Sure, all the gringos with a taste for the bizarre swing down here for a sampling of the ayahuasca.  But you’ve got to get a bit deeper — and weirder, I suppose — for some of the more uncommon flavors of the local Indian people.  “Flavor” might not be the correct term, as neither of these medicines is imbibed orally, thus keeping taste completely out of the equation.  It’s also possible that “medicine” might not be the most accurate descriptor for either of these, though I’m still desperately shying away from using the “D” word.

Sapo and Nunu, both more fun to say than they are to apply to one’s body, have a long history with the local people of being applied prior to an important hunt, given the positive effects they bring about on both stamina and perception.  Sapo, a milky secretion garnered from a terrified local tree frog, is believed to induce a purge of toxins from the body inspiring an hour of intense nausea and discomfort, followed by at least a day of heightened energy and clarity of mind.  In a sense, the experience is like a reverse hangover.  Nunu, on the other hand, is a powder made from the ground bark of a local tree.  It’s inhaled through the nose like snuff, and has a reputation for enhancing sight and sound (and smell?) for about an hour or so.

Despite my excursion into the jungle to capture a baby alligator (or perhaps because of it), I think it’s clear that I am not much of a hunter.  But who couldn’t use a bit of enhanced senses from time to time?

Nunu: “It burns, it burns…”

The Indian’s sitting slumped over on the edge of the “medicine room,” next to a slender wooden tube similar in appearance (and, in a way, in behavior) to a blowgun.  He fumbles a bit with a small container, opening it over his palm and tapping the edge softly to dislodge a few pinches of the grayish-brown into the cup of his hand.  As usual, I’m first in line, sitting nervously beside him as he pushes one end of the tube into his palm to fill it with a single serving of the nunu.

Prepping the nunu

“So, he’s going to blow all that up my nose?” Nods in my direction confirm this to be the case.  “Cool.  Can’t wait…”

I lean my head back, exposing my left nostril to the freshly raised and filled bamboo tube.  It’s awkward, but seems to fit my nose well, which isn’t surprising as that is its sole function.  Hopefully they rinse it off from time to time.

“Just start breathing in deeply,” they tell me.

Only split-seconds into the inhalation, the burst fills my skull and I sharply recoil back from the tube, momentarily blinded by the forced gust through my head.

“Did I pull away too quick?”

“Nah, you’re good.”

There’s a definite burning sensation coursing through my freshly browned nostril, snaking stingingly down into my throat.  The latter is immediately parched from the dusty coating now spread across it, and has a slight itchiness as well, though no significant pain.  It’s much like having a minor cold and being perpetually on the verge of a sneeze that never arrives.  Nothing about the experience so far could be described as “fun” or “enjoyable” but it wasn’t that terrible a cost to pay to gain the closest thing I’m likely to find that would make my childhood dream of having Super Powers come true.  I begin to stand to allow the next person in line my spot.

“That was just one pinch,” says Peter, motioning for me to remain seated.  “You need at least four to six to notice anything.”

I sit back down slowly.

“Oh.”

Sure, it's strange and uncomfortable. But so are tetanus shots...

A ring of brown now lines both nostrils unceremoniously (well, entirely ceremoniously in this case I suppose…).  It’s not a good look for a night in the city, but it’s hardly a fashion faux pas as deeply off the map in the jungle as we are.  Each burst of the powder is worse than the one before it, for no other reason other than the nervous anticipation preceding its entry.  Stopping early would mean that each burning sample I’ve already experienced would have been for nothing.  So bring it on.

I take a spot on the porch several feet from where the nunu is being administered and stare out looking for a change in my perception of the world that comes about as slowly as a boil to a carefully watched pot of water freshly placed on the flame.  A mild light-headedness descends over me as I focus on the nearest tree.

Is it any different?  Looks green.  Looked green before.  I guess it could be.. greener?

The snuff doesn’t affect my clarity of mind, leading to an intensely focused introspection as my eyes dart across the already too-vivid landscape.  Slowly it dawns on me that my range of focus has expanded from a single point to an entire range of targets before me, as the tree — once simply “green” — becomes comprised of leaves of emerald green, creme-de-menthe green, lime green, forest green, unripened apple green, pine green, algae green, pea green, Kermit-the-Frog green and every other green available from designer paint stores combined with the stucco yellow and the Captain Morgan’s spiced rum-colored amber of a few leaves just about to fall.  Then the shades between take on sharply individual colorations of their own, every leaf almost vibrating in contrast from every other, first on the same tree, and then throughout the whole of the jungle taking up my field of vision.

