Celerity, p.6
CELERITY, page 6
The leader of the tribe, the chief, the shaman or curandero, placed the bright green sack into a beautifully formed gourd. I came to learn that the extract inside the vessel, inside the green sack, they believed, at least, made them master hunters in the jungle. The chief used a knife to place a drop under the tongues of the six young tribesmen, then they danced and celebrated.”
I kept reading and learned that Estaphan managed to sneak into the village at night and free my father.
* * *
The extract in the vessel. In the heart of the pitcher. And why were the tribesmen consuming it, one tiny drop at a time? What did it do for them? I searched my father’s hard drives for ayahausca, the South American plant taken in spiritual ceremonies for centuries. Science has long studied the plant. Sure enough, my father had stored some whitepapers on it. The main ingredient is something called banisteriopsis caapi and psychotria viridis. Psycho as in hallucinogens.
The psychotria viridis contains N,N-dimethyltryptamine aka DMT—that’s the stuff that gets you off. Some recreational drug experts seemed to have figured out that the DMT must be combined with something called an MAO inhibitor, whatever that is, for the DMT to kick in and cause you to hallucinate, fuel the out-of-body experiences, euphoria, or if the trip is bad, paranoia and freak-outs.
But ayahausca didn’t make master hunters—quite the opposite. Tribesmen may be fascinated with the flora and the brilliant colors of the jungle while tripping, but catching monkeys or wild pigs while laughing and falling down, not too productive.
My father concluded that the nepenthes extract did not cause humans to hallucinate, not like acid or mushrooms or peyote or ayahausca. He stated that in his whitepaper entitled The Hallucinogenic Properties of Nepenthes Celerity Extract. He did conclude that it caused heightened vision and hearing, however.
How did he know that? I kept reading. He knew that because after his escape from the tribesmen camp, instead of high-tailing out of there away from these cannibals, he stayed in the jungle, lassoed a large pitcher from a NepCel and removed the sack of extract. My father had balls. Reckless balls.
Like the good scientist he was, he meticulously documented his findings with Estaphan’s assistance. I skipped ahead in the journal.
Colors more vibrant, saturated, vision acute, almost like I have a zoom lens. Hearing: enhanced, loud, and distinct. But no hallucinations like the times in Brazil or Jamaica. This is unique in its stimulation of the senses. Higher sensory perception. Also, my muscles. When I squeeze my fingers, I feel…strong. Stronger. When I curl my toes, they feel sensitive, more tactile sense of touch. Getting up. I am walking around. Sixty-five minutes after a drop of approximately.05 ml. Pure NepCel extract, no dilution.
I thought of how reckless my father was. He did not know the toxicity level of this stuff. The tribesmen may have accumulated an immunity level unknown to him at the time.
I continued reading his journal.
I walked around the camp. I kept waiting to get high, or nauseous, or light-headed, or something. After about ten minutes wandering through the forest, I got sick. Just like mushrooms in Negril. One full vomit, a solid heave, and my breakfast was feeding the ants. I drank water. Very thirsty, but the nausea disappeared. I guess it’s a short purge on this stuff. That’s good. Still a clear head. Checking pulse again. Rapid. But not too rapid. I should have a sphygmomanometer to check BP, but I feel it’s up. I’m going to keep walking. A clearing ahead, grassy, fairly flat. Estaphan is watching me, to see if I keel over probably. I need to stretch my legs. It feels good to stretch. Really good. Jogging a little. I feel strong. Not like regular strong, I-just-had-a-good-breakfast strong, but pumped-up strong, like I had some kind of jolt. Jolt. That is the right word. I am going to try something. I am walking to the edge of the clearing. I turn around. I focus on the other side. I am going to run to the other side.
The journal for this section stopped there. What happened, Dad?
* * *
I sat still for minutes, maybe more. Staring at the journal. Its abrupt end. He got back to the US okay, that I know. This event was documented over two years ago. Did he bring back seeds, a sample of the extract—analyze it—learn its properties? He was an explorer, a scientist. How could he not?
