Involuntary Bliss

by Devon Code

  He’d arrived at Machu Picchu after a four-day trek, which had not been along the famed Inca Trail as he’d hoped but an alternate route designed for undiscerning tourists, said James. First he’d flown from Lima to Cusco, where the tour group assembled. The following morning they rose at four a.m. in order to take the bus to the trailhead. There were nine other tourists and a team of Peruvians composed of guides and , or porters. This was in January, said James, near the height of the monsoon season, and it rained interminably. In the higher altitudes, the rain was accompanied by cold temperatures. He’d been ill-equipped for these conditions and had suffered at the hands of the elements. The length of each day’s hike varied, as did the nature of the terrain, which was sometimes level and at other times rugged and mountainous. The combination of the steep alpine ascents followed by the precipitous descents was very taxing. Ascending a mountain required greater stamina, but descending was somehow just as difficult. In addition to the elements, he’d had to contend with the altitude itself. He’d not given himself time to acclimatize before embarking on the trek and he’d suffered as a result. He’d found himself virtually incapable of speaking for the duration of the trek, because he could not catch his breath. He’d needed oxygen in his lungs more than he’d ever needed it before, while the oxygen available was thinner and less nourishing than that to which he was accustomed. He was like a starving man served only a pale broth which staves off death but which does not properly sustain him. On the other hand, he’d eaten exceptionally well. How the cooks managed this feat given the remoteness of the trail was beyond him, he said. Without fail, they were served three-course dinners, consisting of an appetizer, a soup and a main. With each meal they were served coca tea, made from the unrefined leaves of the coca plant, which was intended to mitigate the effects of the altitude but which offered him little relief.

  The , carrying the heaviest burdens, would run ahead of the tourists and guides. Whereas the tourists wore sturdy hiking boots, the wore only sandals. By the time the tourists arrived at their destination, the would have set up camp and cooks would have prepared their meals. Immediately upon the arrival of the tourists, the would stand up and applaud. At these times, said James, he would be on the verge of collapse, the cold and damp, the weight of his pack, the rugged terrain and the altitude conspiring against him. Each night for three nights, he received a standing ovation from the , who had worked so much harder than he. As the applauded the tourists for having done in seven hours what the had done in four, James would look at their faces, searching for signs of contempt. Never did he see any, the having every appearance of sincerity, which made their applause all the more infantilizing, precisely because it was so gracious and so ill-deserved. The entirely unwarranted applause of the disturbed him to no end, said James. When one goes to see the opera, or the ballet, it is the patrons who applaud while the performers bow, the patrons who show their respect. This is not the case in the Andes, where the system is inverted.

  On the third day of the trek, they passed through a small village. They arrived at the precise moment that a young man was preparing to slaughter a bull calf. It was raining, said James, as it had been for the duration of his trek. A small crowd of villagers of various ages had congregated nevertheless, and the tourists removed their heavy packs from their backs and stood by their side. The calf was tethered to a stake. The villager holding the machete was not a young man, as he had originally thought, but was little more than a boy of what he estimated to be fourteen years of age. The boy nevertheless appeared to know what he was doing, standing as he did next to the calf, holding his machete, while the younger children watched intently, laughing and whispering to one another. Already they could taste its meat, James surmised, or else they were fond of the animal. It seemed to him that he was crashing a party, said James, a celebration at which the calf was the guest of honour. The calf seemed unperturbed, either indifferent or unsuspecting of the immanence of its end. It looked at the assembly of villagers and tourists with only a mild interest. There was gentleness in its eyes, James thought, which were unsettlingly calm.

  The boy stroked the calf’s head gently with his left hand. He spoke into its ear. The calf turned his head and attempted to nuzzle the boy, the boy gently pushing the animal away as if they were playing a game. At this, the calf grew wary and took a step away, straining against its tether. It raised its tail above the vertebrae of its back and began to urinate, the yellow fluid pooling on the sodden earth, where it mixed with the falling rain, the stream of piss flowing for some time before it finally stopped. The voluminous pissing was either a final act of defiance, said James, or else an involuntary expression of fear. In any case, the calf had finally understood the young man’s intent. Why did it not begin to struggle? he’d wondered. There was dignity in this, he’d thought, or perhaps the beast had simply been paralyzed with dread.

  Then the young man raised the blade. Both his hands were on its handle as he brought it down upon the calf’s neck, with what seemed to James to be both force and precision. It connected in an explosion of crimson, those standing nearest stepping back in order to avoid the splattering blood.

