. These free hostels are a welcome refuge. Friendships are formed there.

  Each hostel has its ‘travel journal,’ a book to which the guests contribute notes on a recommended side trip, a place of interest, the cheapest place to stay, to eat, what play is worth taking in, the easiest way to get around. Over time these journals have grown encyclopaedic, full of reliable information.

  The old-folks’ home where I was staying had been the Jewish community centre; but a more modern centre had been built, and the former one was turned into a home for the community’s senior citizens. Its owner, Señor Levinstein, let the mochileros stay free and gave them use of a refrigerator, a gas burner, and mattresses. His Sabbath meals of roast chicken had become a Friday-night tradition.

  There were only a few old people living in the home. Some of them weren’t quite all there, but they were harmless. The one I liked best used to knock on our doors and shyly ask to enter. Once inside, his sweet expression was abruptly transformed, and from his mouth came a stream of the foulest curses you can imagine – that is, if you speak Yiddish. Then he would take his leave politely and go on his way. When he lacked the time for a proper visit, he tapped on our windows and hurled an obscene gesture or two. Another old guy was obsessed with Bolivian soccer and was always looking to regale someone about his favourite team. He once came out of his room at one in the morning, asked us to help him put on his best suit, tie his tie, and lace his shoes. Once dressed, he kindly thanked us and went back to bed.

  Grandma was the boss of the house. She must have been about eighty years old, with frizzy white hair. She had an apartment on the ground floor and was in charge of seeing that the rules were kept. She was the one who checked your passport and papers from the Israeli embassy in La Paz and gave you permission to stay. She showed you where you’d sleep and where the bathroom was. She made sure you didn’t make a lot of noise and didn’t waste water or electricity. God help anyone who crossed her. She knew how to yell loud enough that no one could ignore her, but underneath her tough demeanour was a fabulous woman, adored by everyone. She spoke broken Spanish and called everyone hijito (my son). Flowers for Grandma were another Friday night tradition.

  The travel journal in the old-folks’ home was filled with detailed information about Bolivia and its neighbours – Chile, Peru, and Brazil – and about La Paz. Several residents recommended a visit to ‘Canadian Pete’, who was serving time in San Pedro Prison. An entire section was devoted to San Pedro cactus, the plant that contains mescal, one the strongest hallucinogens existing in natural form. Many Israelis, it seemed, had tried the drug.

  I decided to try San Pedro cactus for myself. It wasn’t difficult to talk Dede into joining me, so we found ourselves on our way one morning to the Valley of the Moon, where it grows.

  We each carried our backpacks. We had brought along a tent, a Coleman burner, a pot, two sleeping bags, two bottles of Coca-Cola, a large jar of jam to help disguise the taste of the plant, and a loaf of bread. Dede also had a large, red waterproof poncho.

  The Valley of the Moon itself was frightening, remote and desolate. The entire area was rocky, with grey-white crags jutting out of the ground forming weird, jagged shapes. Some said Neil Armstrong had named the valley. Flying overhead had reminded him of the moon. It really did look like something not of this earth. Nothing grew there except for a scattering of cacti of many species. Following the descriptions in the travel journal, it was not difficult to recognise the San Pedro cactus. Some of the stumps were carved with names and dates. I looked around for a nice, clean specimen and found one to my liking. I checked out the seven ribs and the spacing of the thorns. Everything was exactly right. I cut off about a foot and a half of the trunk with my pocket knife. Dede put it carefully in my pack, and off we marched.

  We climbed a hillside covered with eucalyptus and were alone up there among the trees, the eerily beautiful valley stretched out at our feet.

  ‘I’ll get the cactus ready,’ I told Dede, ‘while you put up the tent.’

  I sat down to concoct the drug. I pulled the thorns out with my knife. Then I peeled the rind. There were two layers: one, very thin and green; the other, white and containing strychnine. After carefully separating them, I finally had two big cups full of green pulp. I lit the burner and put a small amount of cactus in the pot to cook. About fifteen minutes later I emptied the pot into a cloth and squeezed out all the liquid. My efforts were rewarded with hardly more than an ounce. Would it be enough? Perhaps I had misunderstood the instructions.

  It was already dusk, and I decided that we had no choice: we would eat the cactus raw. We found a comfortable place to sit on the edge of the hill. The view was fantastic, other-worldly. We sat with the Coke, the jar of jam, and a large spoon. I put a small piece of cactus in my mouth. Did it taste awful! Really disgusting. I shoved a spoonful of jam into my mouth, but it coul
dn’t disguise the horrible taste.