I went to greenhouse two where my father built his laboratory. Bolt stayed outside the entrance, laid down, and pouted. The lab had been torn apart, much of it missing. Two specimen refrigerators empty. Nothing here, really. The ravagings of don’t follow my work? Was the extract here? If so, what did he learn? Might it hold the secret to the speed of the giant nepenthes? Might it hold the secret of the Darién Gap master hunters?
I paced around the house for an hour going stir crazy. Decided to take a run with Bolt— clear my head. We ran up Dos Caminos, cut left on Porter, then scampered across Thompson and zigzagged to Main Street, turned left. From here Main Street heads straight to downtown, but on the way…on the way is Ventura High School.
I stopped.
School was closed, but I could see some girls working out on the track. We fit through a loosely chained gate. It felt good to be on a track again. I let Bolt off of his leash. I started a medium jog around the track, with Bolt running alongside. Once around is four hundred and forty meters.
Two high school girls passed me. I let them get about twenty yards ahead before my competitive drive went on autopilot. Bolt and I kicked it into gear. I was warmed up by the jog over here, right? We closed on them. Then they sensed us, laughed at Bolt who caught up to them and was jumping, enjoying the run. The girls did a quick look back at me; then they went into sprint mode. As did I.
I kept pace with them for fifty yards, maybe sixty, then they pulled away. Pulled away. Bolt ran back into the infield of the track losing interest. I was a Bruin. A Division One College track athlete. These high schoolers pulled away. A few weeks of self-pity, and I suck. Lost my edge. Sucking wind.
It was like my past flashed before me. Like my life flashed before me. Like my dead-end future flashed before me.
I stopped running, hands on my knees, Bolt ran up to me and sat, panting, waiting for the next game.
I can do this Bolty, I said. If I get back into training, go back to school, hit it hard, I can stay on the Bruins track team. Maybe. What do you think, boy? Bolt barked. Was that you go girl, or you no girl?
Screw it. Even if I don’t, I’ll graduate with honors, get into medical school, use the proceeds of the house sale to pay my tuition, become a successful doctor, get Bolt a big grassy backyard with trees, and squirrels to chase. Make my father proud. Then marry a lawyer, have a couple of kids, live in Brentwood, work sixty hours a week, never see the kids who are doing God knows what. Twenty years later my husband will fuck his paralegal, I’ll find out, divorce him, get botox, have a facelift, binge watch Husbandless Housewives of BrentHills. It’s a wonderful life with my Prozac pill case in Brentwood Falls.
I am jumping off the next bridge. Or the Ventura Pier. Sorry, Bolt.
* * *
We got back to the house. No, I didn’t jump off the pier. Who would take care of Bolt?
I went to greenhouse three and examined the plant. I decided that it was not an orchid or a plumeria. It’s odd cap or helmet…unusual. This is a baby Nepenthes Celerity. How long will it take before it makes the extract? My father’s notes included findings that the extract was the most potent in a full-grown plant. Years old, apparently. Years of snaring and snatching and devouring slow-moving animals.
The extract. I couldn’t get it off of my mind. I walked back into the house. What if it’s not toxic? What if its effects do not damage cells, but are healthy, like wheatgrass, but with the bonus of the boost?
I fed Bolt, filled up his water, went to the Mac on my father’s desk, and did a wild card search: nepenthes*toxicity*.*. Too many results. Nepenthes*celerity*toxicity*.*.
Lab results, bingo. He tested the extract. Was it homegrown or smuggled back from the Darién? I could not tell. He would have to have grown a NepCel over many years in greenhouse three. I assumed he smuggled it. It would have been pretty easy.
He tested it on rats, microdoses. Calculated the speed of the wheel in their cages. He tested it on lots of rats. An increase in their appetite. That makes sense if they were burning more calories. Let’s see…rats…rats…rats death rates, attrition, tumors, cancers. He was testing them over several months. No evidence of toxicity in rat blood. Interesting.