  The calf screamed, said James. Though even now he could hear its scream, he could not adequately describe the sound. From where he stood, he could smell the damp scent of the animal’s hide, the sharper scent of blood, the odour of piss and then shit that issued from the calf as it continued to scream and struggled to stand, the blade still lodged in its neck, its spinal column at least partially severed, though it was clearly still experiencing pain. The boy braced himself against the animal’s wound in order to extract the blade. He struggled, eventually freeing the machete, which he brought down again with the same force as before. The blood must have hindered his efforts, for this time it didn’t lodge at all, but glanced off the surface. The calf’s cries grew more urgent even as their volume diminished. Something had gone wrong, James thought, judging from the reaction of the crowd, which grew uneasy. An older villager stepped forward and took the machete. With one decisive blow, the man dispatched the calf, its head dislodging from its body, which fell to its side, its hooves twitching in the rain. Without comment, the guides took up their packs and the tourists followed and continued on their way. They arrived at their camp shortly thereafter, were greeted by the applause of the , and were served their evening meal. They’d eaten particularly well that night, James recalled, though he’d forgotten what they’d had. No one spoke a word about the slaughter, and James waited until the meal concluded before he approached one of the guides and asked him about what they’d seen that afternoon. Had he known what would happen, said the guide, he would not have allowed the group to stop. The boy had not known what he was doing, he said, and had caused the calf to suffer. The young are not meant to kill, he said. Then he’d told James that he should sleep, for they had to cover more ground in the morning. The following day was uneventful, as the rain persisted in the presence of waterfalls as they approached the hydroelectric plant. In the evening they finally reached Aguas Calientes, at the foot of Machu Picchu. The rain was unrelenting even as they reached the ruins the next morning. Now was the time for the clouds to part and the sun to shine, thought James as they arrived, but the rain only intensified. He could make out only the vague outlines of the ruins, the mountains concealed from him by the downpour. His joints had ached, said James, his posture cramped from days of trekking over the rugged terrain with his heavy pack. He stood there in the rain and looked at the puddles and the grey sky, the grey ruins. His guide spoke of the Hitching Post of the Sun, the Temple of the Sun, the Room of the Three Windows, and the Virgins of the Sun. None were visible, said James. All he could see were the indistinct forms of countless disappointed tourists in colourful rainproof attire as they milled about the site. He stood under a shelter and there learned that several of the other members of his group were planning to travel further down the Urubamba River. Their next destination was a mountainside camp w
here there was purported to be a who for a fee would prepare ayahuasca tea, a sacred beverage of renowned psychotropic properties with the potential to bestow spiritual wisdom and psychic healing on those who drank it. The idea of participating in this rite appealed to him, he said, and he decided he would join them. A day later, they set out by motorized canoe piloted by a guide in the employ, and after a meandering half-day’s journey down the river, they arrived at the camp. The spoke no English, and instead relied on the services of an interpreter, a local woman in green flip-flops and a brightly patterned sundress that appeared pristine despite the primitive conditions of the camp. On the afternoon of their arrival, the eight visitors congregated in a circle around the , whom the interpreter introduced as the Maestro. The Maestro, through the interpreter, welcomed all of them as his guests for the three-day period in which they would prepare to drink the tea, the Maestro’s title seeming to James incongruous with the benignity of the corpulent, middle-aged man who held in his fingers what appeared to be an unlit cigar, the man dressed in sandals, denim trousers and black T-shirt, his hair dishevelled as if he’d just been roused from a nap, a Walkman affixed to his belt and a pair of headphones resting around his neck. There would be a fee for each day’s room and board, the Maestro explained, and an additional fee for the preparation of the ayahuasca tea. In order to prepare themselves, the visitors would be required to observe the , a prohibition on all sexual activity, as well as the consumption of beef, pork, spices, sugar and salt. Drinking ayahuasca was always accompanied by purging, which was not simply an unpleasant side effect, but was part of the process by which the visitors would purify themselves. Ayahuasca is the window of the soul and vomit cleanses with a streak-free shine, said the Maestro, appearing pleased at the cleverness of this remark. Within the next three days, it was the responsibility of each visitor to decide upon an intention for drinking ayahuasca. This intention could take the form of a question for which they wanted an answer, a mental or physical ailment that they wished to heal, or a spiritual goal they wished to attain. Each initiate in turn, he explained, would be summoned for a private interview, at which time the initiate would make his or her intention known and remit the fee.

  The Maestro then emphasized the importance of observing the once more before he placed his headphones over his ears and walked away, leaving James to spend the next few days on his own, walking the vast network of paths that encircled the base of the mountain, as he marvelled at the strangeness of the vegetation, the lushness of the rainforest, the insistent soundscape of the jungle, letting his thoughts wander while remaining careful not to stray too far from the camp. He would see the others only at mealtimes, where they would share the unseasoned fish, plantains and rice that had been prepared for them, the Maestro occasionally making an appearance, invariably wearing his headphones and sitting alone as he observed the visitors. James avoided interacting with anyone save the few children who inhabited the camp, for whom his beard proved a great source of amusement. During the first two nights, he lay awake on his bunkhouse hammock for some time before he fell asleep, reflecting on the twists of fate that had brought him to the mountainside camp, as he listened to the omnipresent din of cicadas, the calls of unfamiliar birds, which grew louder as sleep grew nearer so that rather than fatigue, it was the sound itself that would gradually eclipse his consciousness and usher him into elusive dreams.

