abandoned, and for miles around and everywhere I look I see barren emptiness with only foliage and trees, dirt and dust as my constant companions.â¦
The next morning, I awaken to a renewed song: an overabundance of different voices, a crimson, yellow and apricot sunrise over flattened, low-hanging clouds, a tapestry above and an oil painting below in distorted, wavering reflection. A dark outline of trees separates the sunrise and its reflection, the replicated image completed in faded brushstrokes, the water rippling subtly. I am flowing backward as mosquitoes buzz about my head accompanied by the repeated, high- pitched twitter of a bird, the low, resonating call of another, the squealing and the guffaws of another, and then another, and another, all to the backdrop of the clatter of countless insects. A tree branch floats lazily by, and the mosquitoes, despite my repellant, will not let me be.
I wonder what I am doing here, floating aimlessly, and I paddle for a time as if to provide an occupation for my hands, seeing no one else except for a woman immersed in the river up to her waist, beating clothes against a rock as children play on the shore nearby. None of them notice me. I remove most of my clothing, warm in the sun now, and descend quietly into the water, slowly, tipping the canoe over on its side enough to slip into the river ... I slide in and swim, close to the canoe at first and then farther away, until the canoe is an elongated matchstick that is almost out of sight. Afraid, I quickly return and climb out of the water and back into the safety of its confines.
The day flows into night, rain beating down and then subsiding, and I experience a painful and distinct hunger. I drink from the bottles of chicha , from the muddy river water that grits on the teeth, and from a bucket of rainwater, in my thirst.
I become cold, my clothes damp, and the air lights up with dots of luminescence flashing in and out of vision, their radiance growing and then quickly withering away. There is a sensation of profound emptiness, the night inviting a chorus of pests and animals. I suffer through the dull ache of hunger and frequent chills. Drinking chicha continually for warmth, I begin to fall asleep until I notice a light on the horizon.
There is a fire up ahead, in the distance.
I immediatel y begin paddlin g towar d th e light , anticipating heat and warmth, and as I get closer, the noise of the bugs fades away and the fire begins to swell until, at close proximity, it consumes my view. A row of huts is ablaze, and there is a line of men passing empty and full buckets along, the men dunking the buckets into the river at one end and passing them down full, retrieving empty ones and refilling them again. At the other end, the men splash water on the huts that are quickly being consumed. It is a fruitless effort, and I am inclined to reach out and tell them.
Because I have not been sleeping well, I wonder if all of this is an illusion induced through a combination of alcohol and sleep deprivation from a lack of REM sleep, knowing that when deprived of sleep, one starts to hallucinate as though somehow dreaming by day. But this image, I convince myself, is too intense, too real.
Looking into the wavering and crackling flames, the fire producing torrents of smoke in areas where it has touched down near the wet ground, I see that on one side of the huts is a small boy, five or six years of age. He stands there, staring back at me. He has dark skin, wears plain brown clothing and has unwavering dark eyes that gaze at me as if in disbelief that I am there; as though I am some incorporeal reflection of the fire upon the surface of the water, or a vision brought on by the heat.
And in this surreal image, the sky overflowing with flame and smoke, the resonance of the boyâs outline quivering in the warmth and hazy effluvium as he watches me, I have the sense that it is I who am the boy, standing there, peering back into
The next morning, I awaken to a renewed song: an overabundance of different voices, a crimson, yellow and apricot sunrise over flattened, low-hanging clouds, a tapestry above and an oil painting below in distorted, wavering reflection. A dark outline of trees separates the sunrise and its reflection, the replicated image completed in faded brushstrokes, the water rippling subtly. I am flowing backward as mosquitoes buzz about my head accompanied by the repeated, high- pitched twitter of a bird, the low, resonating call of another, the squealing and the guffaws of another, and then another, and another, all to the backdrop of the clatter of countless insects. A tree branch floats lazily by, and the mosquitoes, despite my repellant, will not let me be.
I wonder what I am doing here, floating aimlessly, and I paddle for a time as if to provide an occupation for my hands, seeing no one else except for a woman immersed in the river up to her waist, beating clothes against a rock as children play on the shore nearby. None of them notice me. I remove most of my clothing, warm in the sun now, and descend quietly into the water, slowly, tipping the canoe over on its side enough to slip into the river ... I slide in and swim, close to the canoe at first and then farther away, until the canoe is an elongated matchstick that is almost out of sight. Afraid, I quickly return and climb out of the water and back into the safety of its confines.
The day flows into night, rain beating down and then subsiding, and I experience a painful and distinct hunger. I drink from the bottles of chicha , from the muddy river water that grits on the teeth, and from a bucket of rainwater, in my thirst.
I become cold, my clothes damp, and the air lights up with dots of luminescence flashing in and out of vision, their radiance growing and then quickly withering away. There is a sensation of profound emptiness, the night inviting a chorus of pests and animals. I suffer through the dull ache of hunger and frequent chills. Drinking chicha continually for warmth, I begin to fall asleep until I notice a light on the horizon.
There is a fire up ahead, in the distance.
I immediatel y begin paddlin g towar d th e light , anticipating heat and warmth, and as I get closer, the noise of the bugs fades away and the fire begins to swell until, at close proximity, it consumes my view. A row of huts is ablaze, and there is a line of men passing empty and full buckets along, the men dunking the buckets into the river at one end and passing them down full, retrieving empty ones and refilling them again. At the other end, the men splash water on the huts that are quickly being consumed. It is a fruitless effort, and I am inclined to reach out and tell them.
Because I have not been sleeping well, I wonder if all of this is an illusion induced through a combination of alcohol and sleep deprivation from a lack of REM sleep, knowing that when deprived of sleep, one starts to hallucinate as though somehow dreaming by day. But this image, I convince myself, is too intense, too real.
Looking into the wavering and crackling flames, the fire producing torrents of smoke in areas where it has touched down near the wet ground, I see that on one side of the huts is a small boy, five or six years of age. He stands there, staring back at me. He has dark skin, wears plain brown clothing and has unwavering dark eyes that gaze at me as if in disbelief that I am there; as though I am some incorporeal reflection of the fire upon the surface of the water, or a vision brought on by the heat.
And in this surreal image, the sky overflowing with flame and smoke, the resonance of the boyâs outline quivering in the warmth and hazy effluvium as he watches me, I have the sense that it is I who am the boy, standing there, peering back into
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