Seizure the Day

Half a brain runs the show.  The cross-wired organ favours right-handers because the left brain hemisphere calls the shots.  This side of the skull uses language, logic and correct cutlery.  A typical school environment favours left brain thinking - facts and single answers.  What's your name?  If a neurosurgeon was to guesstimate the ego's location, they'd likely point their medical instrument within the left hemisphere.

The right half of the thinking team is rarely captain.  Its role looks after emotion, music appreciation and abstract thought, as well as sensations on the left side of the body. Messages are sent across to the control room on the left.  They are complementary halves, like yin to yang, or night to day.  This is a simplified summary of an infant science.  The cutting edge of these studies leaves big gaps filled with mystery and myth.

Split-brain patients have this bridge between hemispheres severed.  A Nobel Prize was awarded to the guy who discovered that cutting through the divide could reduce or eliminate seizures.  Experiments with these bonesaw veterans communicated with only one side at a time.  This isn't usually possible, because millisecond-speed traffic passes within. 

Varied responses from each half support the theory that we experience only the dominant stream of consciousness.  There is another stream generated in the background and its messages must cross between territories.  The re-readable "Mapping the Mind" suggests of this twin:

"...We might all be carrying around in our skulls a mute prisoner with a personality, ambition, and self-awareness quite distinct from the day-to-day entity we believe ourselves to be."

We might.

Aya strongly lights up the right hemisphere in brain scans.  Some researchers suggest this overpowers the usually in-control left.  Another concept - "hemispheric fusion" - suggests cooperation instead of revolution.  My post-puke experiences included deep analytical and intuitive parts, suggesting internal teamwork.


Right hemisphere dominance can catalyst ego death - an imposter for actual death.  The uninformed could slip into panic if left to interpret this feeling.  Our group was well-behaved in this regard.  Apparently, some people need restraint when they freak out at the temporary annihilation of their identity.


A fingertip grasp of a dream world snaps into a new day.


I woke early like sleep was a formality.  In the dining room, I wasn't the only one silently waiting.  We came for salt like weary drought victims to water.  Interpretation of "first thing in the morning" was the silent contemplation.

When Scott entered, he detoured to the kitchen for a full cup of flaky, white crystals.  For each person he first sang an icaros into the individual spoonful.  The idea was not to consume, but to absorb by swishing it around.  After spitting a mouthful of salt onto the grass I returned to the table.  On it, I had an open book face down, but instead I sat and felt energy returning to my mind and body.

Breakfast was similar foods spiced up.  While eating, a number of local ladies set up stalls outside with their handcrafted wares.  Like much of my Peru experience, the pathways to popular places were lined with similar stores.  Walking the gauntlet of colourful trinkets had held no appeal.  I saw the items laid out on the ground here in a different light.  For one thing, these stalls weren't supplemented by Coca Cola and Nestle.  But it was more than that.  It was no longer unnecessary "stuff", it was a conduit for the heart - a way to connect more with others.  I browsed, pondered, selected and purchased.  Then, thinking of other recipients, I repeated the process.  These items were later added to the "mesa" in the ceremony room.  This is a sheet laid out in the main circle with many personal items placed on it.  The shamans would grant protection via the plant-inspired ritual.

A short ride in a longboat delivered the group along a river branch.  This led to a guided jungle walk.  Darlene was the only one to go barefoot.  Scorpions, glow-in-the-dark frogs and food that grew in hiding places were all pointed out.

The boat to return us to camp had engine trouble.  A motorised canoe came to the rescue as it pulled the larger longboat side-by-side back to base.  I knew there was great symbolism here - a fitting analogy - but it didn't come to me and I didn't hunt it.  Instead of thinking of what it was like, I just let it be what it was. 

There was no regulation of the amount of quinoa, sweet potato and coconut curry I ate for lunch.  I enjoyed every mouthful.

A familiar background of dread preceded the last ceremony.  There is however, a group expectation that this one will be different.  We've ceased the main food restrictions, supposedly meaning less clearing work and therefore, an easier night.  Being off the diet also means we can use a trick where we'll eat oatmeal 30 minutes beforehand.  This seeks to negate the stomach nausea, although a purge is still likely.  The tryptophan content of oatmeal was also promoted, as these are the building blocks of serotonin and its feel-goodness.

Aya #5.  Here we go one last time before leaving this home 16 thousand kilometres away from home tomorrow.  Instead of the patient, pre-ceremony silence, the void was filled with many casual conversations.  These light exchanges had a twist of gallows humour before another ego execution.  That was the price of peering into the abyss.  It was sure to respawn - the aim was for a better reincarnation.

Again I sat in a chair, this time close to Zach and Scott.  I could overhear some of their conversation in the dimly-lit room as they were making final preparations.  Zach was asked a question and he gave an unsure answer, then rephrased the query in Spanish to a maestro.  He was corrected and relayed back the information while adding "Don't listen to me, I'm talking out my arse".

"Well, in that case your pronunciation is excellent." Scott added.

My turn to drink the brew came early in the clockwise order.  I requested two thirds of a cup and it didn't seem one third easier.

On this occasion I had only a slight hint of visuals.  I could vaguely make out an ant foetus taking form and trying to grow in front of me.

But mareado wasn't using that visual channel tonight.  Instead, this encounter turned up the volume on body sensations along the pathway to destination unknown.  When we first arrived here, several double-sided A4 pages were provided.  One part read:

"Ayahuasca removes blockages in a number of ways - The most common being vomiting and diarrhea.  You may also find your body trembling or shaking which is to do with the new energy moving through your body and working through blockages and resistance."


Spew was standard so far, but now let's introduce: "trembling or shaking".  The intensity came in waves, and there wasn't much reprieve.  In the gentler gaps I had a few goes of disgorging small amounts.  Nothing to write home about.


The involuntary tremors rocked me to an inaudible, extreme metal beat.  Could I pull myself out of it if I wanted to?  I wasn't sure and didn't care.  The medicine was doing its work and I trusted it.  No control was a freedom - a blissful seizure in the darkness.

When the electric chair turned back into a rocking chair, I was able to vacate a vomit.  This version of electro convulsive therapy was free-range, organic and dolphin-friendly.  In the lab, shocks to the system stimulate cell growth in the brain.  This may lead to better functioning and improved mood.  While rewiring the brain, electrocution didn't hinder the process - it was the process.

My attention in previous sessions had focussed on my heart.  Now a greater wisdom was telling me to give my brain a rest.  It was like a flexed muscle that I didn't realise I was clenching.  When I released the skeletal squeeze, my world became lighter.

For these moments, I had broken identification with my thinking.  Consciousness was still present, but thought was the obstacle.  Like a high form of meditation - the pinnacle was to be the observer of who's thinking about thinking.  "Nothing is good or bad.  Thinking makes it so."

A sustained, personal earthquake loosened the deep-rooted grip of something unnamed.  This was a war of attrition and I was the battleground.  In these late stages of the struggle, doubt gained a voice for its well-timed attack.  Do you I really want to be here?  If looking for a reason to quit, they'd be dangling like branches to armpits in quicksand.

My intent asked a different question.  How far can I take it?  I'm committed to riding the shockwaves until the unnamed thing within fucks off.  The only way, was all the way.  Whatever is inside need exit through energy or matter.  Rattle shakes or purging splatter.  The medicine was vacating a tenant in a taser-encouraged evacuation.

There was no prestige to my role in this battle.  Ayahuasca was fighting this like an infection.  I was a mucousy dragon.  Smoke from my nose was snot.  Fire from my mouth was chunder.  Magic in my mind was the realisation of what was happening.

Before the night was over, I felt an urge to wear the serpent wristband I'd purchased for an unknown recipient.  Tonight, an anaconda had released its crushing hold.  To avoid another death-grip, my left wrist wears my green belt in Spew Fu.

It will take daily practice to keep the gift of lessons learned.

Just a Fraction of Action for Traction

I have a recent theory and a new day to test it.

Jungle Retreat Day 7. Up early, I hadn't needed much sleep.  On the bank of this tributary river I took in the morning sounds like a fruit salad through my ears.

For second breakfast, I purposefully limited the amount I ate.  Today's experiment began with small food portions.  This was in contrast to the hefty amounts I had been eating.  Among those who had consistently reported vivid visions during mareado, I noticed they ate very lightly.  This seemed to be due to lack of appetite, but either way there was the possibility of cause and effect.  Ayahuasca has multiple means of influence and I savoured the gaze into the incomprehensible from my first ceremony.  Again, I sought the immersive wonders that had welcomed me to the spirit realm.  Since then, the flicker of this parallel dimension has been a fading shadow at best.  The plant medicine had taken different routes of communication.  Admittedly, the insights I'd already dragged through to my conscience had been invaluable.  Nevertheless, something about the actual exposure to "illusions" made the surreal more real.