He moved on to something else…a cat. A cat that frequented the back yard. No collar. An outdoor cat, maybe wild, not owned by a neighbor. He’d been feeding the kitty. Started microdosing it. Within days, several mice and rat carcasses appeared all over the backyard. Birds. Squirrels. Seems kitty was becoming more prolific. Why? Appetite only? Or speed? What happened to the cat? Bolt was sitting next to me, panting. What happened to kitty, Bolt? I think this is the one you used to chase when we visited Dad.
Did kitty become the top predator in midtown? Because of an increase in speed? In quickness?
I opened up the UCLA Bruin track and field web page. Results of the last posted meets. Versus USC, Stanford, Oregon, Washington. The Husky Classic, MPSF Indoor Championships, the NCAA’s. The NCAA’s that I didn’t qualify for. Damn it.
Celerity has potential. Long legs. Good posture angle out of the block, good acceleration. Needs to improve the final thirty—where she gets passed by the elite runners. First loser. Or second. Or third.
Medi… Celerocity.
Perfect prep. I could recite it by heart: The purpose of the pre-meet meal is to top off your carbohydrates. This is for optimizing energy, increasing mental focus, and acuity. A complete hydrated state also. Meal four hours prior, small snack two hours before event. Lean protein, low fat, and fiber. No performance-enhancing substances. Hydrate normally with electrolyte beverages.
Kale, spinach, beets, ginger, carrots, the main ingredients of a power green shake. The Vitamix vitality phytochemical magic. The cruciferous crusader. Another plant to spice it up. What can a touch of Nepenthes Celerity hurt? Whatta think Bolty?
I called the kennel on Main Street to see if they had room.
The Agent
The agent stopped the audio recording. He opened up a new tab on his laptop. Google’s home page appeared. He typed in nepenthes. The search results appeared. First Wikipedia page about the plant. Then a clothing store named Nepenthes. Pages of growing and caring guides, Botany.org, nursery sites.
He clicked on images and the page filled with dozens of photographs of red pitchers with green vessels beneath them.
He zoomed in on one, then scrolled several images.
Bizarre little fuckers, he said.
He switched back to the audio app and clicked play.
Celerity File 6
I organized my trip. Passport was current, pulled cash out of the bank, cash is king in the third world. Picked up a new Northface full frame backpack, sunscreen, bug spray, mosquito netting, more bug spray, several pairs of socks. My Limmer hiking boots that my Dad bought me would be a requirement, and sandals for resting camp-side. I hit the phone store and bought several batteries. Three knives in the checked bag: a bushcraft knife, Swiss Army, and a lightweight SOG serrated folder.
Clothing for layering, rain gear, sports bra, hat, two shemaghs, two pair of sunglasses, my father’s IFAK, his individual first aid kit, Nikon digital camera, and two lenses. My father’s Zeiss binoculars, and specimen containers.
Next, I went into my father’s medical bags. He had a battery of antimalarials, antivirals, and antibiotics. I spent two hours researching them, took some, and packed the rest.
I dropped Bolt off at the pet hotel in Ventura. Twice a week, they will take Bolt on a beach run. Two inland runs a day. He needs the action; he needs to be active, something to do. I gave them extra money.
The flight was direct. Who knew, right? From LAX to Panama City. Ten hours and forty minutes. Avianca Air. I pulled the brochure from the seatback: Avianca is the commercial brand that represents the Latin American airlines…Four thousand flights a week serving our loyal customers in the cartels and the DEA in Central and South America.
I added the last part.
I got some serious caffeine going, real Columbian stuff, I think. I had printed out some of the most relevant files, brought them with me. I had already read them, but a second reading often results in new insights. The first reading your mind goes off in all directions, and you tend to miss things.
By the time we touched down at NoraCoca International Terminal, I was sure the extract did something to the central nervous system.
Thank God the rough touchdown did not blow the tires. I departed the plane, and I entered the Tocumen terminal, its real name. I had to connect with a regional. I learned that there’s a pristine world-class fishing resort in Piñas Bay, Panama called the Tropic Star Lodge. More world records than any resort in the world: marlin, sailfish, several species. I made a deal to fly on their twin-prop charter.
