I was also familiar with one of Orlando’s stories. His best friend, an American by birth and a naturalized citizen of Ecuador, was arrested under some bizarre circumstances for possession of 80 grams of marijuana, which he kept at home for his personal use. “I would go to his house from time to time to have a smoke with my friends. He never sold it to anyone,” Orlando explained to me with bitterness. According to Orlando, he was certainly not a dealer but a respected activist in the community. The police arrested him in a surprise raid. “They caught him because for them he was still a gringo!”

Orlando and the Vilcabamba community (Orlando collected over 300 signatures under a petition to the court) subsequently appealed to the authorities but the crony judicial system in Ecuador sentenced the man to eight years in jail. Orlando became very agitated and angry as he neared the end of his story. When I asked him about the role of the American Embassy in the entire case, he only frowned and retorted, “They are the meanest and worst of all the embassies! They are, in fact, largely responsible for the crony police and judiciary system in Ecuador as well as elsewhere in South America. Why should they help my friend who has a wife and three children in a very difficult financial situation?”

The plant grows in the hills surrounding Orlando’s farm. Since Lara and I had promised to look at his ecological projects, we had a perfect excuse to carry out our mission. Orlando led us personally across the forest. We saw the fortifications of the riverbank where he and his men fixed big rocks and boulders along the river bend to prevent the creek from overflowing in the rainy season. The job was just a tiny component of a larger campaign aimed at saving the unique cloud forest in the area. As a biologist, Orlando was aware of its priceless value to the community. For this reason, he launched a dialogue with the landowners of the adjoining parcels as a way of pointing to the uniqueness of the Vilcabamba ecosystem. In the end he either purchased or leased their land.

Walking through the forest, Orlando indicated a number of plants with exotic taxonomy. His voice and gestures betrayed a genuine passion for nature. Following a narrow path through the banana paddock, we reached the Pole House about which I had first heard in San Jose, Costa Rica via an English backpacker, Dave. Orlando was very proud of the cabin because he had constructed it with his own hands. Inside it had a scent of cedar wood, that sweet odor that lulls a tired traveler to sleep. On the table in the middle of the hut lay a richly ornamented album in which former visitors left inscriptions, poems, drawings, pictures, photographs, and notes of gratitude. On one of the pages some former visitor taped a lock of hair, severed from the body as a sign of spiritual transformation in this secluded spot.

We continued on our mission through the banana paddocks, climbing the hills in search of our plant. There were more than a few species of cactus but none corresponded precisely to Lara’s manuscript. Finally, nearing the point of disappointment and return, I spotted a thick, upright plant that Lara and I judged with visible joy to be the right kind! We chopped it down, just the right length, and sneaked it past Orlando’s house. “My sandals aren’t good for those steep and dry hills,” Lara explained. Neither Orlando nor Alicia showed any sign of suspicion.

Back in our lodging we began to prepare the plant for the secret ritual. Having removed the waxy skin and thorns, we carefully quartered the plant and set in on the stove in a big pot. All of a sudden, we heard Alicia’s voice outside the kitchen door. It almost gave me a cardiac arrest. I began to run about, covering up the peels while Lara tossed the pot full of quartered plant in the fridge, camouflaged with a dirty rag. Then I went outside to face the trouble.

Alicia was with a Canadian tourist interested in the room. I pretended that everything was under control. What I failed to notice was that in my hand I held a knife slobbered with a green mush. As it dripped and looked uninviting, I could hear Lara bustle around the kitchen, doing God knows what to tidy up the traces of crime. Alicia glared at me with her piercing eyes that, however, held no anger. “Surely she knows what we’re up to,” I thought. After a moment, Lara opened the kitchen door and peeked outside to greet Alicia. It was a most comical situation arranged by a couple of amateurs. Fortunately, Alicia didn’t enter the kitchen, leaving shortly with her guest.