"Adventures of King Prawn"
Travelogue of Bali, Malaysia, Thailand, Laos, Vietnam and Mexico

September/96

9/21/96

  “Will you be eating Peyote?” That was almost always the first question people posed when I told them I was going to Real de Catorce for a four day vacation. I’d read about the small town in the mountains of San Luis Potosi in a travel book. Additionally, all my friends and acquaintances spoke of the spot with a reverence usually reserved for an epiphany.

  Andy, Richard, and I left early one morning for the five hour drive which would lead us into Peyoteville. When we were about forty-five minutes away, we entered the cobblestone road that climbed up the mountains to Real. We paused to meditate on a family of Biznagas, a regal, column shaped cactus with beautiful red thorns. The family was over eight feet tall and its proximity to the main road is its only salvation from thieves who cut down and sell these magnificent life forces. Soon, we were outside the three mile, hand built tunnel which brings one directly into the town. As the tunnel is narrow (not for the claustrophobic) only one car at a time is allowed passage. While waiting for admittance, some ten children swarmed around the windows of the car offering fresh fruit and local wares. Seeing we were not going to be buying anything, one of the girls (ten, twelve years old?) and an even younger boy began saying “Peyote? Peyote?” to inform us of the breadth of their offerings. I was tempted to support their business but Andy and Richard told me to hold on, and that buttons would be plentiful in the desert. Passing through the tunnel, we entered Real where another swarm of ragamuffins pounced on the truck with their goods.

  Real. Near eight thousand feet in elevation, it’s populated with three thousand inhabitants. Once a thriving mining town, some seventy years ago, with a population of 50,000, it suffered the demise of all mining towns. The ore having been depleted, people departed to find their fortunes elsewhere. Geographically, it’s picturesque, sitting in a small valley among mountains, fresh springs pouring into small creeks. The desert below offers a vista that is especially nice from the peaks of some of the surrounding mountains. So much for the geography. The inhabitants of this ex-mining town remind me of the inhabitants of so many mining towns I’ve visited throughout the world. Idiots. Slow. Lugubrious. Sullen. Troubled. Unprocessed. Dysfunctional. Incapable. Ugly. Other than that, they’re fine. It’s as if the mother earth, having been probed, defiled, and robbed of her essence repays its violators by turning them into complete and utter morons. One also confronts that specific small town mentality replete with its petty problems. But this mini discourse is jumping ahead of my story. (There won’t be too many instances in my journal to give one an idea as to whence these feelings arose. They were feelings...on an energetic level...so they’re hard to describe.)

  We left the truck and entered a structure owned by Andy. The front half was an Italian restaurant, Eucalyptus, run by an Italian and his wife. A waiter, reminiscent of Igor (“Eye-gore”) in “Young Frankenstein” approached us, limping, and greeted Andy. He then went to prepare us what would become the beginning of a four hour eating orgy. Olives. Fresh vegetables, salads, cheeses, breads, and my favorite, gambuches: the fruit of the Biznaga cactus. In shape and size, the gambuches resemble olives. They are put in vinegar to cure. Unlike olives, biting into a gambucha produces an explosion of flavor. I can’t say enough about this delicious food, which is only cultivated once a year. The repast was periodically washed down with Mescal...lots of it. Mescal...magical elixir. No aftertaste...no headache...no hangover...almost hallucinogenic...mmmm. At another table sat an American reading a Castaneda book. (Yes, most people visiting the town come to eat Peyote, but to be reading a Castaneda book at the table of a restaurant seemed a bit much.) We finished up our first feast and then checked into one of the two hotels of Real. The staff was as inept, grotesque, and dark as everyone else we encountered. (I can only imagine their response if we weren’t accompanied by Andy, a homeowner and frequent visitor to the town.) My room was basic. I unpacked and met the others downstairs, where we continued to eat and drink until one in the morning. As the next morning was to involve a trip to the desert (two “trips,” actually), we polished off the Mescal and headed to our rooms. (To further add to my negative feelings concerning the town, I had three nights-out of three nights-of bad dreams. The first night I dreamt of the Apocalypse. The second night, I was a fugitive from justice for having murdered two individuals. The third night produced a dream so bad my consciousness couldn’t even recall it upon awakening.)

  In the morning, I knocked on my fellow travelers’ door, as they requested, and then went downstairs for a coffee. I may as well have asked the waitress for a discourse on Finnegan's Wake. Three of the staff discussed, at length, the means with which to accomplish this seemingly insurmountable task, before I was brought a microwave heated, caramel colored liquid whose only resemblance to coffee was the receptacle in which it was served. I drank it.