So my plan was to eat lightly today.  There weren't many factors left to tweak.  We had all consumed the same shamanic drink, preceded by days of the same exclusive foods.  Other variables were also controlled with a current halt on the use of toiletries such as toothpaste and soap.  I figured that if diet and environment had all the same qualities, then quantities were the next suspect.

Fatigued, my swim remained close to the shore.  This was a precaution after yesterday's sudden surge of tiredness.  Today was the last day of the diet which restricted salt.  I had been enjoying the meals, so I had no craving for forbidden foods, but I knew my body wanted salt.  Wars had been fought for salt and soldiers had been paid in salt.  It's the origin of the word "salary".  I could appreciate these factoids with more empathy right now, but it was a tired empathy, and after a small lunch I had a nap.

There is a general feeling of apprehension about the next two ceremonies.  I recognised it as the arrival of doubt, looking to make a scavenger's kill in the dark alley of exhaustion.  In others, I could see and hear this foreboding reflected more prominently.  Already equipped with intended life-changes, these breakthroughs were seen as possibly breakable.  Taking another plunge seemed unnecessary, greedy and most honestly, scary.  When ayahuasca guides an angle of insight, it penetrates like an endless, ethereal acupuncture needle.  Afterwards, you are unsure of what else could remain to be seen on the matter.  If this was perceived as a gamble, then the instinct was to gather all current winnings and quit now.

The sun went down and the large, looming maloca hut beckoned.

I graduated myself up to a rocking chair for this forth aya ceremony.  A couple from the group had already made this progression, whereas most preferred the mattress option.

The protective tree incense circulated like a smoky, Olympic torch.  In clockwise order, we took turns approaching the maestro who sung an icaros into the main beaker of a liquid both mysterious and foul.  He whooshed tobacco smoke over each individual cup with the best of intentions.  Just before this though, Zach asked and interpreted the amount we would like.  Ayahuasca is believed to have a reverse tolerance, which means that after an intense experience, it takes less to reach the same point next time.  It's a bit like the concept of a glass jaw in boxing, where one hard knockout can make future KO's easier.  For this reason, some people were down to a quarter cup dosage.  Desiring the full force hit in the head (and stomach unfortunately), I requested a full cup.

Speaking of reverse tolerance, that's exactly what my sense of smell and taste were doing when confronted with the now-hideous brew.  The repulsive response kept growing - as if the body knows this drink isn't going to stay down.  The mind must pull rank against the urgent insistence that this is digestive foolishness.  My intention was simply to let the plant medicine show me what it needs to show me.

Mother Ayahuasca, as "she" is known by the locals, has many faces.  The presence staring into you may be male, female, animal or divine.  I guess the important distinction here is that the general belief sees these as one being, not different entities, at least as far as I could tell.  For the part that guides the dive within, I have a fitting personification.  This is not what I saw, but it does help for the sake of analogy...

Ayahuasca is like an otherworldly customs officer - confronting, intrusive and ageless.  A veteran interrogator, uninterested in prepared explanations.  Your desire to pass this portal without delay is hindered by the custody of x-ray eyes.  Reaching into you, the search can delve deeper than any farm vetinarian's glove.  Over a lifetime you've packed your own baggage, so you can't quite be sure what's tucked away in every pocket.  Your most hidden, shadow-clad possessions are grasped by cold fingers and held forth accusingly.  No hidden compartment is safe.  This pre-mortem is as unpleasant as an autopsy.

The irony is that the chilled fingers give no clue to the warm, waiting embrace behind it.  These arms, or perhaps wings, envelope one back into the fold of something long disconnected.  The medicine wants to heal and its first aid kit contains an emergency blanket spun the fabric of the universe.  It's an unexpected case of good cop, bad cop.

Tonight the visions returned.  An intensifying frequency signalled the approach.  Static noise became increasingly active while tuning into a different radio station of reality.  At this point the head is very still, trying to distinguish a distant pattern.  Once recognised it gains volume in attention and begins to take form.  Normality became diluted and flooded with pulsing waves of distortion.  From far, far away it vibrates through a dimension door to reveal itself as near as air molecules.

Maybe this revisit to DMT Disneyland was due to my minimal food theory, or maybe that was just a coincidence.  Either way, the distinction wasn't given much thought as fractal infinity captivated in every direction.  The spectacles of the abyss seemed random, and then a profound structure appeared in an unveiled mechanism of existence.  It could only be beheld there and then.  The conscious hard-drive doesn't have enough memory to make a takeaway copy.  Also, my frame of reference is small and flimsy.  It's like trying to explain a zigzag without using your hands.  Or depicting the language of a Kalahari bushman without making that click or tock sound.  Perhaps, like after a crazy dream, the brain forgets as a protective measure.  To pull too much of it back into the everyday-world would be madness.  Entertaining another reality could split the mind apart, like trying to hold onto two moving vehicles.

On this occasion, my approach was to not label anything.  Too much assumed knowledge on a topic can deprive pleasure - Chewing gum is flavoured spit.  Milk is filtered cow's blood.  Much like my speed reading breakthrough yesterday, the key was to clear my thoughts and guard the doorway.  To play the role of noun-police is strange and difficult, but it worked.  I wasn't fumbling with hypothetical camera settings of how to record my experience.  Instead, I became the experience - spellbound by indescribable things.

With the bucket lifted to my lap, it caught the spew that followed - a black oil, deeply mined, yet smoothly removed from the body.  Once again, my second ceremony is the benchmark for how bad the casting out process could be, and this was easy in comparison.  The sensation was as if a mutant squid's tentacle reached down through the centre of my body.  The giant appendage became an elephant-like trunk or sponge as it extracted watery darkness up and out of me.

The next wave of mareado crashed in the form of emotion-based understandings.  These contained thoughts of my mum and brother.  My family is down to us 3 and I can't recall the last time I told them I loved them.  That fact was as sick as what lay in the obscured bucket before me.  The tears came again and they reinforced previous lessons with nine inch nails.  Life, death, time and attention - these dynamics applied dramatic context to simple actions.  For example, I can make a huge, positive influence to a situation with a well-timed hug.  I've had many chances in the past and I've missed them.  I can't go back, but I can make a resolution now for how I move forward.  It's likely there will be some slips along this learning curve, but anything worth doing well is worth doing poorly in the beginning.

Resolution is not enough though - that was tonight's lesson.  One evening's fire of determination can be snuffed by morning.  Intention needs same-day action if it's going to get traction.  I wasn't given a new way of being or shown a personal prophecy.  Instead, the gift was high definition clarity in identifying the next handholds and footholds on this climb.  The future can remain uncertain -  I just need to take care of this part right now.

Later, when I recounted part of my night to Zach just before his venteada, he suggested that tears of joy could be rubbed into the third eye.  By that stage they had been smeared into toilet paper, but I made a mental note.  Uncharacteristically, I didn't question why, either verbally or within.  Such tears have been rare enough that even a symbolic act could reinforce how much they need to be treasured.

Finding a saw dust toilet, I then did a pasty shit.  Too much info maybe, but it makes the mention of crying easier to include - as if bodily functions require fair and balanced reporting.

When I returned to my room, I wrote busily, including a list of specific next-actions for when I return home.  I also turned on my mobile and drafted a text to my mum.  I wouldn't be able to send it until back in phone coverage range, but doing this step now was a safeguard against the leeching power of delay.

Unspoken Understandings Unswallowed

This was the "Day of Silent Reflection".  I woke early and walked down to the river.  Along the way I received more than one, "Buenos dias!" from family members performing morning chores, to which I waved/nodded/smiled in mute reply.  I'm not sure if they knew of the group's scheduled silence, but either way it didn't stop them from pleasantries.

On my way back up the steps, an ambush of tiredness slowed my pace.  We'd been warned about this and told to expect it.  Energy levels can be significantly affected by the "no salt" factor of the dieta.  (On a side note, I shall revert to using the word "diet" instead of "dieta", as it's like how people can only really get away with saying "Frarnce" while they're in France.)

I remember the visual explanation Zach had given of our expected energy levels during this retreat.  The idea was that we have physical energy and spiritual energy.  He pressed his hands together and held them horizontally to show that both levels usually cruise along at about the same rate.  When the work of the plant medicine combines with the restricted food regime, these levels diverge with spiritual energy rising and physical energy declining (his hands split apart in a sideways "V").  When the diet ends with the reintroduction of salt, spiritual energy stays high and physical energy comes up to meet it.  I was going to say that the symbolic crocodile jaws then clamp down at this new level, but that's not quite the right analogy.  It's more like the lower jaw rises to the upper jaw.  So more correctly - the Amazonian alligator's jaws shut up to a new level.


