Lost in the Jungle Read Free Page A

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 couldn’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