  Andy and Richard joined up with me and we went to find Matthew, an Italian friend of Andy who’s lived in Real for eighteen years. Married to a Huichol (Indian) woman, he was described in terms that I’ve heard used for certain “healers” and “shamans” in and around Sedona. We ended up at Matthew’s house, his five day old daughter asleep on a mattress on the floor. Despite three requests by Matthew for his wife to come in and greet Andy and his friends (she was sitting on the stoop of the kitchen door) she remained silent and aloof. I later found out that the Huichols simply don’t like to interact with strangers. I didn’t mind. I liked the fact that someone would forego niceties and simply be who they are. Matthew took his other daughter, two years old, onto his shoulders, and we boarded a local jeep (a taxi, of sorts) for the perilous trip down a mountain path which, at points, was no more than ten or twelve feet in width. The jeep was full, with passengers on the roof and the sides of the vehicle. Loads of goods were constantly being put on and taken off as we passed little houses tucked away in the nooks and crannies of the canyon. The ride took about forty minutes and we were left at the foot of the mountains where we hired another jeep ($30 for a thirty minute ride...exorbitant by Mexican standards) to take us into the heart of the desert. (Upon inquiry, I was told that the jeep business was borne out of the need for tourists to get into the desert for their “journeys”. The laws of supply and demand created the inflated prices. People with Peyote on the brain don’t seem to be overly concerned with the costs involved in achieving their goal.) During our jeep rides, and upon commencing our walk in the desert, Matthew talked, incessantly, of the Huichols and himself. (I’ve always felt that a sage, shaman, yogi, or healer, doesn’t need to advertise himself; that his energy and being simply radiate from within.) Matthew’s self-aggrandizing attitude, and didactic monologues were not what I was looking for so I distanced myself from him and continued my walk, eyes focused to the ground. (Peyote is found underneath a shrub-like plant called gobernadores.) I searched and searched but couldn’t, for the life of me, locate a single Peyote cactus. (This recurring theme of not finding what I want, or look for, continues to present itself to me.) Andy was the first to discover some buttons and called me over to instruct me as to the proper process of cultivating the button. Scraping away about three quarters of an inch of dirt at the base, I made a slice with my knife and cleaned off the debris. The next task involved removing all traces of the white, hairy filaments (strychnine) which, if eaten, cause vomiting and not the most pleasant of trips. The preparation having been accomplished, I cut up the button into four pieces and began slowly chewing it. The flavor was intense and a little bitter. Having chewed long enough to have created a liquid pulp in my mouth, I swallowed and began the process anew, with another piece. Each of us was busy doing the same. (Remember the setting...in the middle of the desert...no other life form visible.) We each ate three or four buttons (I ate three) and then sat under a tree drinking water.

  “Wow,” I said, “that’s a powerful flavor.”

  “Yes,” shot back Matthew, “it takes big balls to eat Peyote.”

  “Women eat it too,” said Andy.

  “Yes, but only strong women with big huevos (ovaries),” continued Matthew, and then repeated, “it takes big balls to eat Peyote. I don’t find the flavor bad at all.” Insulted by this macho attitude, I calmly said the following:

  “The concept that bigger is better is one postulated by little minds and big egos. There’s great intensity in small things.” Silence, heavy silence, ensued. I’d just challenged his guruness and his followers waited for a response. It came a while later.

  “That’s true,” said Matthew, “think of the small chilies, they’re very powerful.” We returned to silence, each waiting for his journey to begin, and then continued our walk through the desert. (Peyote, as I was told, and later experienced, is a drug/medicine best used outdoors, combined with physical activity. Hours upon hours of walking and hiking can be done while “on” Peyote. Fatigue is never a factor.) Ironically, now that I was no longer looking for Peyote to eat, I saw it everywhere. To my left, to my right. Everywhere! Colonies of Peyote families presented themselves, leading me to believe that taking their energy into my system had opened up my eyes to their existence. The rest of the group started “coming on” but I still felt nothing. We walked for a couple of hours before we came up to a ranch which perfectly resembled the setting for one of Sergio Leone’s westerns. A small pond full of tadpoles, horses, burros, chickens, dogs, cats, and two magnificent pigs (“carnitas” for the upcoming fiestas) presented themselves before a woman came out of one of the adobe structures. Recognizing Matthew, she invited us in to have some tacos and beans. Much as we were touched by her hospitality, eating wasn’t exactly the primary subject occupying our thoughts. Andy and I walked to the perimeter of the ranch where we took off our shoes and laid down by the pond. My body was beginning to feel as if I were receiving a massage. There was a wonderful, radiant feeling about the peyote. It had been over two and a half hours since we’d eaten the buttons. I felt pleasant sensations, but everyone else was definitely soaring. Feeling like I’d missed the party by eating too little, I told Andy I was going to walk around a bit, to eat some more buttons. He moaned in response. And wouldn’t you know it, fellow Prawnphiles, the bountiful forests of Peyote I’d passed not a mere half hour earlier were nowhere to be seen. (My kingdom for a button!) I returned to the ranch, empty handed, just as the jeep returned to take us back to Real de Catorce. The driver warned us to not stash any buttons on our person as there were Federales (police) down the road, making inspections. After a pit-stop for a beer, we hung on the outside of the back of the jeep as it winded up the steep incline.