I accept that the term "spiritual energy" in the above paragraph has a loose definition, though its nature remains hard to pin down.  If physical energy is the paint of a picture, then spiritual energy is the brush outside of the frame.  Earlier during this retreat, one of the group members described himself as a metaphysicist as I asked what that meant.  Dale defined metaphysics as (I paraphrase), "that which cannot be measured."  He then referred to language as a prime example, as words can be recorded but meaning can't be quantified.  This well-packaged idea had me thinking.

The voiceless day left plenty of time to explore around the camp.  At first I checked out the site of the fallen tree(s) from last night.

Then I had a better look at the buildings here that were still being built.  This place was still a work in progress and next year there were plans to begin construction on a new school for the village children around this area.  As a donation-based program, the helping of others remained a prime emphasis of the people here.

The lack of conversation this day was a chance to quiet the mind.  I used it as an opportunity to read from the communal library that made up part of the dining room.  Sitting with a topical text in front of me, it was the most sustained attention I've brought to a book for as long as I could remember.  I laser-beamed through the pages.

Speed reading is a topic I have delved into on several occasions via different systems. I've had limited success even though the fundamentals aren't that difficult to grasp.  The unacknowledged problem was that the mind would easily wander after a couple of pages.  I'd get big jumps in acceleration while maintaining comprehension, but only for a short time.  Going faster made it easier to slip out of the groove.  There was a missing shush of internal chatter that hindered momentum.  Not now though.  Self-generated distraction was gone and I was off to the races.


Another turn of the page presented the last concluding sentences.  Finished, I closed the book and let it sit for a moment on the table before me.  Measured against my usual pace, that was ridiculously fast.  Was it delusionarily fast?


I brought my mind to pieces of retention - parts that had sparked my interest and I wanted to remember.  Then I quickly zeroed in on these noteworthy pages for selected passages and inspired concepts.   One section of "New Brain, New World" approached ayahuasca with brain scan studies.  The book, by Eric Hoffman, then tied this in to people's subjective experiences and life changes.  DMT (the chemical vehicle of the natural medicine) is very similar to serotonin (the brain's regulator of mood, sleep, appetite and memory) and when it binds to nerve receptors in the brain, a change in consciousness takes place.  It's as if the brain reserves a parking space for this different flavoured neurotransmitter.

To quote another part directly:

"Ayahuasca allows the possibility of contemplating the Self without the interference of the analytical and critical mind.  This allows the possibility to accept and integrate the Self at a higher level of consciousness."

It's difficult to talk about higher levels of consciousness without coming across as a pretentious twat.  Reaching to a new level is one thing, but staying there is something else.  That said, it's the first peek over a fence that has no comparison.

Happy with the result of my book blitz, I walked back to the shelf to make an exchange.  With a new title in hand, I returned to my seat in the dining room.  After a chapter or so, I recognised the short-term comfort of the plastic chair as the weakest link, so I sought out an unoccupied hammock.  It was a productive day.

Tonight, the scheduled main event was a tobacco tea ceremony instead of ayahuasca.  Drinking tobacco is about as a delicious as it sounds, which is to say, very much not at all.  This was going to be a strong dose with a forecast of puke and no expected "mareado" effect.  I think for these reasons, only about half the group engaged in this optional extra.  I chose to participate for its proposed cleansing and possible euphoric effects.  By this point in the retreat, I didn't quite consider myself a Vomit Jedi, but my skills had undeniably improved.  I was no longer getting in my own way - holding onto my precious, pre-digested contents with a golem's grasp.  At the same time, I couldn't claim any sick enjoyment from "the purge".  More would be required in the last few days here so I might as well hone my hurl.

The tea began being poured.  Zach was the first to wrestle this distasteful drink.  The alarmingly larger mug he held meant an increased serving size.  I counted 7 seconds from the moment he started pouring it down the hatch until he pulled the empty cup away from a face clenched into a fist.  It looked ghastly, but I figured that I could suspend any retching reaction for at least 10 seconds.  My turn came and I focussed on counting numbers as I knocked it back.


For this daylight ceremony, we all sat in a circle of chairs with the water reservoir moved to the centre.  I had over a litre in my bottle, although the recommendation was to quickly drink around 2 litres.  I gulped down what I had, hoping that would be enough and waited.  Some people burst out an early chuck.

Within the uncertain interval between input and output, I suspected more liquid was required for the flush.  I eyed the distance between my seated position and the refill container.  There was a typhoon brewing and I couldn't be sure of its explosive timing.  With my empty bottle in one hand and refund-receptacle in the other, I made a controlled dive for more water.   It was a cautious 3 steps forward, 3 steps back, before I returned to my seat and gulped down an extra litre.  Eventually, the internal tsunami surfaced.  In a high pressure torrent it came out like a flash flood making a prison break.  I spewed a kiddie pool into my wide bucket, except there was no shallow end.

Job done, a wave of euphoria quickly followed.  My barf was a proud achievement, although the elation I felt had an extra layer, thicker than pride.

The ceremony ended not long after nightfall, so dinner immediately followed.  I didn't think food would go down so easily considering the timing, but it was fine.  Satay sweet potatoes and soft fruit such as papaya and banana were ideally gentle on the esophagus.  The discussions at the meal table had a marked change this evening, especially for those who had taken part in the purge.  The mood was notably lighter and engaged conversation followed with humour. 

One by one, group members began retiring for the evening.  I took my time to get up and head to bed along the semi-moonlit walkway between the dinner hut and my room.  As I got closer, I had an inkling to use my torch.  It was a good thing that I did, as the mysterious dark shape at the base of my door turned out to be the camp's resident dog curled up outside my room.  Since I have been here, I'd only seen him a couple of times, always pre-occupied in the distance.  Now, he appeared content to rest in this chosen spot.  I smiled as this made me feel like I'd been especially selected.  I later found out that a few people had received the same vigilant welcome as they went to bed that evening, so it seemed like he'd been laying down from room to room.  Knowing how my dog at home plays a crowd, I didn't let that take away from the moment.

I had a shower with the pails of water carried from the river, said good night to the dog and went to bed.  Lying down, I felt a much stronger link with nature and my own uninhibited breathing.  Whatever I previously considered as full lung capacity, was now exposed as a fraction of these unmined depths.  All tension was gone from my body while floating on the sea of simple existence with my unhurried, purposeful breaths.  At first, I thought this was going to send me off to an awesome slumber.  Then I realised that this relaxation was a type of stimulated vitality.  I was too mentally alert to sleep so I attentively listened to the sounds of the jungle's nightshift.  I tried to separate the different tiers of creature calls between maybe-insects, maybe-frogs and other nocturnal animals of the maybe-I-haven't-got-a-clue variety.

After that project I found my torch and finished reading the book I'd brought to my room.  Then I did some more writing.  And then, deep into the darkness, without the further distractions of electricity's charms, I reluctantly slept.

Clues to the Muse

Despite the large meals I was eating, I was still doing poodle poos.  That didn't really make sense.  Exercise was minimal and if anything I was losing weight.  Because of the diet, a slow-learning part of my brain still expected prison camp rations.  I was eating like I didn't know when the next meal was coming and swimming back to civilisation was out of the question.  It was an unfounded anticipation, as the buffet-style meals were plentiful and tasted great.  The range of ingredients was purposefully limited, but they did a lot with a little. 

After lunch, I teamed up with Roland to explore the river by canoe.  We walked down to the water's edge where a young boy was having a playful, yet less-than-confident swim.  He had an empty plastic bottle stuffed into the back of his shirt's shoulders.  Although unsupervised and out of his depth, he appeared to be doing okay with this improvised flotation device.

We disembarked and it didn't take long to lose sight of the camp after rounding a few river bends.  The jungle scenery was pristine, and the only thing that stopped it from being a completely relaxing way to spend the afternoon was that neither of us knew what lurked below in the murky waters.  That caution was combined with the foreboding of another upcoming ceremony.  It's as if each one gained more gravity.  We exchanged difficult-to-articulate fragments of our intense, but greatly varied teachings from the plant medicine so far.  I think there was a mutual appreciation that our respective inner journeys were vastly different, but just as profound.


Very briefly, a nearby dolphin emerged from the water's surface to catch a glimpse of what we were up to.  I know it makes a better story if I said it was a pink dolphin as they are native to these parts, but from my fleeting glance I couldn't be sure.  It seemed more like the standard grey, although let's just say it was an Amazonian dolphin that may have had a tinge of pink.  We stopped paddling and waited for another appearance, but it didn't surface again.  It had seen everything it needed to in that single scan.


Further along the river, an eagle plunged from a height to tear a fish from its watery world.  As the regal bird carried away its meal into the heights of the trees, I realised I'd just witnessed a majestic kill of the wild.  Recent memories of ayahuasca allowed me to relate to the fish's thoughts.  Its universe had suddenly changed and now it was flying through a different one with a sharp feeling in its belly.

