While focusing on Price of Medicine story that needs to be told in full, I am going to omit some two months of mountain wanderings in Cusco with Rachel who did miraculously land into my lap, after all uncertainty, having been taken off the plane only once for failing to comply with mask-wearing regulations, courtesy of vigilant LAX flight attendants.
I won’t mention Tarai Loco’s adobe maloka which we rented on a basalt rock shelf overlooking Qoya, never knowing what to expect upon returning from our outings to the mountains as his entire family decided to migrate uphill with us and held frequent sabbaticals powered by fermented chicha brewed by his wife, augmented by generous offerings of beer expected to flow like a river after a hot day’s work. His half-completed house next-door got filled with mattresses, furniture and musical instruments in-the-making, Tarai’s specialty, as a result of his impromptu move from the hostel housing down by the main drag he rented out on a whim.
Suffice to say, once we came back after a tiresome four-day walk from Lares hot springs to find entire family watching action blockbuster on a large flat-screen TV in the maloka, our things piled up in a corner, Tarai’s oldest son drunk asleep in our bed, while cats, dogs, ducks and a lame alpaca reigned in the make-shift kitchen outside, seeking treats among food scraps on and below the tables, rummaging among overturned cooking pots and piles of dirty dishes habitually left undone next to equally dirty laundry that’s been soaking several days in a row while proud descendants of Incas took their time to sober up. I was tempted to make a music video there and then to the tune of ‘old McDonald had a farm’, but never got around to it.
What kept us sane was copious amount of lovemaking and hot-pool escapades in Lares where we frequented free-for-all almost-finished resort complex, its gates still lacking padlocks, until getting tired of arguing with some of less-then-generous locals over the access to the healing thermal waters of the planet we decided to take our gypsy free-spirited outfit down the road to find previously abandoned but perfectly functioning pools where we could absorb mineral vapours and streaming starlight in tranquillity and peace no money could buy.
Call it luck, if you will.
What else should I not mention? Struggling uphill, heart pumping away to circulate oxygen-deprived blood to the throbbing temples, majestic mountain vistas of far-away glaciers swimming in wispy clouds lying in wait on the other side of the pass, rolling grit of abrasive stone churned underfoot and odd chunk of rock scattering and bouncing into a precipice down below, sweetened by yupta wad of coca behind the cheek trickling its juicy essence to give muscles power to burn and nonplussed look on alpaca faces paused in the chewing to study a passing apparition of a vagabond gringo clutching to his eucalyptus staff procured from one of the prickly hedges in the ravine for the occasion, all of this is a daily occurrence in a pilgrimage without destination. If any destination exists, it is internal one.
Rachel had been going through a strong process, speaking of internal destinations. The physical exertion and my sincere disregard for comforts otherwise provided by porters and guides revealed onion layers of insecurities and distrust that taxed her vital energy and slowly but surely brought her to confront inadequacy of reasoning and judgement, demanding unconditional surrender to the present moment held sacred in the temple of the heart. With her voluntary consent, she was pushed to the limits of her physical endurance, literally melting into the rocks while I massaged her twitching legs in the grassy nooks between rocks on high mountain plateaus while cold gusts of wind blustered over the top, a sunny day turned overcast with dark-blue storm clouds and not-so-distant rumbling.
You get wet up high, body exhausted, you get muscle cramps first time you stop and hypothermia is just around the corner; with three hours to the first scraggly bushes down break-a-leg descent back to the valley, it’s a question of being present in the moment and not succumbing to panic state induced by intruding narrator of your impending doom. I had considered carrying Rachel once, looking into her drifting eyes for signs of presence, but she miraculously managed on her own feet, clutching to my side with the remaining strength to stop herself from collapsing onto the ground. Oranges saved our arse, boosting vitality of depleted body, and we were safe under a boulder with a steaming cup of tea by the time the rain came.
Throughout two months of our escapades in the alpine wilderness of Sacred Valley, we never touched the gas cooker, using excessively brushwood and dry cow dung to cook our meals. Not once did we sleep in the tent, preferring boulder overhangs, vacant chosas or the celestial firmament itself filled with stars oscillating to the cosmic frequency.
In spite of my persistent attempts to make contact with Sacred Valley expat community, nothing came out of it – as usual. There seems to be an unseen buffer of unapproachability in the way, at least as far as my “here-I-am! Jack-from-the-box” appearance goes. As far as meeting old friends goes, element of surprise is factored out of Sacred Valley equation whenever I come to town. Which is a testimony to the lack of interest… coupled with continuously concealed and indefinitely postponed meetings, speaking of expressed interest, the only folks we ended up adventuring with us were Shipibos hailing from San Francisco district of Pucallpa, who came to Sacred Valley to hold ceremonies. One of those took place in the maloka we rented out while we were living in it.
