PART EIGHT: Maya In The Sky With Nipyulk In Which Our Intrepid Traveler Is Welcomed Back With Open Arms; Partakes In Some Local Hospitality; And Falls Victim To A Shady Double-Cross. Oh, you could go on about who murdered whose tribal leader until the cows come home, and it'd get you nowhere. Yes, the Tobatu and I had our differences. Yes, we got off to a rocky start. But I can tell you this: walking back into the Tobatu village, my head held high, my pockets filled visibly with cartons of cigarettes, I watch the animosity melt away as the entire village, jittery-handed and restless for nicotine, comes out to welcome our return. These are happy days, carefree days, days in which the tribe greets us as one of their own. Even Renato, who has visited the Tobatu many times before, is amazed at the warmth with which they have embraced usÑand our cigarettes, which are a really hot item. Renato, in fact, points out that at the rate they are being smoked, we will be out of Camels within a day or two. There is silent agreement among our party that we will be nowhere near here when that happens. Until then, good times abound. I soon make some new friends, and we are thick as thieves. One such chum is the likable Bono (no relation). As it turns out, he is the son of Kikzu, the recently deceased patriarch of the Tobatu. Since that unfortunate little episode resulted in his ascension to the throne, Bono assures me through Booma that there are no hard feelings, and we are soon inseparable. I play him some of the CDs I've brought while we shoot the breeze in his spacious hut. Bono takes a shine to Van Halen, though he has no use for the Hagar era. "Too many ballads," he tells me through Booma, and we discuss this through the night over cigarettes and local cuisine. Another friendship comes in the form of Maya, a beautiful young Tobatu girl with long black hair and elaborate piercings, who I quickly shack up with. Our conversations are few, since I understandably don't want Booma hanging around translating, but we quickly overcome the communication barrier through the language of love. She intimates to me, through hand gestures and an endearing stream of nonsense from her mouth, that she is bored out of her mind living in the jungle. She has watched the civilized world unnoticed for years, I gatherÑeavesdropping on the lumber crews who clear-cut sections of the Amazon, or following tourists who occasionally tromp through the jungle on guided rainforest tours. She has seen our cars and radios and watches and nice clothes. She wants in. Since I've so far received nothing but disgust and loathing for my big city ways, I find her outlook refreshing, and agree to take her back with me. That night, Bono invites us all to a big bonfire party. Things are a little dull at first, since the Tobatu's mingling skills are vastly underdeveloped. Luckily, Bono soon gets the party started with a big glass of nipyulk, a very potent Tobatu hallucinogen, which we pass around the fire. The nipyulk juice tastes horrible, but I try to control my gagging, since I'm attempting to impress the boots off of Maya. Once we're all tripping, a Tobatu elder named Sobato entertains us with legends, while Booma whispers translation. Sobato starts with a crowd-pleaser, the tale of a small Tobatu boy who gets lost in the jungle, kills a tiger single-handedly, and returns to become patriarch. Everyone's heard this one before, but it's a favourite, and gets a big pop at the end. Sobato then gets serious for a bit, and shares the legend of how the boa constrictor got its scales. I fade in and out of the story; I'm immensely high off the nipyulk at this point and am having trouble keeping up. Later, Sobato tells us a story that somehow explains why everyone wears the cockstringsÑbut it's all somewhat complicated, and I can't for the life of me remember it now. Before long, it is our turn to tell a story. Renato politely declines, having sipped a little too much nipyulk. I take the reins, and tell the legend of a brave young Kansas boy named Michael J. Fox, who travels to the big city to make his fortune. Once there, however, tragedy strikes, and he is not given the job he was promised. Does he admit defeat in the face of such adversity? No he does not. Instead, Michael J. Fox pretends to be an executive at his uncle's multi-million dollar corporation, and soon has everybody fooled into thinking he's a business dynamo. Eventually however, love interest Helen Slater discovers he hasn't been telling the truth, and Michael J. Fox learns a valuable lesson about just being yourself. Michael J. Fox confronts his demons and comes clean, and ends up laying Helen Slater. "And that," I finish, "was The Secret Of His Success." The story is a huge hit. I am greeted with rousing cheers, and carried around the fire for a lap of honor. We all smoke some cigarettes and call it a night. I say goodnight to Maya and the rest of the gang, then gather up Booma and Renato and stumble back to our tents. Booma carries our backpacks and supplies, and I carry Renato. "That was fun," says Renato, leaning up against me. He starts giggling uncontrollably. "Yeah, good times," I agree. I look over at Booma, who's rooting through a backpack with a worried look on his face. "If you're looking for my wallet, Booma, it's in my pants pocket," I say, and Renato emits a shrill laugh. "I don't see what you think's so funny, you sack of potatoes," I say to him. "If you don't keep leaning all your weight on me, you're walking back to camp." "We are out of cigarettes," says Booma quietly, his eyes never leaving the backpack. I let Renato drop into the dirt and rush over. "What do you mean, gone?" I ask, frantic. "There were still two cartons in there!" Booma upturns the backback. Nothing. "Those rat bastards!" I yell. "They got us drugged up and stole our smokes!" "What should we do now?" comes the muffled voice of Renato, face down in a clump of weeds. Ten minutes later we are gunning down the Javari river in our motor boat as the dawn breaks. I feel a brief pang of conscience for poor Maya, who wanted nothing more than to taste the supple plums of civilized life. These pangs are quickly replaced with several rather gruesome images of me being eviscerated by sharp, pointy spears. I do a quick mental tally of the pros and cons of turning back for her, and decide wisely that Maya can probably find a bus station by herself. The smell of her skin and hair fills my sinuses, and I breathe it deep. What a piece of ass. I will miss her, I truly will. I will miss Bono too; especially since I now realize I've left all my Van Halen CDs back in his shack. This news shakes me to the core. I loved those CDs. Most importantly, though, I will miss Renato, who Booma and I ditched while getting the boat prepped. Renato was a good guide. A good man. A dead man, if I don't miss my guess. I will treasure his memory always. It is my intention also to treasure his backpack, which has several of my missing Crispy Crunches in it (asshole), as well as enough petty cash to replace the Halen. Sun rises on the Javari. The sun coats the calm waters like a glowing paint, and it seems almost a crime to part that calm with the motor boat as Booma and I make a hasty escape from the savage heart of the Amazon. In my wake, I can see the waters, choppy and messy in the path of the powerful motor. I reflect briefly on the metaphor this no doubt represents; to what, I'm not entirely certain. Then I get Booma going on stories about oral sex. It turns out he has a million of them, and the trip goes quickly. intro / 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8