The day still left time to rock the hammocks of the main hut.  The entertainment was provided by the camp's only volunteer and his stringed musical instrument.  Scott radiates patience and is wise beyond his twenty-something years.  As far as I understood, ayahuasca had been a catalyst in breaking free from a history of substance misuse.  In any seated position, he was as laidback and tranquil as one could get.  Now, with an acoustic guitar in hand, he came to life with one catchy and inspired tune after another.  Each piece had extensively well-worded lyrical content.  I realised that he's either tirelessly toiled at these original songs for a lifetime, or as was more likely, he's found a way to access the creative ocean.

It was through the ability to chill out like a master that he could be more productive than an iPhone sweatshop worker.  This made me think of the Tim Ferriss suggestion about how "being busy" was just another form of laziness.  I remember the proposal went against the grain of common thinking and now I'm at home, I can quote his first book directly:

"Let's define "laziness" anew - to endure a non-ideal existence, to let circumstance or others decide life for you, or to amass a fortune while passing through life like a spectator from an office window."  I may be wrong, but I suspected Scott had figured this out.


Consuming ayahuasca has the aim to achieve a state referred to as "mareado".  This is a bit like the advice you'd get in the midst of a misspent youth - telling you that the whole aim of drinking is to get drunk.  Although the literal translation of this Spanish word is along the lines of "dizzy" or "queasy", that's about where the similarity ends.  The medicine does cause predictable nausea, but mareado is something else entirely and comes in several forms.  These can be faced individually, or at the same time.  Here's my assessment from my limited mileage and what I've heard others talk about...

DMT or "dimethyltryptamine" (even my spellcheck raises its hands and backs away from that one) is a potent component of this sacred beverage that provides its iconic "visions".  Psychedelic artwork captures a fragment of a distant representation.  These can be seen with the eyes open or closed and it's like a direct transmission to the visual cortex.  When this aspect of the medicine is active, it can't be mistaken.  Fractal-formed shapes perform a mesmerising spectacle in a weird mix of 2D, 3D, and another dimension entirely.

Mareado may also involve body sensations.  These can be mild or extreme.  The variety includes temperature changes, internal pressure build-ups and shaking of varying degrees.  Although my previous two ceremonies have been mild in this department, I already have a greater appreciation for chakras and the feeling of energy moving through them.

Soul-deep insights are another potential effect.  These can be heavily fuelled and enflamed by emotion, or they can occur without.  I'd say I have so far experienced both types.  For this outcome, you are thrown into yourself along a passenger's journey into the unconscious.

Time for Ayahuasca Ceremony # 3.


Before entering the maloca, I searched for an exposed part of the night sky.  The stars remained hidden as they were once again obscured by the clouds of an impending storm.


Today, Zach was the one distributing the muddy liquid.  He asked each participant, "Same dose as last time, less or more?"  The idea was that we were now ready to regulate our own measure.

I wanted to peer deeper into the personalised galaxy of the abstract, so like a psychonaut version of Mr Twist, I requested "More please."  He handed me a full cup, I paused to set my intent, and then drank from the vile vial.


Going into this, I finally gleaned a clearer insight from the previous encounter.  I wasn't going to fixate on getting a thorough chunder.  If I needed to hurl, I'd hurl, but otherwise I'd loosen up and take in the experience.  It was a mistake to indulge in my own suffering, no matter how much it competed for the spotlight.  The meaning I'd now applied to the mothership passover was that I wasn't going to receive otherworldly-wisdom while wallowing in my own despair. 

At around the expected time of mareado, Zach inquired of the group (like he had in each session), "How's everyone doing?"  This was often followed by a partial participation of responses ranging from "WOW!", "Ugghh" or "Toilet help please!"

Assistance was delegated where required and then the next question followed, "Does anyone need another cup?"  The idea is that if you haven't yet achieved mareado, or if you were still sitting on the fence, then another cup (or partial cup) could get you over the edge.  I was inclined to be the first person to say yes, as the only effect I had at this stage was digestive sickness.  The obstruction to voicing my response was that my stomach interjected with, "No way are you going to try and down another cup-worth of the same liquid that I'm just about to expel!"  It would be like two opposing trains trying to use the same track.  The timing wasn't ideal.


The purge came, and my commitment to detailed vomit diaries continues here.  Once again, this is documented without the aid of visibility in the darkness.  Instead, my perception relies on taste, smell, texture and the accompanying thoughts that run through my head while the liquid rushes from my mouth.  This multicolour yawn was a simpler affair - It had the churned up bitterness of ayahuasca immediately followed by the consistency of masticated fruit loops.  The taste was still disgusting, but the procedure was considerably easier.  This time it was just a puke, not an oral exorcism.

I arose from my bow to the bucket and resumed a meditative kneel position.  Being vertical helped any remnants gather at the base of my stomach and then form the strength needed in numbers to make another push towards the northern exit.  Sure enough, this new, hard-earned attitude was very effective - just "spew if I do, and chill if I don't."

There was a small but sufficient amount brewing within me to churn up a bit more.  I revisited the barf beaker and it was like I coughed up an albino cricket from my throat.  Curiosity nagged at me to inspect further, but I wasn't prepared to cast a disrupting light into my plastic container.  The way in which my mind's eye saw this outbound traffic was preferable to the grisly reality of vomit composition.

Marathon-length thunder rolled through the skies above.  Each rumble of celestial indigestion lasted longer than any human could do an impression.  When the sound finally faded out of earshot, it was soon followed by a fresh, thunderous roar of a similar duration.  This persisted more than my attention could appreciate.

The icaros are sung steadily and in unison for approximately the first hour or two.  After this, they are sung intermittently or in overlapping fashion.  I'm quite sure Scott had been singing each night, but only now I'd tuned in to notice.  To describe his ability as talented would put the onus on him, whereas I think "channelled" would be a more accurate description.  I still wasn't getting the same auditory-led roller coaster as others (with the distinct exception of the female voices from the previous night), but I could still appreciate the notion that this was a medicinal song manifested.  As I later found out, it certainly took others for a ride.


Unlike my maiden voyage into the spirit realm, I didn't phase into phantasmagoria, but I did detect something similar.  It was a strange, watered-down version of the fractal ocean, nowhere near as intense or immersive.  I wasn't submerged in the visual kaleidoscope, nonetheless, I could easily visualise glowing, geometric patterns.  I'd describe it as a heighted sense of imagination.  Just the ability to confidently give this description is a contrast to other "encounters" where I'd suspiciously pick apart my own word definitions.  Whatever that other thing is, it resides in a territory where language is ill-equipped to navigate.


So the visions weren't present and the purging procedure was denied centre stage.  This caused me to become restless as I knew I could be productive elsewhere, but not while sitting here in the dark.  Was I just showing teenage impatience, or was this something else?  I acknowledged this as the edge of a mareado insight and that I needed to come back to the moment to see it.  I decided to dissolve my irritation by looking through it.  What was it that I was itching to do?


I had a manic desire to write, right now.  This is not an unfamiliar feeling, but a rare and treasured one.  Distinct ideas were flowing in rapidly with the urge to quickly get to a notepad or keyboard so I could ride this wave before it crashed.  I recognised that a doorway had opened to the muse, and I needed to drag what I could from the other side before it closed again.  "The muse" is often credited with an artist's creation when it flows freely.  It is a guiding spirit that allows a human to bring a creative work into being.  The concept gives theory as to why many complex ideas are fully-formed by the time they pop into one's head.  I am acquainted with spontaneous architecture, though my understanding remains vague.  I currently comprehended an added sparkle to my imagination.  Perhaps this was a gift of greater access - a stronger bridge between worlds, whether spiritual and this world, or conscious and subconscious. 


Sporadic flashes of light revealed the attentive stances of the shamans as they performed venteadas to everyone in the circle.  During this individualised attention, their silhouettes occasionally appeared via the background lightning.  Another source of illumination was the constant re-lighting of thickly rolled tobacco cigarettes - a preferred mainstay of the maestros.  In addition to being blown into the ayahuasca brew, tobacco smoke is whooshed over group members for its protective properties.  The smell is much more pleasant than that of commercial cigarette counterparts, so it doesn't have the rudeness of airspace pollution.

Zach's venteadas were once again preceded by a bit of personal time.  When asked how my night was going I tried explaining it in relation to last time.  Previously, I'd been too focused on my own suffering.  He jumped on that last word with a snippet of wisdom, "Well, suffering is a choice."  Wow!  Such an epic, inner ordeal was now condensed into just a few easy-carry words.  This couldn't just be a feel-good moment now, abandoned in agony later.  A life, neck-deep in combat arts doesn't come without a few bumps and scratches.  If I think my hurts are undeniable, that may well be the case - The physical pains I'm referring to are a few grades above a bothersome soreness.  My resolve to myself is to not let it hijack mindfulness.  I know it can seem justified, but when there's a choice, don't choose it.  Attention is the most valuable resource, and that's an opportunity wasted.  The trick will be to make something else undeniable and shift my focus there.  Is the body half living or is the body half dead?

