|
|
DOS & DON'TS
GERELATEERDE ARTIKELEN
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
THE SAPO DIARIESOp zoek naar de Braziliaanse trip kikkerDOOR HAMILTON MORRIS, FOTO'S DOOR SANTIAGO FERNANDEZ-STELLEY
In het Amazoneregenwoud leeft de Mayoruna-stam, die van oudsher de slijmerige afscheiding van de Phyllomedus bicolor-kikker gebruikt om superkrachten te verkrijgen. Eerst binden ze de kikker—Sapo in het Braziliaans—vast en maken ze hem bang, zodat hij zijn gif loslaat (meestal via de stijlvolle methode van het porren met stokken). Daarna branden de inboorlingen kleine gaten in hun armen en wrijven ze het kikkergif in de wonden. Vervolgens kakken en kotsen ze een half uur, waarna ze (zo lijkt het) verscherpte en versterkte zintuigen krijgen en dagen zonder eten of water kunnen. Dit helpt hen om hun prooi te vangen. En hun prooi, dat zijn apen. Ze eten apen. Toen onze collega’s in Amerika hoorden over de Mayoruna en hun magische kikker konden ze niet anders dan de geestesverruimingsexpert des huizes, Hamilton Morris, erheen te sturen en hem deze wonderdrug te laten proberen. Om de stijl van de schrijver niet verloren te laten gaan in de vertaling hebben we besloten het stuk in het Engels te publiceren. Er bestaat immers niet zoiets als een geschikte vertaling van ‘I feel like I’m gangbanged by vegetation’. DAY 1 I have arrived in Tabatinga after days of traveling. It’s an impossibly humid rainforest city built by drug traffickers and sandwiched between the borders of Colombia and Peru. I feel like I’m being gangbanged by vegetation; every visible surface is coated with growing plants. The streets are overrun with motorcycles, scooters, and mopeds. Everything is crumbling and I saw a plucked chicken walking down the street as if nothing were wrong. Next to our hotel there is a store that exclusively sells plastic flowers. It’s a refreshing sight. I go out to dinner and meet our guide, Juan. Before we exchange a word he looks at my long hair and starts laughing hysterically. He says the Mayoruna Indians are going to think I’m a woman—they’re going to kidnap me as a wife. He repeats the joke a hundred times throughout the meal. I gorge myself on a giant meat platter, drink caipirinhas, smoke JWH-018-laced cigarettes, and get unspeakably stoned. Juan starts to shimmer. Juan lived with the Mayoruna Indians for five years but has never used the frog that they call Sapo because he has a bad heart. He says the Amazon is full of creatures scientists know nothing about. Deep in the jungle he encountered a fur-covered beast with only one eye. He and the beast exchanged a glance, and as a result Juan suffered a five-month-long fever. Another time a jaguar was attacking him, so he sliced open its belly with a machete and 50 cubs spilled out of her womb. I am too high to be skeptical and instead opt for extreme fear. 
DAY 2 For breakfast I eat eggs and some kind of pale yellow juice that tastes like nail-polish remover. Before leaving, I am taken to Juan’s office, where I sign a pile of incomprehensible Spanish waivers. Apparently if I die (or more likely go insane) it’s not his responsibility. I go out to see our boat, which is a 30-foot-long canoe with a wicker awning in the middle. I meet the other crew member, a man introduced as “The Captain,” who will run the boat’s small motor. I throw my bag on board and we go to pick up a giant block of filthy frozen river water, which we drag out of a freezer through a heap of bloody, gutted catfish. Juan proceeds to violently smash up the ice block with a rusty machete and throw the chunks into a couple of Styrofoam coolers that hold our minuscule food supply. Juan says the ice will last six days, but that seems totally impossible. The rainy season is when the Amazon River swells over the land, and life hemorrhages out of everything in sight. The anacondas mate, the mosquitoes lay their eggs, the pink river dolphins anthropomorphize and rape virgins. There are trees growing on trees, ants crawling on ants, and candirus swimming up the urethras of other candirus. It’s exhausting to watch. We take detours through the flooded jungle. Juan stands at the head of the boat, hacking every branch in reach with his machete. I’m not sure if it’s necessary or if he’s just in the mood to hack. The Captain sits silently at the back of the boat, navigating in a black cloud of diesel exhaust while chain-smoking cigarettes. He stabs open up a can of wieners with a giant chrome hunting knife and pours the wiener water into the Amazon. I eat a few and they taste like wet toilet paper. The sun sets, and we dock at the home of some strangers. The river surrounds their home and reaches their doorstep. Apparently, families living on the river are obliged to take in travelers. We give them some coffee and rice. Their bathroom is nothing but a long gangplank, which extends a few yards from their kitchen. They raise their chickens in a floating coop, and children merrily swim circles through the currents of piss and shit. Dinner is surprisingly tasty: greasy noodles, chicken bits in a plastic bucket, yucca chunks, and big sweaty cups of Coke. I piss by candlelight and lie in my hammock under a pink mosquito net. Mosquitoes inside the net are squealing past my ears. Later, I watch a cat kill a bat.
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
