Five Weeks in the Amazon - #true #story

Chapter 5 - Lift Off

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3

11:47am, Star Peru flight 3115, seat 14A 

Hiding behind dark sunglasses, I'm trying to escape the daylight coming through the tiny airplane window. I feel like absolute dog shit. My head is pounding as we lift off from Lima on our way into the Amazon. My view of the shacks and shanty villages surrounding the airport becomes smothered by thick gray clouds. When we reach our cruising altitude, the vibration of the plane soothes me into a relaxed state. 

I'm leaning my head against the double-paned window and replaying events from last night in my mind. The sound of my voice is drowned out by blaring prop-plane engines when I mutter, "Never again! I'm here to figure my shit out. No more partying!" I laugh and my shoulders bounce against the back of my seat—what an insane night. 

I'd just finished eating amazing ceviche at a seafood restaurant near Kennedy Park. The sun had set, but it was early dusk and still light. I had my headphones on, skating back to my hostel and listening to Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. 

I ollied up a curb, swung wide around a fire hydrant, and turned down the street to my hostel. Then all of a sudden—Boom!—I ran right into that lousy bum Michael. He stood in front of me, and I felt my brain click when I realized who it was. I picked up my board and stood over him.

I became aware that I was so much bigger than him, I could have put him on the ground in many different ways. My blood was pumping, and there were drops of sweat sliding down my temples. All the anger I had felt came rushing back to into me. I wasn't scared, but I could see he was. It was a difficult emotion to suppress. My shoulder muscles began to coil, and my arm cocked back, ready to swing. 

"Lo siento, lo siento," he sputtered, his mouth starting to quiver, remembering who I was. 

Before I could say anything, he'd reached into his pocket and pushed his hand into mine. I took a half-step backwards. What the fuck just happened? I thought, trying to determine if I should stay, swing at him, or skate away. 

"Lo siento, no gustaria problemas mi amigo, por favor." Michael repeated some shit about how sorry he was. 

While he stood in front of me submissively, I decided to throw my board down under my feet and put my left hand on his shoulder. Looking him directly in the eyes, I knew there was no need for violence. 

"No problema, Michael," I said, to which he bowed his head, and again repeated how sorry and honest he was. But I just wanted closure from everything to do with him. I rode off, saying, "Hasta luego, amigo." 

I waited until a few blocks later before inconspicuously reaching into my pocket to check out what he'd given me. It had all happened so fast. It was a little plastic bag. I stood under a tree and looked at it. I squeezed it between my thumb and finger, and then opened a corner of it to hold it up to my nose. It had a sharp and bitter smell. There was no mistake: it was cocaine, and more than I knew what the hell to do with.

When I lived in Canada, I think the price was $80 a gram. But that's nothing compared to what some Aussie friends told me. They said it went for $300 a gram, and it was shit quality where they live. 

I'd given Michael the equivalent of eight American dollars and he'd run off with it, but just now in his terror, he'd handed me four, maybe five, grams of Peruvian cocaine. He went from the bum that ripped me off to the guy that was sorry for being late on his delivery. It was an interesting lesson in global economics. 

Skating back to my hostel, I got excited for some real cultural experience. It was, if I could believe him, "purifico cocaine." With the abundance of cocaine in South America, and because it's so cheap to make, I guessed this stuff was as pure as it got. I won't pretend I'm an expert, but I've done enough research on this place to know to a few things about it.