In regards to recognising my desire to write and the hope that I could keep a foot in the doorway to the muse, Zach's advice was just a direct.  Without hesitation he said, "You've just got to do it."  It was so simple that a truly sophisticated stupidity would be required to make it any more difficult.  I'm sure I'd be up to the task of constructing such an excuse, but not anymore.  Resistance had been exposed as having no substance.  I don't have to satisfy inquisitions of where this path leads.  There had been enough anxiety in that expectation of divination to freeze my first footsteps.  I just need to keep one foot in front of the smother.  It's a knowing that was held but can't fully be grasped, so over-explanation will do no service.  My keys are in the revelations from the first two ceremonies - have a more open heart and don't allow pain to rule the narrative.

I received my third and last venteada and the concluding candle was lit.  The ritual's formalities had relaxed and in this room of around 20 people there was a diverse zoo of varied moods, interactions and goings on.  A couple of people were locked in reflective conversation.  Another lady was in a private abyss of grief-stricken weeping.  At another part of the circle, Scott was singing and playing guitar to a small, appreciative audience.  A few were joking and laughing with the relief of concluding another voyage.  Some were sitting up and simply observing, while others rest on their mattresses in exhaustion.

I went and sat next to the guy chopping coconuts with a machete to observe his method.  After just one or two, a part of me could give an explanation of how it was done, but that was a surface level understanding.  This was an example of a craft, and hidden detail was revealed in repeated observations.  I knew from the martial arts that the fine details of technique are easily underestimated.  There was a lesson in the lesson.


I eventually left the main hut and began the short walk to my room.  I wasn't prepared for the night to end so directly, so I found a spot to stop and stare into the darkened jungle.  It seemed quieter than usual.  As I stood there, a tree creaked and then the sound morphed into a tired groan as I realised it was falling in front of me.  It took a dramatically drawn-out moment for the final crash into the undergrowth.  This caused a widely dispersed cloud of lightning bugs to launch into flight and ignite.  There were significant numbers of them and their pulsing bioluminescence created a magical display - a bit like x'mas decorations with the try-hard lameness removed.

Under my bed's mosquito net, I slid a mini-torch behind my ear and hurriedly added purposeful ink into my notepad.  I wanted to capture what I could before the thoughts slipped through my cerebral fingers.  There wasn't much pause in the scribbles of my pen as it jumped between concepts and impressions of the evening.  A few, filled pages later, I was content and fairly surprised that I had at least summarised most of it.

And then I wrote some more.

A confusing ordeal

Early in the day, we had a group WTF meeting with the maestros, where we could try to make sense of the night before. It was here that I noticed the broad variety of ayahuasca experiences. There were longer lasting visuals, setting the theme of the night in intergalactic fairyland. Many talked about "synesthesia" (although not by that name). That's the phenomenon which all babies are believed to begin with. It blends one stimulation (eg. sound) into the sensation of another (colours or patterns). The auditory cortex crosses wires with the visual cortex. The common source of this was the singing of the icaros which took people for a rhythmic ride on its pictorial melody. Amazement was the result.

For a few, a rising surge of dramatic energy travelled up through the body in the form of heat. Another type of force had shaken some like a taser. Not everyone was sharing their experiences in detail, but I was the only to recount being crushed by the weight of emotional relics. I was feeling much lighter now though.

As guests of this retreat, our daylight hours were undemanding. Not so for the family of workers who cheerfully performed a wide range of tasks. It was the norm, not the exception, to hear bursts of genuine laughter coming from the kitchen, water's edge, or wherever more than one of them had gathered. I knew they had their hardships like everyone else, but it didn't show. I'd overheard other people's curiosities in their ages and it was surprising how young they looked. There was not a dvd box set in sight, yet these were the happiest people I'd so far encountered on the planet. The highly regarded, yet unassuming shaman were the same people carrying hefty pails of water up from the river and emptying the saw dust toilets.



The middle of the day was once again a time for the seamless triple combo - yoga sweat, Amazon swim & appetite-enhanced lunch. At sunset, we downed another brew of tree bark tea. This one had the harshest taste yet and was mildly nauseating. I still wasn't exactly clear on what type of protection the tree spirits granted, but I just imagined that I now had a crusty old Ent on my side because I drank from his skin graft.



We cleared out of the ceremony hut as it was prepared for the main event of the evening. As we returned, a thunderstorm flashed and rumbled in the distance.

Ayahuasca round two.

I took my cup as it was handed to me by the maestro, and instead of being specific with my intention before drinking, I just left it open to the summoned spirits. I accepted the plant medicine as teacher, and myself as a student, so I wasn't going to dictate the lesson plan.

Rinse and repeat as each member of the group took their turn. The candlelight was snuffed and the chant of the icaros began. Before long, I was swaying to the tempo, letting myself enter the cadence like a methodical cyclist. Chilled and wiser from my inauguration the night before, I knew there was a chance of returning to the same emotional pain, but I thought that was unlikely. I'd confronted that previous wall of heavy stone. I'd dug through the avalanche that bombarded me and now I was ready for whatever was next.

An atmospheric lightning storm flickered into the room at random intervals. It cast silhouettes at best, but these weren't a focus as it was more appropriate to let the eyes close.

Discussion is discouraged during the ceremony. One of the reasons is a phrase that stuck with me - "conversations create linear thought". Linear thought seemed like a crude way for the mind to travel when wormholes of wonder were available. Talk was unwanted anyway - it's not a social drug, it's an inner journey. I was trying to take this a step further and remove the "I" from my thoughts, to unidentify with the ego. There was potential there, but the notion was easier contemplated than done.

No conversation didn't mean the group was continuously silent. Apart from the inspired songs of the shaman, these were occasionally punctuated by a sudden liquid laugh. The rhapsody also included other uncontrolled noises, such as the moans and groans of personal narratives that will never survive a retelling unscathed (a bit like this blog).

In the darkness, it's not too difficult to direct attention to the beyond within. I had two nagging thoughts. The astonishing fractal ocean was notably absent and my turn to throw up was late. It was the latter that was more bothersome. I didn't want that transitory fluid brewing in me for longer than necessary.

In due time, it arose and it was hideous. Unlike the relatively easy satay marinade I'd refunded yesterday, this was a different animal entirely. The chains were let loose on a ghastly puke of thick, toxic sludge. I didn't need a gastrointestinal expert to tell me that this came from deep, dark, disturbing depths. If the "purga" was all about getting out bad forces, then I'd just exorcised a ghoul that had first been liquefied in a blender.

On the tail end of my last shuddering heave, I could tell their was still more to go. It had only taken a few minutes, but the effort was deceptively tiring.

I had the thought that maybe now I could just lay down and focus on getting the visions that others had described. I was prepared to select a different ayahuasca flavour, as if that was a choice available to me.

An etched discipline pushed these thoughts aside. First, there was more purging to be done. Desire to rest would not be indulged until the last repulsive mouthful was unswallowed. My will was proportional to the distastefulness of what was in that bucket. My internal organs were offering no relaxed refuge to the dregs I'd detected.

Many times I retched blanks. My determined posture kept weight on my fists as I leaned over the pail of puke. Gagging out my stamina, at some point I reverted to my hands, and then down to my forearms. I was glad I couldn't see what was inches before me, although my nostrils were filled with the sharp fumes of bile. From here, my body filled with vibrating weakness. If i had held the bowl in my hands, I wouldn't entrust the strength of my own grip

This was the time that the entity approached. From behind me, and far above my left shoulder, was the bizarre humming of a being that could be felt before it was seen. Choosing the right words here is tricky. It was many things. It was the psychedelic owl, though this time more distant. It was the shape-changing spirit of Ayahuasca. It was a giant extra-terrestrial craft, on a passing flight path.

With great effort, I slowly lifted my head from my mortal bodily functions and let my gaze be mesmerized. Like an insect observing an alien mothership, the insignificance of my plight was amusing. Being a human reduced to a cicada lifted the pressure of self-importance. There was no stopping by. She or it was passing over and letting me be. I'd received a glance at best. I understood that because I was otherwise physically pre-occupied, the time was not right for tuition. It was a diverting pause in my suffering and I was resolved to not miss the next opportunity.



Back to the beaker of disgorged ugliness. Like a jungle animal at a distorted watering hole, it was a twisted opposite of drinking nourishment - expelling foulness. At once, both consuming and draining. I wanted to add to the grizzly fluids with the HR Giger-esk beast in my belly. "Better out than in" was the common saying. My attempted methods were many. I pushed and forced with my fingers dug deeply into my contorted stomach and under my ribcage. I kept them there thinking, "If it's above that height, it ain't coming back down". I relaxed and breathed until I second guessed that maybe I was too relaxed "Isn't this the method I'd use not to spew?" From this came the ambush method - relax, relax, relax, heave, heave, heave. Just the spit remnants of a hidden revulsion were enough to befoul my palate, but none of the desired splatter.