  On the third day, while James sat beneath a tree at the edge of the camp composing a tune on Warren’s mandola, the interpreter approached him and asked him to follow her. She led him to the Maestro’s hut and instructed him to remove his shoes before entering. It was very warm inside, the light dim, the air hazy with tobacco smoke, so that it took his eyes time to adjust. He could hear soft percussive noises coming from the other side of the hut as he discerned the shadowy form of the Maestro sitting on a mat, smoking a cigar. James took Warren’s mandola from his back and laid it on the floor as he sat directly across from the Maestro, while the interpreter sat to the side, the two of them waiting without speaking as James’s eyes adjusted to the light. Eventually James saw that the Maestro’s eyes were closed and his headphones were placed over his ears. The Maestro nodded his head gently to the rhythm of his music until the song seemed to come to an end, at which point he opened his eyes. Seeing James before him, he pressed a button on his Walkman, removed his headphones from his ears and rested them around his neck. Then the Maestro, through the interpreter, welcomed James and said he’d witnessed a closeness among the other visitors in which James did not share. James explained that the other visitors all attended college together in New York, and that he’d met them only a few days before and had quickly tired of their company. The Maestro asked James if he too was a student and James replied that he wasn’t one anymore, having decided to abandon his studies in order to devote himself to the writing of poetry. The Maestro gestured toward the mandola and asked him if he was also a musician. James replied that he was doing his best to learn the instrument, and the Maestro asked to see it. James passed it to him and the Maestro examined it, staring through the sound hole into the instrument’s hollow chamber. The Maestro plucked the mandola’s doubled D string, as if testing the instrument’s quality, and said he found James to be ill at ease. James replied that he’d recently suffered the loss of a friend that he was still mourning. He said that he’d had a very difficult time since his friend’s death and was experiencing auditory hallucinations, hearing sounds of pain, pleasure or yearning when he tried to fall asleep.

  After the Maestro considered this, the Maestro asked James if he’d drunk ayahuasca before, and James said he hadn’t. The Maestro said that the loss he’d recently suffered made James a suitable initiate, and that auditory hallucinations weren’t uncommon in such circumstances. He said he found the motivations of the other visitors to be questionable, that they seemed to be more interested in experimentation than in knowledge or healing, but that he would permit them to drink ayahuasca nevertheless, provided they adhered to the , because they’d travelled a long way to do so, and though he considered himself an astute judge of character as was required by his vocation, he knew that he was fallible and also that sometimes even questionable intentions could lead to worthwhile outcomes. Drinking ayahuasca had become fashionable recently due to several popular musicians who’d tried it, he said, and also a Chilean novelist who’d used it to overcome her writer’s block. In Quechua, said the Maestro, means “corpse” and means “rope,” though ayahuasca is commonly translated as “vine of the soul.”

  He then asked James if he was a fan of the American rock group The Doors. Surprised by the question, James replied that he was familiar with the band, though he didn’t consider himself a fan. To the best of his knowledge, said the Maestro, no member of The Doors had ever drunk ayahuasca, though some of their songs described the kind of experiences for which he served as a guide in his role as . The song “Break on Through (To the Other Side)” for example, he said, and the song “Horse Latitude,” which had frightened him the first time he’d heard it. “Horse Latitude” had no melody and did not resemble a conventional song at all. When he’d asked his brother-in-law to translate the lyrics to “Horse Latitude,” said the Maestro, the words had confused him. After he’d started drinking ayahuasca he came to understand the song as a worthy expression of confusion and fear. Then the Maestro said that in the song “When the Music’s Over,” “music” was a metaphor for life, and the music ending was a metaphor for death. Jim Morrison was a troubled young man, he explained, who died before he’d realized the true extent of his creative powers. He is buried in Paris, where there is a night watchman permanently stationed to prevent his fans from committing obscene acts upon his grave.

  Sometimes The Doors’ music is upbeat, but sometimes it is very dark, he said. Ayahuasca is the same. Most people want to have a good time and see beautiful visions, but sometimes that is not what they need. Sometimes people need to experience a symbolic death, which can
be very frightening because it seems like it is real. The Doors had some good songs, he said, but in general he preferred the solo work of Ray Manzarek, who played keyboards for The Doors. He’d discovered Ray Manzarek’s solo albums in his brother-in-law’s collection. His brother-in-law made very good money as an executive in the soft drink business, and many of the cassette tapes that he, the Maestro, listened to on his Walkman were dubbed from his brother-in-law’s LPs. His brother-in-law was a straightforward man who loved three things most of all. The first was making money. The second was his family, including his wife, who was the Maestro’s sister, and his daughter, who was the Maestro’s niece. The third was American rock music. Furthermore his brother-in-law was the son of an admiral, just like Jim Morrison, and was the one who’d pointed out to him that The Doors often did not have a bass player when they performed live. This was very unusual, the Maestro explained, because the bass guitar usually provides a rock band’s melodic foundation.

  Then the Maestro asked James what he thought of that, and at first James did not know how to respond. After thinking through his answer, James remarked that when it came to the construction of buildings in northern climates, foundations were particularly important, because frost causes the earth to shift, which is why northern buildings almost always have basements. If there was any correlation between construction and musical composition, said James, then The Doors had taken a considerable risk.