  There were more experiences in Real but nothing earth shattering, or so special that I would occupy space relating it. On the other hand, I have to say that Peyote is one of the nicest consciousness altering substances that I’ve tried. My body is so sensitive to drugs that, other than marijuana, I simply don’t feel the desire to use them. But Peyote was smooth, mellow, (shit, this sounds like a beer commercial) and euphoric. It was also great for hiking.

  I’d been told about the September fiestas in Allende by many people. Everyone brought up the fiestas and non-stop partying with a tone of voice that suggested something less than complete pleasure. Of course, I knew Allende to be a special sort of party town from the first time I visited. I was staying at a friend’s house, perched on a canyon on the outskirts of the town. At about four in the morning I was awakened by church bells ringing, explosion of fireworks, and horn-laden mariachi bands. Four in the morning! From my bed, I saw the dark sky painted by burst after burst of colorful explosions. Later, I asked my friend what the celebration was for. A native, he confessed that he knew not, but that there were almost as many churches and patron saints to the town as there were days in the year. Consequently, almost every day (but certainly every weekend) brings with it fiestas, fireworks, and the related activities of people at play. Armed with this information, one would think that I would have been slightly better prepared for what September brought to the town. No way. Tourists, domestic and international, flooded the streets to partake in the annual celebration of “El Grito” (“The Shout,” Independence Day), “La Pamplonada” (Allende’s version of the running of the bulls), “La Alborada” (celebration of San Miguel, the patron saint of the town), and other events. Warnings about the destructive capacity of the inebriated masses had not yet sunk in. But it soon did. In one week, my car was robbed of a hood ornament, two hubcaps, and a radio antenna, and both rear lights and bumper had been broken. The volume of people pouring into the town was nothing short of staggering. But, remember, I’m talking about a specific faction of humanity that is awakened and inspired by the thought of another excuse to get shitfaced. (I know, that’s a horrible, base word to use, but it couldn’t be more accurate.) As I’d awaken each morning I’d take my morning cup of coffee and sit on the stoop to see the unfolding of yet another day. Droves of tourists, laden with plastic cups of beer (9:00 a.m.!!!) walked past me on their way into the center. As the imbibing activities would last throughout each and every day, you need only imagine what level of consciousness was being most expressed. I am repeatedly reminded what a vile, vulgar drug alcohol can be. The worst examples of violence that I’ve witnessed have been, at least indirectly, the consequence of the abuse of alcohol. Anyway, some people came to cheer on Mexico’s independence, others came to get gored by frightened and taunted bulls thrown into the fray of drunken bipeds, and still others came to celebrate nothing in particular. I spent almost the entire time (two and a half weeks of fiestas) in the studio. Sure, I was working, but I was also avoiding the visitors.

  “Selling your art is the art,” said one man to another.

  “Tunas,” is the name given to the prickly pear fruit of the nopales cactus. The many different varieties are plentiful, cheap, and absolutely delicious.

  Andy, Fred, and I took an afternoon to head into the countryside surrounding Allende. We ended up at a small settlement of adobe houses where we asked for Pulque. Pulque is the fermented drink which is made from the Magay cactus. Once, in the life of the cactus, is produced a growth emanating from the center. This growth looks like a giant asparagus spear towering over the cactus. The spear is cut away and a cavity is dug into the center of the Magay. This cavity fills with Agua Miel (honeywater) overnight. The liquid is then placed in large, cool ceramic pots to ferment. The drink is high in vitamins and also packs a wallop when consumed in great quantities. One plant yields approximately one hundred litres over a three month period and then never produces it again. Pulque is purportedly the only true Mexican drink as Tequila and Mezcal require the process of distillation, which was brought by the Spaniards and French. It is said that the persons of power in the Aztec empire drank Pulque. (They were probably on a binge of Pulque when they mistook Cortez for a God.) A woman outside one of the houses welcomed us into her yard and then brought us some Pulque. She returned with a two liter (about half a gallon) pot full of the frothy drink. The taste was that classic fermented taste. (Anyone who’s ever had Rejuvelac knows exactly what I mean.) We downed almost five litres, in all, accompanied by some home-made tortillas (delectable!) and beans. Before dropping me off, Fred, and Andy warned me of the gastrointestinal onslaught I was sure to face that evening. I left the windows open as I slept.
 

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