Annoyance played a cameo here. My implicit trust in the process was irritated at this disrupting time investment. There was a chance for something profound or euphoric and I was missing it.

If this was my stand-alone experience of ayahuasca, I'd be recommending it about as much as gargling ebola. However, I wasn't prepared to classify these ventures in binary - bad this time, good last time. This was a weighty piece of an otherwise obscured puzzle. I couldn't see the forest, because I'd metaphorically face-planted into a tree. I was losing the battle, but not the war, even though that's a much more comforting sentiment when you're not currently being disembowelled on the battlefield.

I reverted to my kneeling position, back straight, knees parted, thumbs lightly touching. A couple of weeks beforehand I'd offered a few words of advice and now it was time to apply them to myself. Although a completely different situation, I'd said "Be the flame, not the moth." Chasing it isn't working. I had to let the sickness come to me and be unattached to the result.

Vicious nausea aside, in one aspect this worked with flying colours. The unmistakable ayahuasca rapture drew near. The rising swell of a brain penetrating buzz signalled its return. This time though, instead of sharing the driver's seat, I was churned through the gears of the ghost machine. From my upright seated position, ethereal flame surrounded my body and formed a peak over my head. I was engulfed as something upon me and/or within me was consumed by strangely coloured fire. I had the faint inclination that part of my consciousness was being burnt up.

An enchanting female duet reached out to me from the darkness. Synesthesia had come my way and it bridged between the maloca floor and a foreign, unbalanced dimension. My essence was being stretched into a warped reality. Their captivating voices were both alien and insectoid, establishing my whereabouts light years from the familiar. Control was lost and I understood only their implied intention to help navigate this "spirit world" to the plant medicine's goal. The pot at the end of this rainbow was filled with vomit and beckoned more.

Trembling convulsions overtook my nervous system. This was what I'd heard about at the morning meeting. I could feel a purge incoming. Apart from the voluntary gagging actions of encouragement, my body performed the involuntary, unfakeable muscle contractions of an expulsion. As high as my throat I could taste it, but I could not expel it. It was not through lack of trying. Like a flailing, drowning man I tried.

I stayed with intent and dry retching for what felt like timeless hours. Lost in a world of phantom chunder limbo. It ignored the full force of my straining will. It would not come out. It's hard to explain the type of unpleasantness. It wasn't so much the physical pain, as I had many harder degrees to compare that to. It wasn't emotional pain, as I'd had a considerable serving of that dish the night before. It was something else, and the answer, or at least the question, was probably the best revelation I was getting tonight. Apart from the two recognised channels of pain, this was my proof that distilled torment could still exist in a refined and intense form.

BOOM! An explosively loud thunderclap suddenly shook the internal worlds of everyone in the hut. I tried to use it as a catalyst for literally scaring the shit out of myself in barf format. No luck to chuck.

Heavy rains followed and I used the visual to imagine the vileness being washed away from its internal cling. No-can-do-spew.

My mind had gone to many places without finding any clear association of what this was related to. I was reaching for a reason and coming back empty handed. Despite my misery mileage, I was no closer to solving this riddle of woe.

Eventually, my ability to stay upright was too compromised to rely upon. I was a biped, reduced to a quadraped in front of this bucket, and now my immediate ambition was to simply be a lump. I aimed my collapse upon the mattress, and there I lay, crushed and defeated. Exhausted from the fight, but no closer to knowing what it was I had fought.

The ceremony came to its informal end as the candle was relit. I'd missed the opportunities for teachings and guidance that I was hoping for. I couldn't event find the classroom. My body, mind and spirit were all depleted, leaving me holistically shattered. As one consolation, my mind was still lucid enough to summon thoughts of my dog laying by my side to comfort me.

The door of the maloca opened. In the candle light, I observed one of the family members carrying in a large bundle of fresh coconuts. He lit another candle near the back of the hut, grabbed a machete and started skilfully chopping. I knew these were for us and the thought touched me. The well-timed virtues of electrolytes aside, this was above and beyond any assumed duty of care. These people loved openly, and within that wide embrace, we were included.

A coconut with a protruding straw was delivered and gratefully received. It took me a long time to be able to take more than a couple of sips. From a biological standpoint, enough time had passed for digestion to transfer responsibility from the upstairs to downstairs departments. Whatever it was inside, it didn't want to come out and had slithered to a hiding spot that I couldn't reach.



The next morning (Day 4 of the retreat), I arrived late to breakfast. On all levels I was drained and my mind still carried a dense cloud of confusion from the previous night's events. I was now carrying my notepad and pen, trying to make sense of it all. Despite my lack of meaningful landmarks to draw upon, I knew that this scribing tool I held was mightier than the sword. Of course, if faced with an enraged, blade-brandishing barbarian, I wouldn't be sharing that revelation while suggesting we become pen pals.

There was no ayahuasca scheduled for this recovery day. In the evening we started gathering in the dinning hut for dinner instead. From a distance, the nightwatchman yelled out a concern and Zach exchanged a few words in shouted Spanish. This was the only time I'd heard these people have any sort of alarmed tone in their voice...

But first, a brief introduction of a group member. Darlene is an Australian lady that is no stranger to the outback. I imagine Steve Irwin's friends would have had a raised brow reaction if he spontaneously began flossing a crocodile's teeth. Darlene could rouse a similar response with her fearless curiosity cut from the same cloth.

On this occasion, she had chosen to enjoy an afterhours swim. The concern came from knowledge that schools of electric eels also swam at night. They had poor eyesight and if they bump into you, they shock first and ask questions later. After the previous year's flood, an eel two metres in length was found washed ashore. At that size, the encounter can be an organic way to ride the lightning. Darlene was fine and unfazed by the fuss.

That brings me to an observation about the other, non-human inhabitants of the Amazon. I was expecting a meaner version of creepy crawlies ("teethy maulies?"), but everything seemed as chilled out as the family. In a previous mindset, I wouldn't have considered jumping in the river during the day like I had been. Parasites that leave doctors perplexed, aggressive fish with faces of angry teeth, and anything else up the food chain would have been enough reason to wait until I returned to the clearer, sharky beaches of Perth. Perhaps it was my cleaner body due to the dieta, or the protection of the tree spirits - I didn't analyse that thought, I just let it grant a subliminal level of comfort.

Admittedly, the mosquito net that covered my bed gave me a lot of peace of mind. It was like a protective blanky that I purposefully had no contact with. It shielded against more than regular and jumbo-sized mozzies. Spiders, roaches and vampire bats (which preferred sleeping hosts) were all creatures of the night. With their access to my flesh removed, this allowed the pursuit of untroubled sleep. As I drifted off each night, I enjoyed the sounds of the natural surroundings, instead of dreading the desired tastiness of my blood.

The Humbling Spew

The second day at the jungle retreat marked the beginning of the "dieta". This means no salt, sugar, spices dairy, red meat and a bunch of other things that it wouldn't hurt to miss for a while. It sounded generally healthy and the servings were still large so I ate well and enjoyed.

Taking in the surroundings, the fact still hadn't quite settled that I was finally in the Amazon jungle, on the shores of the Amazon river.



Midday, there was a vigorous, sweat-inducing yoga class run by Zach. I followed this by jumping in the river. Apparently the piranha don't bite unless you're bleeding, and the notorious dickfish can only enter via a pee stream which I was confident I could control. Unless of course, I was attacked by a rogue piranha...

The timing was then ideal to complete this triple combo (which I'd repeat as many days as I could) with lunch straight after.

As the sun went down a full moon began rising. It was time for another ceremonial drink made from tree bark. This one was prepared from different species and didn't taste as pleasant. Around 7.30pm, we returned to the "maloca" (a large circular hut) for the first ayahuasca ceremony.



But first, an editorial comment...

Before I started writing these next few detailed blog entries about my last 10 days in Peru, I realised I didn't have to. It would be easier to just gloss over what I'd seen in the jungle (a monkey here, a squirrel there), or not mention it at all. At some point though, I realised that I needed to.

There are several reasons. To inform the curious is just one. It's been strangely therapeutic composing this travel blog so far (even if my elephantitis thumbs get easily frustrated by my phone's keypad). To paraphrase the memoirs of Mr Burns from the Simpsons - "I've enjoyed writing it as much as you've enjoyed reading it".

I also seek to increase my own understanding. "I never know what I think about something until I read what I've written on it."

Another reason is to document and add fuel to valuable illuminations that could easily dim or be dismissed with time. This becomes unfathomably more difficult from this point onwards. I'm undertaking a task where I'm trying to explain the inherently inexplicable. These are hard-earned insights that don't easily lend themselves to words. I had a notepad with me that I filled during these days, though even that is a scrawled summary of where my thoughts travelled. This will hopefully be a more digestible version of that.

