I walked through the rainforest for hours, almost giving up before coming upon a small clearing with a hut. I knocked on the door, and the shaman waved me in.
On the dirt floor of the hut sat a new MacBook Pro, and in preparation for my visit, the shaman had called up the recipe for ayahuasca, the spiritual hallucinogen of his ancestors. “You can get all the shit you need online, bro,” he told me, pointing to a listing for powdered mimosa hostilis. “I’ll get overnight on it so we can get trippy ASAP.” He clicked the checkout button, and then opened the MP3 player. “You into Shpongle?” I shook my head. He ignored me, clicking the Shpongle, and the laptop’s speakers began to play vaguely-ethnic techno.
“You want some bath salts?” he asked, passing me a paper envelope. I shook my head again, and he laughed. “I fuckin’ love bath salts, bro,” he said, tilted his head back, and emptied the envelope into one nostril.