Margarita the Red Tailed Boa

If standing in a North American forest is like being in a river of life, the Amazonian rain forest is like being in a hurricane. The trees, towering hundreds of feet aloft, grown of wood too dense for termites to nosh on. The birds in every piece of air where there is not an insect. The insects! Oh the insects. Like miniature punk rock aliens driving tiny SUVs. The insects are epic in volume, specialization, and pulchritude. But of all this, there was one animal of the Amazon that rocked my soul. It was a Red Tailed Boa named Margarita. A snaked that I dreamed of, purchased, loved, and while on the firm effects of mescaline, eventually bid goodbye.

A few years ago, I was lucky enough to spend some time in Peru, on the Amazonian side of the Andes. I have a friend who lives down there, and I was helping him build houses on his property, learning some handy skills from South American carpenters, and gaining a thorough education from the jungle.

We lived under a thatch roof on the distant edge of a small town. Aside from our open air structure which stood on a stone porch, we dwelt within the jungle. We cooked over fire. We bathed in the river. We walked into town to buy produce that had been carried to market by rugged jungle dwellers, some walking for hours to sell a single stem of banana. We were as close as I have ever come to being in the thick of it.

Coming from the city, there was a steep period of adjustment as I learned how to survive in a place that would happily eat me.  I had brought sandals to wear, not realizing how tasty the delicate skin of my city feet would be to the clouds of mosquitoes. Soon my feet were covered in bites bites–the only part of my body that was happy to plunge into the ice cold river for my daily bath. I also learned about sundown in a place without electricity. It comes on fast and meaningfully, and with only candles and LED headlamps, sleep becomes the obvious pastime shortly after dark.

The most startling adjustment I made though, was that adjustment of my dreams. My stay in the jungle was for one month. It was during this time that I realized that my dreaming world must lag about two weeks behind my waking. For the first ten days I dreamed of city life. Then, as if my dreams were fertile soil set just on the edge of the jungle, vines and trees began to creep into my dreams. I would dream of walking from city settings into the jungle, which would seamlessly merge at some blurred boarder.

(This same phenomenon echoed itself on my departure. Readjusting to city life I dreamed of the jungle for 10 days.)

It was while I was in this dream-borderland, that I first met Margarita. In the dream, I was in a locker room in a gas station that I seemed to have a job at. There were lockers on the walls, and behind the lockers, the walls were grown over by vines. I opened a locker and a large boa constrictor sprang out and grabbed hold of my arm with it’s teeth. I didn’t freak out, but rather calmly tried to get it to let go, which it wouldn’t do. So I carried this snake, clinging to me with it’s teeth, around in my dream until I was able to leave the gas station and venture deep into the jungle, where I was able to place the snake amongst the flora and let it go. It was a vivid dream, and I awoke with relief.

That day I walked to the mercado to buy rice and veggies. I was wondered through the stalls in the shade of blue tarps, between tables piled high with roots and peppers, the strong smell of fish throughout.

As I went my way, a man with an old blue paint bucket called to me. I tried to pass him by, but he motioned the importance of the contents of his bucket with determination. My curiosity got the better of me and I walked over to see what he had. With a smile he opened up the lid and I peered into the bucket. At the bottom was a ragged, dusty, and unhappy looking boa constrictor. He wanted next to nothing for the snake, and while I didn’t want to support his obvious tourist trap business, the snake dream was still fresh in my mind, and indulging myself in superstition, I paid for the snake and took it home.

Upon getting home, I decided to try handling the snake. I figured that if it bit me I could simply let it go. I opened up the bucket and lifted the creature out. It was a large snake, maybe 6 feet long, but gentle and calm. Actually too calm. It seemed docile enough to be sick. It was covered in dust, like it had been in captivity for some time. I walked it down to the river, waded in, and lowered it into the clear water.

The snake came alive in my hands. It started swimming through the current while I held it’s belly, and it seemed to perk up. I could swear it was almost instantly a happier snake. Adding to this impression was the brilliant colors of it’s skin, now readily apparent as the coating of dust slid off in the clean crisp river. The patterns were gorgeous, but the real surprise was the splendid red tones in the last few inches of the snake’s tail. I was able to Google this a day later, and learned that I had a somewhat rare Peruvian Red Tailed Boa.

