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.