Trail of Feathers (18 page)

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. Thousands 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.

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 Iquitenos. For the climax of the show, a bare-breasted woman, bedecked in feathers, trouped through the shop doing a war dance. I recognised her. She was one of the Boras from the airport.

When the blender show was over, the party moved on to Casa de Fierro, the Iron House. Set on the corner of Calles Prospero 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 cheque. 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 yuka, 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 neighbour.’

‘Who’s your neighbour?’

‘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 motorised 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 licence 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 torch, 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 of 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.

‘That’s the ayahuasca,’ he said.

He motioned for me to watch. The shaman’s assistant went over to the hurricane lamp and turned it off. Flavio swept a white enamel mug into the liquid, and drank its contents. He held out his hands, and the afflicted approached him one by one.

The first person to step forward was a young woman. She couldn’t have been more than about twenty Flavio asked for details of her condition. The man she loved was in love with another, she said. She had come to gain his affection. The healer asked whether she had brought anything which belonged to the man she loved. She handed him a shirt and a few hairs from his brush. Flavio then asked if she had taken ayahuasca before. She replied that she had not. The enamel mug was dipped into the bucket and presented half full to the woman. When she had drained the liquid, the shaman told her to sit on the quilt.

Next came an old man. He claimed to be plagued by bad spirits. They had already killed his wife, he said, and his son, and they were now coming for him. When asked about ayahuasca, he replied that he had drunk it many times. The mug was filled to the brim and the old man drank. He sat beside the woman on the quilt, and waited.

One after the other, people stepped forward to drink ayahuasca. About fifteen came to the maestro for his help. Their problems ranged from obscure curses and susto, to medical afflictions, such as diabetes and pustules, migraines and malaria. Flavio told three people, all men, that he could not treat them. He didn’t say why.

I noticed that each of the patients had brought a trusted friend or relative with them. The reason for this became clear as the ayahuasca began to work.

The young woman who was out of love threw up first. Her retching was followed closely by the aged man. One by one, the participants gagged or vomited. Several of them clambered off the quilt to defecate. No one was concerned about embarrassing themselves. They were drunk, their movements unsteady, their expressions delirious. The friends and relatives were at hand to soothe them, and to lead them back to the quilt if necessary. The vomiting lasted only for the first hour or so.

Once he had heard their problems and provided ayahuasca to all the afflicted, Flavio took a chacapa from his satchel. The tool, a rattle made from dried leaves, is one of the two most important props used by shamans in the Amazon. The other is the tobacco, mapacho. Shaking the chacapa near the faces of his patients, Flavio began to chant incantations. The endless stream of sound continued for hours. There were no clear words. I was awed by his sheer stamina. The only break was when he lit a wooden pipe, plugged with the mapacho. Drawing deeply on it, he inflated his lungs with smoke, blowing it over the patients.

I asked Gonzalo what was happening.

‘The maestro is leading the sick people through the land of spirits,’ he said.

‘Are they flying?’

‘Yes, some have grown wings.’

‘Where are they going?’

‘On a journey over the jungle, to search for answers to their problems,’ said Gonzalo. ‘Flavio is leading them. He might look like a man, but in his mind he’s a stork.’

‘Doesn’t he give them actual medicines?’

Gonzalo grunted.

‘Ayahuasca’s stronger than any medicine.’

I was startled by a sound in the trees. A sudden shriek as a predator found its prey. The noise disturbed a nest of howler monkeys, which in turn woke up half the jungle. I looked back at Flavio and his patients. They hadn’t heard the commotion. The chacapa was still shaking, echoing to the rhythm of the chant.