Ironic, really, to be befriending Shipibos in Cusco, out of all people… the medicine connection. We invited Leonardo and Rjama with their son to Kinsa Cocha Lake, and as soon as they turned up it started snowing! The young fellow never seen the snow in his life; the expression of innocent bewilderment and pure joy on his face was priceless as he stood Mario’s lakeside guesthouse in a borrowed poncho, looking at the fluffy snowflakes drifting gently to the ground all around, bestowing barren landscape with a soft white coat.
I don’t lament missing out on the company of other gringos, it’s one of those things not worth mentioning. Walking the medicine path, you meet only those you were supposed to meet, hence the deep gratitude and trusting the flow as it takes one on a unique journey.
In spite of the marital high seas he’s been navigating, Tarai did come through in the nick of time before our final expedition to Ausangate and provided his expert knowledge in musical instrument making, instructing me in hollowing out a didge from a stick of eucalyptus suitable for enduring jungle environment of high humidity. Rachel became a proud owner of a buffalo drum fashioned out of a goat skin stretched over a bent agave frame. Ausangate with its scattering of jewelled alpine lakes and a dozen glaciers within a day’s hike was the apex of our Cusco sojourn. Our work visa applications to the immigration authorities were submitted by then with a the help of an ex-agent slash paid advisor and we looked forward to putting our acquired mountain fitness to the test, despite of ominous double-decker thunderstorm clouds pierced by yellow zigzags of lightening as predicted on the mountain forecast website.
Pacchanta received us with arms outstretched, Enrique’s household thrust its doors thrust its doors wide open as usual. We went up to the glaciers during the day and chilled out in hot pools in the evenings, favouring old algae-ridden spring over the brightly-lit complex constructed recently for vising privileged holidaymakers who descended in shiny four-wheel drives and scattered from air-conditioned minibuses, lunch menu provided on arrival by one of several guesthouses, including that run by Enrique’s oldest son. Thus we supplemented our diet with leftover trout and boiled kamote frequently rejected by tourists in preference for white rice and fries. Many lost their appetite to high altitude sickness; their eyes were hungry but stomachs would not churn the food.
Rachel lost her precious scarf, which she was sure she took along to our private hot tub covered with algae, and I had nothing to offer apart from the Buddhist sermon on non-attachment which provoked indignant rebuke aimed at my callousness. It was an example of deep-seated frustration and insecurity issues floating up to the surface triggered by the loss of the scarf in this instance. She was inconsolable and I left her sweeping the marshes around the pools by the light of the torch for the fifth time in a row. Her mourning lasted through the night; I had a hunch that her scarf was blown into the pool itself and drowned, which turned out to be the case when I fished it out with my toes first thing in the morning.
The emotional tension and the drama, however, incurs damage in the love affair, especially in high-energy environment of the mountains where your utmost serenity is needed to stay tuned-in through arduous climbs with no path in sight, clouds looming above the next ridge and a sudden low grumbling of an avalanche freezing you in your step. One must pay attention and accept the loss as a coin traded for that precious crystal your hand discovered grouping on the way up the glacier.
Some things hold one back more than others. Back in New Zealand, Rachel was desperately trying to sell her old car that had recently been in an accident… crashed, no WOF, only a few minor things otherwise perfectly reliable – you know the story. The amount of worry and exertion over the sale was not worth the payback, I said. Covid restrictions prevented people from turning up to collect the vehicle while she had days left before the intended departure. “Just put it on a side of the road”, I said, “free for taking and god bless! Consider it as a gift to the spirit that delivers you over the great distance to me, into the Promised Land.” “No, it’s a good car worth money, I can’t just abandon it…” Well, freedom has its price, too. “How fast can you go in that precious car of yours? Hundred clicks an hour? Hundred and twenty, before cops pull you up? Hundred and forty, before the whole thing starts shaking itself apart in the effort to deliver?
Your coming to Peru in the middle of plandemic crack-down on travel is a miracle powered by spiritual effort alone. Cesar is singing icaros and me and Jack are praying on a log at midnight in the virgin jungle to make that happen. It’s a question of focusing energy and letting go of low vibrations such as unnecessary worry. You will be flying at no less than the speed of light when it comes to visiting other realms during ceremonies. How do you think shamans travel? Strapped by a seatbelt in a metal box?
Whatever has wheels will go around in circles for an eternity to come, salute to Henry Ford on every lap, may he rest in peace. An engine of progress driven by crude oil of distrust will get you nowhere. Refine this argument if you will; questions like "do you love me?" stump one to speechlessness, unless proceeded by a cheeky smile of affection, of course. When your face reflects a supermarket selection of pre-packaged sufferings, blame, judgement, frustration and the rest of the goodies available for grabs to be hurled at the other for deviating from prosaic formulae, it makes you extremely unattractive. Why? Because choosing between 'yes' and 'no' is like walking a tight rope stretched above a crocodile pit with hungry lions on both sides and a joker holding a flaming torch to speed up a choice of death sentence, lest he manages it for you by burning the rope.