There are details that I won't divulge here, and parts that still don't quite make sense, but otherwise this will be a painfully honest, blow-by-blow, spew-by-spew personal account. Repulsed dismissal may be likely. I can't tell and I can't care. I'm not holding back on the detail of bodily functions, "discountable hallucinations" and hippie-esk revelations. This makes me think of a quote often misattributed to Dr Seuss:

"Those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind."

I've had the equivalent of several rapturous experiences, but I remain far removed from the smug preacher. So with that said, at any point from here onwards, please keep in mind your freedom to read on or fuck off accordingly.


Still here?

Let's rabbit hole...

The night has taken hold. A single candle struggles to spread its light across the sizeable hut. In a circular formation, the shamans sit their chairs facing east, with mattresses filling the rest of the diameter. In front of each place, there is an ominous chunder bucket and roll of toilet paper for clean-ups. To the rear of the maloca, several toilets are located for any back end traffic. It's pretty much established that after drinking this bitter brew there will be something coming out in one way or another.

We take our unassigned mattress placements, and a "protective" tree incense is burnt with the smoke delivered over each person. The head shaman sings into the vessel that contains the ayahuasca and the ritual has begun.

Each person approaches in turn to receive the sacred brew. With the cup in hand, there is a pause for the setting of intention, the word "Salud" is spoken which is then echoed by the rest of the group. The thick plant brew is guzzled down, and then there's a chance to rinse the foul taste out of one's mouth as the next person has their go. It comes full circle and the head shaman drinks last.

The candle flame is extinguished and the dark silence is allowed to speak for itself with inner thoughts and sounds from beyond the maloca.

After a few minutes, each shaman joins a chant. These songs are known as the "icaros" and are used as a connection technique with the spirit world. They are sometimes whistled, sometimes sung, and most often accompanied by the rattling of a "chakapa" which is a bundle of dried leaves used to carry the rhythm of the ceremony. The chakapa has other uses, such as to clean the energy of whoever it is directed at, and to send away dark or unwanted energies. It would also probably make a good duster.

In due course, the shamans eventually branch out into different icaros, sung at different times and different speeds. There is a new relationship with sound by this point, and the effect can be both mesmerising and/or disorientating. The idea is for these icaros to stir up the medicine and if you have a puke lurking in the passenger terminal, you can really feel how it expedites the process.

I chained together a few deep yawns at this point, but it was definitely not from boredom. I had a sense of the impending. I suspected that it was the body subconsciously stretching the jaw muscles for a clear pathway to de-food. Otherwise, there was the thought that some primal chimpanzee spirit was either taking residence, departing or passing through. I'd get another interpretation later, as yawns were seen as a way of letting the spirits in. One of the icaro seemed to contained a yawn, as if this was encouraged through contagion.

My stomach held a mild sensation of nausea. I knew I'd put something in there that needed to vacate. This was only a background thought though, as my attention and focus were elsewhere. The DMT-induced effect of drinking ayahuasca does not dull the mind like alcohol. I sat patiently with my eyes closed, senses heighten and mind lucid.

Whatever was happening, it was surely now breaking through to this world and I could sense its imminent arrival. Here, words become tricky. Everyday reality slipped away like an evaporating liquid. Another dimension revealed itself to me in a pulsing ocean of geometric patterns and sheer wonder. The fractal nature of the universe interwove itself all around me. Even the use of the word "me" in that last sentence doesn't seem appropriate, as "I" wasn't just immersed, "I" was an interconnected part of the whole. The ego was voicelessly pacified in this abstract, bewildering magnitude. It was an extraordinary mix of the incomprehensible, combined with a wordless understanding.

Within the vibrating kaleidoscope, the presence of another entity was detected. A fractal-formed, possibly-cycloptic, owl-like being hovered directly in front and above me. It swooped towards me and suddenly paused to stare purposefully into my forehead. I sensed its otherworldly oneness. There was no fear accompanying this encounter. I'd done my homework. The shaman would call this a manifestation of Mother Ayahuasca. The voiceless voice of the tree spirits. I sought this fleeting contact with something from a different reality. It was like letting a surgeon inspect what was to be operated upon.



The fractal pulsing ocean became a fractal jungle of infinite novelty. Visions of trees took on cartoonish, animorphic properties. This was beyond imagination. Another dimension was manifesting itself and it was before me whether my eyes were open or closed. Then in gentle waves, it began to recede.

I had at least two inhalations of warning before "the purge" came. It was more than enough time to bring my plastic pot into position. It's coming out. Good. Here goes... A thick torrent of peanut satay launched out of my face. I couldn't actually see what it looked like, and I hadn't eaten any peanut-anything for weeks, but that was my perception and I ran with it. It felt good to shamelessly spew in this non-judgemental, even playing field of mandatory sickness.

By now the fractals had completely diminished and the plant medicine flowed into practical intuition. Through various means, I was reminded of the importance of play - how hidden joy could be found in random moments. Innocence takes a role, like a child's spontaneous games. It's not so much the exclusive way of childhood, but rather a way of thinking often lost after youth. It was another example of a parallel universe, accessible if I only kept an eye for it.

Elsewhere in the room, I could hear a violently yodelled yack, and this influenced my internal imagery, much like how a dream can be influenced by outside sensations. I pictured the scene of a kids party at Hungry Jacks (that's Burger King for international readers). There were a group of friends seated at a bench, excitedly waiting for the next phase of their meal. One kid is holding and intermittently using a makeshift vomit vessel. He's proudly smiling during the breaks, because this improvisation means he won't lose his seating position. The table conversation is unperturbed by this event.

The next theme was grief and it came in a flood. A raw, emotional grasp took hold and immersed me in an ocean of sorrow. Painful occurrences of my past were replayed, and revisited, and not in a hurried way. These weren't big events, they were little, otherwise easily dismissible moments, but the feelings they welled up were huge. With rare exceptions, I'd given up crying years ago ("gotta push that shit down"), and now I had at least a decade of tears to catch up on. Like the previous purge, this was without shame. I knew others were going through their own inner journeys nearby, but even if the room was brightly lit and all attention was on me, I didn't give a fuck. I was happy to suffer this intensive introspection. These tears made me stronger and I knew it, and I could meet the gaze of anyone through them and they would know it too. I marinated in them, and in doing so I took on a deeper presence in this world.

During this time, my thoughts were cycling through the meaningful others in my life, including some who are no longer in the realm of the living. To different degrees, my heart opened to them all. Had I done enough to show my appreciation? "Enough" wasn't the right word. Could I do more?

A lingering gurgle in my belly warned of the potential need to cast out extra. Sitting with my legs folded had become uncomfortable, and although the option to lay down on the mattress was available, there was no self-granted permission to do so. Instead, I felt compelled to adopt the kneeling "seiza" position of Japanese martial arts. I recalled a comment before the ceremony about how "the medicine will respect you more if you stay sitting up". Earlier, I'd been mesmerised by the psychedelic visuals. Then I had a taste of the difficult inner work to be done and it solidified my chosen reason for being here.

My karate-influenced seating position led to a vision of a lone samurai. He was more Manga than traditional and it took a moment to realise it was me. Before the image could be self-indulgently enjoyed, I was on a parallel journey through time. From the point I was sitting, two futures diverged in similar but different directions. Words really reach their limitations at this point, so I'm not going to try and box the premonition into a few sentences other than to say it was a forewarning I lest not forget.

Deep into the ceremony, the shamans take turns visiting each person. This is to perform a "venteada", which is basically a personal icaro and lasts around five minutes. There is a genuine feeling of personalised attention and care, as they make sure all remain safe. Zach, being the only English-speaking shaman, asks how your night is going. I said something to the effect of experiencing a sadness that I was happy for.

The ceremony unofficially ends several hours after it began when the candle is relit. The mind has been so active that time is relative, and in some cases irrelevant.

I guessed that my late, loitering, queasiness was going to be taking an alternative exit. Or maybe it awaited the medicine for another night. I spent time reflecting on my crash-course education from the spirit world. Unlike the fleetingness of a recreational drug trip, the lessons I'd learned could be brought back to from the other side.

Many of the group were resigned to sleep in the maloca for the night, but I returned to my room. I slept like a comatose brick.

In the morning I was not jumping at any early opportunities to discuss the night before at the breakfast table. I wanted more time for contemplation. I've learnt that talking (with the right person) can help to solidify viewpoints, but when not ready it can affix partially formed fragments to less than adequate words, and this can warp things prematurely. It's like starting to cook a meal before you even know if you have the required ingredients.

