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It all began one day, almost four years ago now. Early one morning I flagged down a bus, with one thing in mind only, to spend a weekend away from the noisy and busy life of Lima. Visitors must traverse miles of hilly and winding one-lane roads through fields dotted with repurposed land and imposing potholes that slow progress to arrive at Pucallpa’s native town. When I finally got off the old bus, exhausted probably from the many hours on road, my sight was quickly and utterly captivated by the red clay-like roads that led to a series of wooden huts rising a few feet above the ground, revealing an expansive view of the infinite green papaya fields. I met with Mr. Arevalo, a 63-year-old man, head of a shamanic community, who asked me to come to his home. We took a seat on a wooden bench as he opened the conversation. With his calloused hands, he softly grabbed a toad from the humid ground and said, "You come from very far away, what exactly is it that you're looking for?" he asked with a positive and rough voice. ”Well, I'm hoping to find peace of mind” I responded. The time was fortuitous, and I could feel the excitement build as later that night we gathered inside the temple, there were no walls, only the mosquito screens separated the interior from the wild jungle outside. That night, a few people from all around the world had gathered to celebrate life. So the ceremony began around 8 o´clock. In the center of our semicircle, Mr. Arevalo sang songs that represent his culture and history, songs that were as old as time. Because they don't have written music, songs are passed from generation to generation. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves and as the night got darker and the chanting softer, all I could hear were the cicadas rubbing their wings and the rustling sound of leaves swaying with the wind when suddenly I fell asleep. "Somebody Help! Help, please Help!" That is how the following morning had started. Across the wooden temple’s floor, there was a small group of people, I immediately recognized Mr. Arevalo among them, they were clutching a collapsed woman, a woman whom I had never seen before, she was not in the group when the ceremony had begun, maybe she'd arrived later that night?. "Maria, who is she, is she doing fine?" I naively asked the youngest individual. With a glassy look on her eyes and virtually a heartbroken voice, she replied, "My mother has passed away..." And broke into tears. The subsequential hours were of extreme importance to the family and people in town, as it is believed within the community, that the soul bides its time before finally leaving the body after death, and a proper goodbye from the beloved ones is essential to the process. No one understood the cause of her mother's death and as natural as it is, the only thing I'm sure about is that life hangs from a thin cotton thread.