I don’t get scared until my Lucky hat flies off. It has the word “Lucky” inscribed on the bill and has been a fixture on my head for the past four weeks of trekking in Peru.  “Crap,” I mutter under my breath. I grip the back of the motorcycle more tightly and prepare myself for certain death. As if in reaction to my curse, the bike fishtails over a particularly muddy patch of rainforest. Juanito, the 17 year old who has volunteered to drive me out of the deep jungle to a slightly less deep part of the jungle, rights it and revs the engine.  Mud splatters up onto my already grimey pants. The bike leaps forward. Juanito has a rat tail. I think about telling him that those went out of style in the US about 25 years ago. Then I remember a valuable lesson recently learned from a Peruvian ayahuascero/Buddhist (like a Shaman, but more…Peruvian): “Let your words be worth more than the silence they have broken.” Given the precarious ground Juanito and I are skittering over–in addition to mud, there are large rocks and a cliff just to the right of the road–silence seems particularly valuable at the moment. This motorcycle ride was never part of the plan. At the beginning of my last week in Peru, I decided that instead of heading west to visit Arequipa (big city, mountains, dry), I’d head east into the Manu Rainforest Preserve (remote, jungle, hot ‘n humid). I booked the trip last minute with a small, family run company. I’d have to leave the expedition a day early and travel overnight to make my flight back to the U.S.A. No problem, they assured me. They’d take care of it. At that point in my travels, I...