  I was dying to spit it out but forced myself not to. I couldn’t swallow the doughy wad and had to chew it some more. My whole body convulsed. I choked back the nausea and took a long drink of Coke. Poor Dede. Now it was her turn. It seemed to me that she had an easier time swallowing the bitter plant.

  We repeated the routine five times until we had eaten the whole thing. Just to be sure, I drank the tiny amount of liquid that I had wrung from the cooked cactus.

  The vanishing sunset was an incredibly beautiful backdrop for the Valley of the Moon, but I was too nervous to enjoy the scenery. I was trembling all over and felt terribly nauseated. Otherwise nothing unusual was happening to me. Dede also looked perfectly normal. She wanted to fix me a cup of tea, but the pot was filthy with the mess of the cooked cactus, and we hadn’t brought along enough water to clean it.

  Darkness fell, but a different light reached me. I smiled to myself and gazed down into the abyss below. It beckoned me, and, terrified, I took a few steps back. The very last red rays of the sun lingered over the cliffs across the valley. I clutched tightly to a tree, resisting the alluring abyss.

  Dede clung to me from behind. ‘I feel wonderful,’ she said. ‘I’m flying.’

  I grinned to myself. She pressed her pelvis up against me, and I was afire. She moved slowly back and forth. I was enraptured.

  ‘Let’s go into the tent,’ she whispered.

  Walking was difficult, and I was frightened. It was already night time, and I groped my way from tree to tree. Dede took me by the hand, but I didn’t trust her. I wanted to feel the trees for myself.

  Once in the tent we lay down on one of the sleeping bags and covered ourselves with the other. Suddenly I was astride a galloping horse. To my right, to my left, everywhere I looked were galloping horses and soldiers in green uniforms, wearing visored caps – and I was one of them. Where was I?

  Dede laughed but seemed so far away. I rode swiftly on, not knowing where I was or where I was going. We were quiet, then suddenly the sky was lit by lightning, and we heard the loud crack of thunder. It started pouring.

  ‘Oh,’ Dede murmured, ‘it’s so stormy.’

  The rain poured down, and the tent began to leak.

  ‘I really love storms. I don’t know why. They excite me,’ she said.

  In no time at all we were soaking. Everything was. The sleeping bags were drenched, and a large puddle formed in the middle of the tent.

  ‘Let’s go outside,’ she whispered. She had taken her poncho out of her pack. It was really just a large sheet of nylon, I put it on, and she crawled underneath. We stood like that, the rain pelting down upon us. I was still wondering where I was and with whom I was galloping. I could hear Dede whisper, ‘I love it so much. I don’t know why. It’s so exciting.’

  She was pressing her buttocks up against my groin. Suddenly she seemed so tiny. I stroked her short hair.

  ‘I love it so much,’ she repeated. ‘I love it so much.’

  The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Soon the wind subsided too. I could hear a faraway flute, its strains pure and pleasing. Captivated, I listened, almost in a trance. The sound drew nearer. It was an enchanted flute from the world of legends.

  ‘Do you hear the flute?’ I whispered.

  ‘Of course,’ said Dede. ‘Where can it be coming from?’

  We were so far from the village, the night was so stormy, and it was so late. ‘Hey, you, come here!’ I yelled, but the flute slowly faded.

  Dede left my side and wandered among the trees, humming.

  The abyss, I thought. Lord, she’ll fall into it! And I shouted after her, but she didn’t answer my calls, and I became hysterical. I shouted, gripping the trunk of a tree with both hands. ‘Don’t go over there! Stay away from the cliff! Get right back here!’

  At last she returned. She wasn’t at all frightened or upset. ‘Let’s go back into the tent,’ she said quietly.

  She spread her poncho out over the sleeping bags, and we lay down, holding one another. I was conscious of being cold and yet felt curiously indifferent. The coldness didn’t matter; it was alien to me. I hovered in other worlds.

  ‘Do you want to?’ she asked in a murmur.

  Do I ever! I thought to myself, but what makes me think I can?

  ‘I’m not sure that I can,’ I said.