I pulled the snake out of the water and brought it back to camp. When I got back, one of the neighboring boys was there for a visit, entirely curious about the snake. It wasn’t so much that he was interested in the animal, but rather that it was the interest of the gringo. He wanted to know where I got it, what was I going to with it, whether I had named it.

I didn’t know the answers to these questions. I new I couldn’t take the snake back through customs to America. I also didn’t want to let the snake go. So close to town as we were, I was afraid that it would just find its way back to another entrepreneurial snake trapper. I also hadn’t given the snake a name, but deciding that I might keep the snake long enough to figure out it’s destiny, I asked the boy for some suggestions.

He quickly decided the snake was female, and gave it the name Margarita. We played with Margarita for a while, until he had to head back home.

It was now time for me to plunge into another one of the many adventures I encountered in Peru. My host, the man of the house and gardens, dear friend, and is it happens to be, renowned botanist, had acquired a goodly supply of mescalin-containing San Pedro cactus at one of the botanicas, and it was this day that I would learn how to prepare San Pedro tea.

Under his supervision, I painstakingly cut away the rugged skin and cuticle of the cactus, and cut the remaining flesh into chunks. We then started a fire that would burn for the three days necessary for extraction, and commenced boiling down the tea. by fire alone, we reduced the huge iron cauldron of pulp down to a concentrated dark juice. The days we spent feeding the fire, and adding water. The nights we slept as the coals smoldered, hot enough to rekindle the same flame each morning.

Throughout these days we played with the Margarita often. We hadn’t a better place to keep her other than the bucket, so we tended to keep her coiled around one of us as we went about our day. On the third day we woke to a fast, and ate nothing throughout the day. We let the cauldron boil down without adding any more water, and we took Margarita with us everywhere.

On the morning of the fourth day, having fasted for more than 24 hours, we sat down next to the fire and drank our “tea”. It was more bitter sludge than tea, but the fledgling spirit of adventure was setting in, and flavor wasn’t high on my mind. Then, knowing we had some time before the tea kicked in, filled our canteens and planned out the day.

The suggestion of my host was for us to head deep into the jungle, so we opted to head up river, toward the towering Andes, into thicker and thicker jungle. We were just about to hit the trail when, on a whim, I thought about Margarita.

“Do you think I could bring the snake?” I asked.

“Definitely,” was the answer, and we hit the trail.

The trail was a two rut road for a few miles. We walked past towering trees bearing immense termite nests. We tread over billions of leafy greens. We wove in and out of the shadow of dense canopy, and in the sunny sections we began to see giant Blue Morpho butterflies. Passing us gowing toward towns, small men carrying huge loads of firewood or produce passed us on their way to the market. My host told me that these guys lived in villages that had never had a vehicle in them, and I knew he was telling the truth.

We came to a small concrete dam built into a canyon. I was beginning to feel the hypnotic effects of our morning tea. Colors were somehow getting cleaner. The purity of the water brought a subtle joy to my heart. The light seemed to hang between the leaves in a way I had never seen. Margarita was animated, coiling all around my body.

The dam was the collection point of the water supply for the town. Upon crossing we lost the road, and I realized that it was the only reason for the road. We now picked our way over the huge smooth boulders of the river, and often just waded in the rushing water. I was astonished that the conquering of this trail was the day job of so many.

On we walked, gaining elevation, putting miles between us and the city. The jungle started to become tiered, and we were seeing trees that shot up more than a hundred feet before branching out into the sunshine. The roar of the river was a reality like our beating hearts, and I couldn’t imagine a life without it. The insects seemed all that more vivacious, whizzing and biting. I felt like I was getting covered in filth, and couldn’t understand how my friend was staying so clean. I kind of thought that maybe we were getting close to a good turn around point, but I was informed we had to press on. So, I pressed on.

To Be Continued…