Four years back, I had LASIK surgery on my eyes, enhancing my eyesight from an abysmal near blind status to a nearly acceptable 20/30.  I have no regrets at all, but a sharpness of lines and edges that glasses and contacts once brought to my sight is likely gone forever, leading to an almost imperceptible haze over the stark rigidity of reality that I assumed must be permanent.  Suddenly, this is no longer the case.

With a smile like this, how bad could the experience really be?

Across a landscape dense with foliage, a bird lands on a tree over a hundred feet away, slightly off to the left from where I’m focused, and my eyes flash over to it unbidden.  The bird’s head pivots to the right, followed by a short hop further down a branch in that direction.  It sits still for a second then disappears, deeper into the jungle and out of even my newly enhanced sight.  Before me is a jungle that before I only knew to be inherently teeming with life; now, that life is exposed before me with a sharpness that shouldn’t be possible.  There is no peripheral vision or singular point of focus, so much as an entirety of visual perception laid bare before me.  Rain drizzles down from the sky, and I’m aware of every falling drop that collides violently into a softly recoiling leaf, only to gradually make its way down from leaf to leaf toward earth like nature’s Plinko.

I should be overwhelmed, but I’m not.  What we as humans are capable of is so far beyond what we’re ever likely to experience.  But for just an hour, I get a small taste.

Sapo: It also burns.  Literally. (or “Got me a sweet lookin’ prize today…”)

The Sapo frog

I’m not sure why we’re venturing into another strange jungle remedy while still firmly under the thrall of the nunu and its entertaining effect on the senses.  I worry as treebark-flavored saliva drizzles slowly down my throat in a near inexhaustible supply.  An increase in downed saliva almost always leads to nausea and queasiness on its own, and now we’ve been forewarned that the coming sapo may induce vomiting as well.  I purposefully skipped breakfast.

Flash back to a day prior and we’re gathered outside the dining hut around four small posts jammed tightly into the ground, roughly in the shape of a square.  From inside his blue plastic cage, a mid-sized lime green sapo frog sits completely still over a broken off tree branch.  He has no idea how weird the next few minutes of his life are going to be.

Sapo frogs give off their poisonous — and despite being twisted into a roundabout vitality serum, it is technically a poison — secretions as an obvious defense mechanism against attackers that would otherwise find the frogs quite tasty.  Once frightened, even a small taste of the little fellow would cause any mouth to swell up to unhealthy levels; a big enough swallow could close a man’s air passages up entirely leading to a slow, uncomfortable sickening descent into misery and death.  For reasons that can’t be explained, somewhere along the line it was discovered that applying the same deadly salve to nearly burnt skin’s actually a pretty good time.

Handling the frog as delicately as possible, the Indian wraps a loose bit of green twine around each foot, tying it into a solid knot with as much gentleness as possible.  Attaching a single line of the twine to one of the four posts doesn’t seem to cause the animal too much grief, though this all changes as he works a second leg onto the opposite post, stretching both legs out distressingly in a way that makes many of us inwardly cringe as if sharing in its obvious discomfort.  The remaining front and rear leg kick and stretch ineffectually, causing the frog to spin slightly until the third leg is secured, followed by the last leg which is secured almost effortlessly.  Stretched tortuously taut in four directions like some stoic amphibious messiah figure, it hangs there unmoving, an implacable gaze staring straight outwards from its unmoving eyes.

Who doesn't appreciate a good stretch every now and then?

By now, a layer of thin, white mucous has built up around the frog’s entire body, indicating that something about the situation has indeed inspired some degree of fear within the animal.  With a thin, foot-long wooden stick shaped a bit like a long nail file, the indian slowly scrapes the animals body to gather up as much of the secretion as possible.  He’s thorough, moving across the entire top of the animal’s body and well over each leg, but he’s also gentle enough that the treatment doesn’t seem to cause much (more) distress to the ensnared creature.  The collected fluid covers more the half the stick and will provide more than enough sapo for this group of neophytes.  As the process is now complete, the frog is untied and released back into the jungle, hopping away with a far lighter insouciance than would be expected after such an ordeal.

Applying the sapo

Back to the present and I’m on the edge of the deck with warm chills along my exposed right arm as the Indian burns a small, pencil-sized piece of wood just inches from it.  The round end is flat and glowing a bright orange as he removes it from the fire and makes a quick jabbing motion at my arm.  There’s a quick sting, but it’s less agonizing than anticipated by far.  Each burn makes an immediate circular scab of ash gray on the upper arm; I’m told that I’ll need at least three to be properly affected by the medicine.