  Dede laughed. She removed my belt and stretched out on top of me. I guess I was off in another world. Everything felt different, new, unfamiliar. It was endless. When it happened, it just went on and on for I don’t know how long. Afterward we just lay there. I was still trying to get Dede to tell me into what army I had been conscripted and where we were. She didn’t even try to answer my questions. She only laughed. The horses galloped along with me until daybreak.

  Dede pulled me outside, but my legs wouldn’t do what I wanted. I stood there, watching while she took the tent down and packed our wet belongings. She wadded everything up and shoved it into the packs, and we started trudging back toward the village.

  ‘Have you come down?’ I asked her.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Do you think I have?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. You’re really funny.’

  I had no more hallucinations, but nothing seemed as it should. I had difficulty walking, and everything I saw – cliffs, stones, trees – looked unfamiliar.

  The bus we caught was full of Indian workers; I felt they were staring at us, but then I must have dozed off. Before I knew it, we were in the middle of La Paz.

  ‘Do you want me to help you get home?’ Dede asked.

  ‘No, I’ll get a cab,’ I answered.

  ‘Will you be over to see me later?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  I hailed a cab and gave the driver my address. I ran into my friends Eitan, Raviv, and Shukrun at the entrance of the old-folks’ home. They burst out laughing at the sight of me.

  ‘So how was it?’ Raviv asked.

  ‘I’m scared,’ I told them. ‘Really. I’m not coming out of it.’

  They just laughed some more.

  ‘Come and have some breakfast with us. You’ll feel better,’ Eitan said.

  I left my pack in the hallway and joined them. It was hard to walk, and I was afraid to cross the street. Eitan helped me.

  ‘Am I going to stay this way?’ I asked in terror.

  ‘No, no, don’t worry,’ Eitan assured me. ‘It’ll be all right. You get some sleep, and when you get up, everything will be all right.’

  ‘You’re a happy man, Yossi,’ Shukrun said. ‘You should only stay that way. That’s the whole point.’

  Chapter three

  KARL AND KEVIN

  I awoke at noon and lay staring at the walls. The room’s only ornament was a faded poster of La Paz bearing the caption ‘The Jerusalem of Bolivia’. My vision was clear, not the distant blur it had been. I sighed with relief. I was my old self again.

  I went downstairs, took a shower, shaved, and went out. It was a beautiful day, especially after the gloomy weather of the night before. Huge banners at the city’s central soccer stadium proclaimed the imminent contest between The Strongest and Bolívar. On a nearby corner stood a hamburger stand run by a young American, where the mochileros gathered. I walked on in the direction of the amusement park. Little kids, squealing gaily, were sliding down a gigantic chute on plastic bags.

  I didn’t feel like seeing Dede again. It was weird. Friends had warned me that the trip could turn violent, that either one of us might come to harm, but it hadn’t been like that.

  I had needed her and even been afraid that if something had happened to her, I would be left alone, helpless. I was glad that she had been there near me, but now I simply didn’t care to see her, and I didn’t think I would be able to bring myself to touch her again.

  I liked La Paz but wanted to return to Peru the next day. I could already picture myself at Machu Picchu. Every nomad knows the feeling: longing for every pla
ce he must leave mingled with anticipation of a new destination, always certain that the next place will be even better, even lovelier.

  I walked in the direction of the Rosario Hotel, hoping to find Marcus and tell him that I was leaving.

  ‘The Swiss hasn’t come back yet,’ the clerk said. Marcus and Annick had gone to Coroico in the Yungas Cloud Mountains. I asked him for paper and a pen. I was supposed to meet Lisette, a Bolivian girl, at five-thirty at the university to attend a Brazilian jazz concert. I asked Marcus to meet me there at five.

  I left the hotel with a European-looking man close behind me. I had seen him around the hotel before.

  ‘¡Hola!’ he greeted me. ‘You know the Swiss man, don’t you?’

  He had a German accent, was in his late thirties, tall – about five feet eleven inches – broad-shouldered, solidly built, with brown hair receding above the temples. His eyes, which were slightly crossed, were blue. His clothes, which were worn but not threadbare, gave him the air of an adventurer.

  ‘He’s supposed to be back about now. He went to the Yungas for two days,’ I answered, and hurried down the street.

  ‘Are you American?’ he asked, quickening his pace to keep up with me.

  For some reason every foreigner on this continent, especially if he happens to be tall and blond, is assumed to be an American. The problem with that is that many of the locals aren’t particularly fond of Americans.