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SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 4
1:45pm, The embankment above the river in Iquitos
After I got my hotel room yesterday, I took a shower and changed into non sweat-soaked clothes. I searched online and found a couple restaurants that served food that is ok to eat from when on the Ayahuasca diet. All I know is that I can't eat most of the stuff I usually do:
milk
cheese
yogurt
sour cream
fermented foods
meat or meat products
salt
sugary or sweet foods, including honey
chocolate
caffeine
hot or spicy foods
fried fats or oils
alcohol
AND, for some reason, I have to abstain from all sexual activity. I should have started this diet days ago, but better late than never, right?!
I left the hotel and walked up the street to the Plaza de Armas. I was heading to a restaurant called The Yellow Rose of Texas, which I had seen when I got dropped off. I slid into a table underneath the shade from a faded red umbrella. The owner, a big oaf of a Texan, came out to greet me. Or came out to keep an eye on me, I'm not sure, but I didn't like his imposing vibe.
The sweat ran down his brow even faster than my own, and he made racist jokes, and when I told him where I was from, he asked how "Hong-couver" was this time of year. When he walked away, I felt awkward. His racist monologue had included rants about the locals that worked for him as well as Peruvians in general. His tongue was loose enough it inspired me to ask him some direct questions when he came back out, but he never came back. The fat American pig, extorting tourists and demonizing his local employees, left quite a first impression. I'll never forget his last words about the Dodge Viper parked in his garage back home in Texas. Fuck that guy.
Soon after he walked away, a cute, kind, and intelligent waitress, who was clearly a local, came out to take my order. I pointed to the chicken breast sandwich and Acai smoothie from the Ayahuasca section of the menu. She nodded with a kind smile and then disappeared into the restaurant. Most of the restaurants in town were the bottom floor of small buildings with small hand-painted signs and names like El Pescador. Outside, on the cracked sidewalks, they all put plastic chairs and plastic tables for their patrons. I could tell how authentic the restaurants were by the number of locals eating there.
While I was sipping on my smoothie and waiting for my sandwich, a group of travelers sat down at the table next to me. They had Henna-painted hands, dirty clothes, and to my tired brain's delight, they all spoke English.