Also, I didn't need to hear the predictable "owl = wisdom" formula, case closed. Just because that idea is endorsed by Harry Potter, it's still an unexamined belief. As a general rule in the animal kingdom, the larger the eye relative to the body, the smaller the brain. That was a great retort for a comment I didn't hear. Most of the group was busy making sense of the personal wonders they'd been exposed to. It sounded like there had been a wide range of experiences.

Later that morning, I shared a one-on-one conversation about the night. This did help to piece together more of my own thoughts and I promptly added to my notes afterward with many of the things I've recounted above.

This had been ayahuasca ceremony number 1 of a scheduled 5. There were more unpredictable dips into that phenomenal realm to follow.

Going deep

There were no wide-eyed tourists here. These people were seekers. They'd done enough research to know that we couldn't quite know what we were in for. Travel agents don't suggest this sort of thing.

The group I would be spending the next 9 days with had gathered in the foyer and I was the last to join them.

We loaded into two vehicles and drove for a couple of hours. Then we paired into mototaxis to a place on the Amazon river's edge. From there we changed vehicles again, like a Bond movie chase scene, into a speedboat. That was another couple of hours to a small, wooden jetty. It was here that we first met Zach, the founder and organiser of this retreat.

At this stop we climbed some steps at a remote police station where our passports were registered. I made a baño stop here for a number 1. I was already midstream when I noticed on the nearby wall a spider the size of my hand. I continued urinal etiquette and didn't make eye contact.

This last leg of travel was by longboat to a wood and thatch constructed jungle lodge. Here we were on a tributary of the Amazon, surrounded by pristine wilderness. No electricity, running water or phone signal. An oasis from the tentacles of the grid.



La Familia Medicina is a family run and donation-based ayahuasca centre. Ayahuasca is a powerful plant medicine used for at least the last thousand years by shaman for healing and spiritual purposes. Under the right circumstances, it can rock anyone's world and world view from the foundations and below. This camp had a nurturing approach to guiding the way.



The ayahuasca brew is prepared over the course of a day and is a combination of several plants. Chacruna leaves contain dimethyltryptamine (DMT) which is a neurotransmitter significant enough to be worth that many syllables.



DMT occurs naturally in a vast number of plant species and is also produced in trace amounts by the human body. The leading theory for its origin is the pineal gland (third eye), and it's activated during sleep. It's believed to be what makes dreams weird and visual.

Interestingly, the namesake of the brew (and from a shamanistic point of view, the more important plant) is the ayahuasca vine. This acts as a MAOI inhibitor, which allows the rich DMT source to travel from the stomach to the brain without getting mugged by the liver. It allows the doorway between the waking and dreaming world and is said to provide the healing aspect of the medicine.

The drinking of ayahuasca is not something to be done just for the experience. Physically, it's quite unpleasant. For the mind, emotions and spirit, it will likely tear your shit apart and then difficult inner work is required to put things back together. From stories I'd known previously, the payoffs can be profound.

Zach explained a concept that had been passed on to him about the difference between western and shamanistic medicine. Western medicine makes you feel better almost immediately, and then can cause illness in the longrun. A shaman's medicine makes you ill right away, then leaves you feeling great in the longterm.

Appart from Zach and Scott (his musically gifted volunteer assistant), the rest of the camp staff are an extended family. The intended atmosphere of the camp is a family environment and these were genuinely kind Peruvians. I was immediately comfortable in their presence.

Our first activity was the enjoyment of a large home-cooked meal. Then rooms were assigned, an orientation provided, then a Q&A about what was to come.

There was no ayahuasca scheduled today but we did have a tree bark ceremony at sunset. A tea was created and sourced from specific trees in the nearby jungle. This was so that the plants would "grant protection". My critical mind found a hammock to rest in for the next few days and I thanked the tree spirits as I drank. The taste was not unpleasant.



As the sun went down, the volume increased from beyond the dense undergrowth/overgrowth that surrounded the lodge. The constant chorus of varied and unidentified sounds made a theme change via those on the night shift.

Tomorrow, the internal rollercoaster ride begins.

Just a wee bit of human sacrifice

The fourth and last day of the Inca trail began during the night. It was a classic case of "hurry up and wait". We gathered our gear then made a short walk in the darkness to a closed checkpoint where the crowd kept increasing. The reason for this zombified early start is not to catch Machu Picchu at dawn as suggested by the itinerary. The checkpoint wouldn't open in time for that. Instead, it was so the porters could catch one of the two daily local trains. That reasoning was fair enough, but the extended period of time in an unmoving line seemed a bit pointless.

The sun rose, and the gate had yet to open. Finally the crowd started to shuffle through as paperwork was stamped. The trail quickly resumed its beauty. Part of it was on the edge of a steep mountain. The pole-assisted walkers funnelled into single file, like a shopping sale rush with zimmer frames.



The steepest part of the whole trail is the accent to the Gateway of the Sun. From here I caught my first glimpse of the destination and it was a powerful sight. The group rejoined here, spent a bit of time taking in the view and then carried on.



From this point we were heading back to a merge with airport-stupor tourists. As the bus loads of gawkers poured in, I had the impression of ants hollowing out a dead bird. The ruined city had a hard time sharing its magic as a theme park without any rides.

We tiredly entered the official boundary of Machu Picchu and our energy raised in anticipation of exploration. That feeling was quickly snuffed by our self-absorbed tour leader. He had the group sit down on a cold rock wall while delivering a lengthy and somewhat rambling monologue. He turned a facinating topic into haemeroids.

I'd noticed that he wasn't entertaining any questions either. His avoidance method was to just start talking over the top of the question about something else. That made me determined to pin some good ones on him and make him earn his peanuts. We were near the King's chair and an altar. He had exhausted his next rant and we were about to move on. It took a couple of goes but I got to ask "Did the Inca practice human sacrifice? ".

He said "the Inca sacrificed guinea pigs, llamas and", he held two fingers apart to indicate something really small, "some human sacrifice."

"So that would have happened right here?" I pointed to the altar before us.

He gave a single nod of the affirmative "Sí", he replied. Wow! How was he going to miss that juicey detail?

Before we were finally let loose in the ruins my phone battery flat lined, putting an end to my pics for the day. I hadn't really appreciated the size of this former capital of the Incan Empire until I started exploring.



The city was abandoned in 1572 when the Spanish were kicking arse in these lands. It would have made an excellent defensive position due to its strategic location. Add some medieval tactics to the mix and an invading force would have quite a boggle. But not so.

The leading theory for the purpose of this place was its religious significance. It also contains carved stones aligned to the compass points and solstice, used as an astronomic clock and observatory. After self-exile, this mountaintop city remained lost until its rediscovery in 1911.

From the Machu Picchu ruins, I caught a bus that zig-zaged down the mountain to the town of Machu Picchu, otherwise known as Aguas Calientes. This allowed the comforts of a shower, massage and meal. We regrouped here then caught a late train back to Cusco.

That left an extra day and a bit to re-re-revisit Greens cafe, explore some more and have some good conversations with a couple of friends from the group. Cusco now felt like a different place - like a city on a fuse.

The last scheduled tour group activity was a flight back to Lima. At the airport, I waited near the mouse maze while others lined up to check in their luggage. It took until the first person reached the front of the que to realise the spanner in the plan. The plane had already begun boarding and it was too late to check luggage. A futile arguement ensued. With my web check-in in hand, I wasn't prepared to go down with this ship. My journey still had an important mission and no buffer time to compromise. I said some quick goodbyes and rushed to the gate.

"You're late." At the boarding gate, my check-in printout scanned with a red light and disapproving beep. I was unfazed. "You're late" she repeated.

"How can I be late if I'm standing right here?" There were at least 20 people for the same flight in the que behind me. I wasn't going to miss this flight by association. I was an independent once again with no more flexibility left in my travel schedule.

It took them a while and an extended phonecall wait, but I was eventually let through. The others unfortunately made no appearance before the wheels left the tarmac. Another payoff for travelling light.

Lima airport again... such an interesting place...

I arrived in Iquitos at night. Deep in the jungle, on the shores of the Amazon river this city has the distinction of being the largest in the world that can't be reached by road.

My first (and lasting) impression was that this place is wild. Leaving the airport I entered a "mototaxi" - a modified motorcycle rickshaw with a passenger cabin on the back. There's a Mad Max element to public transport. Motorbikes and mototaxis rule the roads in a river of swerving chaos. Optional road safety extras such as helmets, indication and attention to lanes are all absent. Phonecalls, text messaging and even breast feeding were all shown to be possible with one hand on the handlebars. It was time to hold on and enjoy the ride.

A light turned red and there was a pause in the swarm. A couple of gringo hippie chicks ran out in front of the stationary vehicles for some impromptu performance art. The lights changed and they stood narrow while bikes raced past them.

I arrived at my accomodation, explored just enough to get some dinner, then crashed fully clothed on top of my bed for a handful of hours before an early start the next morning.

A unique phase of my journey was about to begin.