Suspicion that causes love being questioned is ugly and repulsive; it destroys possibility of love in the first place. When asked from a place of fear and potential rejection, such question automatically takes away all charms and magic, dissolves all the binding glue of affection, rendering the one who asks as an aged, possessed creature that feeds on your generosity. The balance is lost in a heartbeat, dependency arises and love takes leave because it doesn't trade in promises. It doesn't trade, full stop. It knows no commitment; it is committed to the very heartbreak and beyond, but will not state its case. It won't say a word, yet it speaks in silence exquisitely compressed volumes no book of poetry can ever hope to contain a tiny part of.
All that the poetry can do, in fact, is provide the framing for the gaps that speak to those who have had the pleasure of knowing for themselves what expansion and what rapture being in love affords. If I cannot impart my understanding and make you feel the gaps, why stay together? Why waste time in argument that only drain us of the juice and life? Doubt and suspicion trample flowers in the garden of love; when set loose they endanger to lay waste to the careful labour invested in a matter of seconds. What took so long to cultivate now lies crumpled underfoot and no amount of apologetic sobbing, no expressed regret can repair the damage. One must patiently wait for the gentle new growth, new stalks and new buds to open up their silky petals that delight the eye and emit the delicate fragrance lovers long for.
It has been observed that love has a frequency of vibration. Unconsciously, we tune out and are thrown back into narrow-lane ego track shuttling back and forth between being taken advantage of and abandonment issues grafted onto our psyche from early childhood days. This is extremely counterproductive to growth and one will naturally resist engaging on this level. Being an adult means nothing when it comes to unconscious patterns - in fact, some of our reactions are downright infantile, absorbed with the milk from our immediate surroundings while parental drama unfolded around at the time. Problem is that the baby now has a vocabulary size of a thesaurus, including all the clever words and idiomatic expressions that tangle up under your feet and get in the way of heart-to-heart transmission. Once again, it comes down to basic intelligence: if your heart is open, there's nothing to fear. Let go of the form. Universe will provide the energy contained in another vehicle more attuned to your frequency. Vibrate high or go home, that's the message. You will regret for years to come if you don't rise up to the challenge because it may take you that long to regenerate and grow in capacity, regeneration and growth best accomplished in solitude and meditation.
These thoughts filled me on the way back from Ausangate as I marched ahead with Rachel stoically following behind, rainclouds looming above and feeling pretty shattered to plumb the depth of unconscious reactions that surfaced on the last day of the fairly epic adventure, a sad-arse anti-climax to the whole Cusco sojourn. My princess was nowhere to be seen, and out of sheer desperation I've put forward an ultimatum that unless her regal presence was restored back in the flesh comes christmas, Rachel was free to fly home or pay her own way around and I didn't care what route she chose. It was an arm-twisting in retrospect and not awfuly nice, but luckily for me she swallowed her pride and faced the challenge as one faces a storm with all its cleansing might and power to destroy. Jungle was going to test us in very different ways and my hopes were with the medicine family to unclutter the essence and resurrect the magic that brought us together in the first place. A couple on a medicine path faces double the challenges, I've been told, I and I believe this holds true.
The abovementioned commentary simply reflects my current state when it comes to love affairs, an understanding that is subject to change as i evolve through experience ever close to my nature. In a natural state, there's ease and grace and simplicity. There's ample space to breathe. There are no beliefs, but there's knowing that needs no proof and no support of an argument to reach up high and access the vision. Each man contains a woman within and each woman likewise contains a man, if one consults tantric teachings. Your partner in the external world simply helps you to wed the energy already contained within you; the place for sacred union is indeed, internal. Once you feel the lotus opening up inside, all problems and consternations lose substance and can be swept aside like dead leaves - a shift in awareness is all it takes.
Simple as it sounds, many a love boat shatters on the rocks before arriving to safe harbour and blasphemous captain Jack Sparrow is not to blame for steering your attention to the flamboyant burlesque show happening on the surface, crashing waves sending salty spray into the air and what-not. All external turmoil of rejection and discontent originate from the lack of equilibrium between masculine and feminine energies within oneself. When you plumb the depth of this notion, you shall find tranquillity and peace. Turmoil dwells on the periphery, subject to ever-changing weather patterns that come and go as they please. And there you have it, my two cents worth of meteorological knowledge.
Go deep. Take a plunge. It's where one truly rest, in oneself.
Blessings!!!
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