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.
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