Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [36]
Yet, despite the risk, I'm poised on the verge of following through.
Here's how I reason it.
It's about fitting in. I have a bunch more shows to shoot with these people. And if something as silly and as bold as swallowing a few sips of mildly hallucinogenic painty-looking liquid would help bridge the gap between us, giving them a small reason to accept me more, viewing me less as a wimpy host who's allergic to, scared of, and paranoid about everything he sees, and more as someone who's “on the team” and ready for anything, then that would not only be a feather in my cap but would stand me in good stead for the rest of the season, wouldn't it? That's what I'm thinking.
After all, it's only a bowl of liquid. How bad can it be?
“Take it, Cash,” Joe whispers in a satanic growl, “and driiiiiiink.”
So I do.
Sure enough, it is, without exception, the worst thing I have EVER put in my mouth! I try swallowing, but it won't go down, any more than brake fluid would go down, or donkey urine, or the sweat from a sumo wrestler's crotch. But before I can spit it out, and for want of somewhere better to go, it slowly starts to seep down my throat.
“Aaaagh, ugh!” Jesus Christ!
As I struggle to keep from vomiting, I hear Mark's characteristic high-pitched giggle behind the camera. Tasha's stuffing her knuckles in her mouth. Eric has turned away in case he laughs and ruins the shot.
“Keep drinking. Driiiiiiink.”
I've consumed a third of what was in the bowl. That's quite enough.
“Now, just relax. And wait.”
“Okay.”
It's this, the waiting part, I find the scariest. Luckily, the narcotic effects of kava roll over you super fast. First thing that happens: your tongue loses all sensation, followed by your lips and your throat, as, bit by bit, a creeping numbness rises to engulf you. Anyone who's tried watching the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy at one sitting knows this same feeling. In under two minutes I'm rendered immobile. That's how quickly it tightens its grip. If you're standing up, then you must sit. If you're sitting and you had plans to go somewhere, you should probably call and cancel.
Instantly I understand why the men on this island spend so much time lounging around on the ground doing nothing. Once this stuff's in your system, you not only lose your get-up-and-go, but even flopping down idly against a tree twiddling your thumbs begins to feel like a delinquent waste of effort. It's as if you're dead, but you can't remember what killed you. The curtain comes down on the headlong scrum of life and you're lulled into a blissful state of resignation that leaves you soothed, unrushed and, yes, partially paralyzed too, which is scary, but that's only temporary.
When you're in this state, it's better, according to Joe, to stay where you are, cocooned within a deliciously cozy, tranquil shell of delirium, and just… sit it out. Indeed, a large part of the kava experience seems to consist of waiting for it to be over.
“Will you be okay?”
An echoing voice seeps through the invisible mist.
Twenty minutes have gone by already. Joe's left for his hotel. Mark and Todd are dismantling the lights. Tasha's grabbed her backpack and is heading off to her bungalow. That was the final scene of the show, and whatever the camera captured just now, it must have been TV Gold, because everyone leaves smiling.
“Sure,” I tell Eric, sounding wobbly. “Sure. It's all fine.”
I'm floating, leaving my body behind, happy in my new world of qualified consciousness and drug-induced quadriplegia. Seeking space and time to savor these feelings, I say good night to the others before navigating an uncertain course through the darkened gardens in the direction of the hotel bar, my legs moving with the slowed-down swagger of a diver bobbing along the seabed.
It must be very late. The dining room is empty, the staff long gone. Fresh white dust sheets, spread across the furniture, gleam translucent, giving the place a shadowy, spookily abandoned feel. Don't know how I do it, but somehow I waft my way into a chair on