Piñas Bay would be my staging location, and from there, I would source a four-by-four and a driver to take me into the Darién, the jungle connecting Panama and Columbia, known as the world’s most dangerous journey. Based on my father’s notes, I had accurate latitude and longitude bearings of the plateau within the Darién. My cover story was that of a free-lance photographic safari targeting species unique to the Darién for National Geographic. I concluded that I would be on foot for dozens of miles after the four-wheeler ran out of road.
* * *
I read that decades ago, cartographers from the Royal Geographic Society tried to survey the plateau with hand-drawn maps, telescopes, and high-powered binoculars, but that work was never completed. When some of them disappeared, the region went largely unexplored by the British or Americans. I examined the area with Google Earth, but the rainforest hides what’s below its thick cover.
Once I touched down in Piñas Bay and bid the fishing resort customers farewell, I waited on the tarmac. No guide. Six hours later, I spotted an old Toyota Land Cruiser approaching, four different colors of peeling paint, dents every couple of inches, bullet holes on both sides. A man, my guide, shoved open the driver’s door with his foot. He was leathered-skinned, facial tattoos, almost black eyes, missing both index fingers. Don’t ask, I thought.
He spoke broken English, I spoke broken Spanish. I gave him the FARC money, one thousand dollars, and he drove away, said he would return in forty-five minutes. What a devious scam this could be; fly into the ends of the Earth, cough up a grand in cash, and be left swatting mosquitoes.
The payment was to gain the permission of FARC, to pass its unmarked fifty-mile route, a passageway to move drugs and guns. The FARC boys are serious guerrilla soldiers, seasoned by five decades of bloody battles, two hundred and twenty thousand dead. If there is one thing the Darién is known for—it is death—death from war— disease—and the animals of the jungle.
Forty-five minutes turned into an hour, then another before he finally returned. He said the payment went bueno, but it didn’t buy protection against the Clan Úsuga. Also known as Los Urabeños, a murderous gang of drug runners made up of ex-AUC members, the Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia, a Colombian right-wing paramilitary outfit. I would be on my own to avoid them. I learned that the Los Urabeños was tied to Mexico’s Sinaloa cartel and was at war with FARC.
Club Med, this place was not.
We headed into the Darién in the Land Cruiser that sounded like it was missing a cylinder; we left a billowing trail of white smoke. We passed horse-drawn flatbed wagons loaded with bananas and mangos and saw no other people for an hour. My guide slowed past a moss-cloaked graveyard. I saw rough carvings with the letters N.N. on them. He said “Sin nombre,” no names. There were hundreds of them cascading back into the jungle. We continued on.
Draping down the right shoulder of my guide was a red and green scarf. Capitán de la Muerte was stitched across the bottom. Below it, two machetes forming a cross. He saw me looking at it and said, “Capitán of Death. Not mine. Is now. No gift.” Then a broad smile as his middle finger gestured across his neck. He laughed.
Surrounded by lush flora and fauna, we continued past giant Birds-of-Paradise and plumeria trees, colors of the rainbow. Gorgeous and lush. Then it rained and we slowed to five-miles-an-hour, then a walking pace.
Two hours later, the light was fading; our single headlight cut through the mist. Over the grumbling of the engine, the jungle sounds were coming to life. Soon it would be time for the predators, the jaguars, to be on the prowl, to hunt.
Hell’s gate? Cuanto mas lejos to Puerta al Infierno? I asked. Pronto venga, he said. Soon come, I thought.
The road hugged hillside, below deep gorges, the trees shaped like webs, other trees shaped like spiders.
Puerta al Infierno was the last-stop village. We would spend the night there, more pay-offs, of course, and in the morning, prepare for our excursion on foot into the heart of the Darién Gap. I inhaled hard, smelling smoke, a woodsy burning timber aroma, and something else. Meat over a fire, maybe. My guide nodded. On the side of the muddy road were footprints, bare feet.
My guide pulled the truck over and turned off the engine. Guess we’re walking from here.
I saw the smoke rising into the air, maybe one hundred yards away. I heard voices. Then two armed men appeared on each side of us. AK forty-sevens trained on us. My guide raised his hands and spoke to them in a dialect I did not understand. They gestured us into the village.