One dosage will leave me queasy and weak.

Two should make me keel over in extreme discomfort.

Three will likely inducing vomiting and the sense of undirected pleading for mercy that only the worst of hangovers typically can provide.

Four is the maximum for an initial attempt.  I have no intention of trying this, and so I do not even ask what the effects will be.

Everything has been explained and clarified so that we’re all going into this with open eyes.  Fifteen seconds from the secretion hitting our skin, we’ll feel unpleasantly light-headed which will degrade into a strong and active discomfort with lightning speed.  Fifteen minutes will pass slowly which will be the worst of it.  Nausea.  Headaches.  Extreme exhaustion.  The remainder of the hour is spent in a nearly passed out state, though with less of the unpleasant side effects experienced during the first fifteen minutes.  A nap may or may not be advisable at this point.

Why would anyone put themselves through this?

Excellent question.

Ostensibly, the secretion works its way into the bloodstream and does an immediate purge of all toxins and bad mojo within the body.  I’m not certain any scientific research has been done to verify any of this, but I’m going with it.  More importantly, the follow-up period after the initial “reverse hangover” supposedly brings with it intense feelings of health and vitality.  Used for the most important hunts, the affected hunters run tirelessly through dense jungles unaffected by heat, hunger or exhaustion.  What are fifteen minutes of misery in comparison to that?

Quite a lot, apparently.

The scabs form immediately, and less than two minutes after being mildly burned, Peter scrapes each one off, leaving three circles atop one another marching up my forearm toward my right shoulder.  By the time the dried secretion — turned liquid once again with the addition of a small quantity of shaman saliva — has been touched to all three of the unnaturally pale circles of fresh, moist skin, the dizziness — the sense of wrongness has set in.  I use what I rightfully guess is my last reserve of energy to stand up and move a few feet out of the way of the others, and the collapse.  Hard.

Maybe this wasn't my greatest idea...

Rolling over immediately onto the floor and then almost as fast off the deck onto the cool, wet mud, I’m almost motionless for the next half hour — double the fifteen minutes of misery expected.  My body rejects what I’ve done and I roll my head up onto an arm and attempt to purge the wrongness from deep within me, only to find that only a small amount of brown, bark colored saliva issues forth from my mouth.  My eyes blind with tears and I roll the side of my now-swollen face back down into the mud.  Think nothing.  Do nothing.  Ride it out.  Let it pass.  Peter laughs and takes a picture of me.

“You’re gonna want this for later,” he says.  “There’s always one person that gets the froggie face and you lucked out.”

I have no idea what this guy is talking about.

I’d find out later.

Pain ebbs and is replaced by an unnatural exhaustion and all I want is to sleep.  I barely manage to wipe the mud from my face before limping back into my net-enclosed bed and falling into a deep, necessary unconsciousness.

Hours later I awake to find no superhuman strength, energy or clarity of mind.  I’m tired, still.  It’s not the all-encompassing exhaustion from hours earlier, but the idea of running through the jungle chasing down wild boars while feeling anything like how I do now is beyond ridiculous.

"froggie" face. Still like this a few hours later, I start to fear potentially having to explain why I look this way for the rest of my life.

“Just wait,” Peter says, “just wait.”

I wait.  For the remainder of the day, I sit hunched over and take to swinging myself listlessly in hammocks until dusk brings with it the daily onslaught of mosquitoes.  Three days from now, we’ll have an opportunity to try sapo again.  I already know that I will decline.

But eventually, the experiment does prove to be somewhat effective, though not as powerfully as I had imagined.  I have no urge to sprint for hours on end.  There is no burst of inhuman strength or ability, but a distinct change comes over me the following day, that I feel throughout my body.  The promised vitality arrives, not with bells and whistles announcing its presence but with an almost imperceptible feeling throughout the day like my soul fills the space of my body perfectly.  I’m neither hyper nor tired; everything about my being is completely clean, alert and good.  Perfectly balanced.

Are the benefits worth experiencing the initial misery?  Hell no, from my perspective, but clearly others disagree.  When offered a second attempt on the last full day we have at the compound, I respectfully sit out.  If the stuff really does purge all toxins from my system, it’s not too likely I’ve added a significant amount of new ones in the past three days.

I don’t avoid the ceremony, though — regardless of anything else, watching Peruvian medicine like this get applied is far more interesting than sitting in on someone’s check-up in the States.

Next up: Ayahuasca