Plan B for Better

The ancient philosopher Lao Tzu said "A good traveller has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving."  Let's see how well I can misuse that wisdom.

Accommodation was something I thought I'd hastily sorted the night before, but after I arrived on this new island by ferry, the first two taxi drivers didn't recognise my intended lodging.  Koh Phangan had a limited number of roads, especially compared to the more developed Koh Samui that I'd come from, though I also had the feeling that addresses were a new concept here.  Undeterred, I jumped on the back of the second guy's moped after suggesting what I thought was a nearby landmark.

As we were leaving the port, he suggested that I put my arms around him to hold on.  That didn't seem necessary - is this how he adds a bit of excitement to his day?  The reason, soon became apparent as the roads took a vertical slant with a random selection of bumps and potholes.

After a short ride up the western coast, we took a right turn up an even steeper driveway.  This was a huge, ocean-facing property.  The stressed bike's engine climbed past a worker's building, then a small front office and a number of bungalows before the road came to an end at a clearing full of rented mopeds.  This wasn't the top of the hill, but it was the end of the ride.  I thanked and paid the driver then began up the stone-cut steps.  This place had boasted, among other things, the best sunset view on the island and the more I increased in altitude, the less I doubted the claim.

As I began my ascent, two smoking-hot European women were coming down the stairs while speaking a non-English language that I was a little too distracted to recognise.  Passing each other on the steps, there was a short pause to exchange eye contact and smiles.  This place kept getting better the higher I went.

The Amst*rdam Bar (spelt with a star) is actually two bars which take up a large deck each.  The lower section has a swimming pool, whereas the upper deck had an even more laid-back atmosphere with a cushion covered floor and small, square wooden tables.

Panoramic views overlooked nearby islands as well as ferry transits to/from those beyond the horizon.  Today's weather was overcast but the (monkey) magic of the place was irrepressible.

 

Most bars require footwear whereas this one requested the opposite.  Small groups were scattered across the place, sipping drinks and heating plant matter that could somehow justify harsh and extended cage-time in this country.

I put my bag down, ordered from the bar and took in the scenery.  It was good.  As I finished my drink, my intent was to quickly establish base camp so that I can return to relax here.

I went downhill to the admin building where they tried, unsuccessfully, to help me locate my prearranged accommodation.  There was a WiFi signal here though, and I used my phone to take into account two maps.  There was a low-resolution map from the booking page that roughly marked the location, and then there was Google maps, which didn't mark the location, but did show roads and topography.  Topography was the key word here.  It looked like the place was a short distance away as the crow flies, however, there was this mountain in the middle and a long road around.

 

They rang the place with a conversation that just led to more confusion and the best I could make out was that they'd ring back in a few minutes.  After a short wait I asked, "What about those bungalows?" pointing to the several wooden structures built into the aptly named, Stone Hill.  "Are any of those available?"

He quoted a price, lower than I expected, which prompted confirmation that they were dorms.  It wasn't an ideal situation, or at least that was my ill-perceived notion at the time.  There were still at least 24 hours before transferred funds became available though my travelling bank card and any delays meant creative solutions would be needed for the few remaining Thai baht in my wallet.  Paying by card wasn't the norm in Thailand, and less so this far from the mainland.

I paid in cash, wrote my name in the register (no id required) and was shown to a clean, empty dorm with the type of view that inspires postcards which inspire resentment.

There was another reason I wanted to have cash at hand.  Police corruption meant that an unwanted encounter with the cops could be settled with a bribe.  This encounter may be warranted or unwarranted, because tourists are sometimes seen as an easy supplement to their income.  My prior research for worst-case scenarios of scams, crimes and misadventure in this part of the world had included episodes of Locked Up Abroad.  That show didn't paint a pretty picture.

At first by accident, and then by curiosity, I'd been learning about the underworld influences in Thailand.  Russians played a big part with significant presence in many of the nightlife industries.  Even on Koh Phangan, which can only be reached by boat (airport unfortunately coming soon), they had a foothold.

On the ferry here, I'd sat behind a man cut from a rectangular boulder-block.  His main knuckles on both hands were healing with scabs that suggested someone else had recently come off much worse.  Travelling alone in an old, faded singlet and hat, he reserved the window seat for an immaculate, huge black leather bag with gold zips.  I didn't need to be a professional profiler to see that something was amiss with this picture.  Whatever was in the bag, I'm going to guess it didn't include a hardcover copy of Walden and a selfie-stick.

 

As I made my way back up to the top bar, I felt like I was on location of a classic cop movie, where a mansion of Uzi-wielding minions is stormed by the law-bringing main characters in the finale.  In this case though, I was on the side that gets either blown away or arrested.

I knew that the reason the bar was able to sell joints was because they'd paid off the authorities, but those types of relationships can easily turn sour and it would be a precautionary exercise to assess the situation for the possibility of a police raid.

As far as fortified locations go, this place was top notch.  The one road from the bottom of the mountain meant that any marked vehicles would be seen coming up the slow ascent.  I'd probably be first noted to this by a sudden change in mood from the chilled staff and I could go rogue in the surrounding jungle.

A police boat would likely come from Koh Samui and this place had the main transit line in view.  Even if they came in abseiling off helicopters, there was enough of a panoramic view that the surprise factor would be diminished.

Continuing this line of thought, I figured that the only way was if they had already infiltrated the place and were going to come out of hiding in a highly-coordinated yet low-stakes sting operation.  There were only Thai's working here and non-Thai's as patrons.  Everyone looked as relaxed as to be expected in this paradise setting.

I'd given paranoia a chance to search for possible threatening scenarios.  It could now set up mental trip wires for circumstantial changes and then be gone.  This would make way for deeper thoughts as my immediate terror-alert shifted to code green.

Via the bar, I sat on a cushioned floor-chair on the main deck.  The grey-could sky didn't make for any less than a million-dollar view.  At this elevated place, I inhaled introspection.

 

Time passed in the most pleasant of ways.  It was in complete contrast to how it passes in places like airport terminals - as if it was credited to my account instead of debited.  This was my birthday well-spent.  It had taken me this many years to truly appreciate Bob Marley and now I was catching up.  Primed set and setting assisted, as well as the appreciation of two guys I'd started talking to.  They were from Iraq and Syria and knew how to appreciate the little things, so when light rain moved many people back to the undercover area, we treated weather like wallpaper.

The crowd increased for an obscured sunset.  It was an interesting mix of world travellers.  I ordered a meal as there was nowhere else I needed to be and even the food was brilliant.  The rain hit harder, then ceased for a while before another downpour.  This validated concern from those with mopeds and accommodation elsewhere.  I watched as a few bikes chanced the steep, downhill path which was now fed by a steady flow of water.  Glad that my room was only a short walk away, I headed to my bungalow.  

As I approached the wooden steps, I realised a stray dog was curled up outside my room.  He was a little startled and rose up to leave, although this movement was slowed by the tiredness of old age.  I talked to him as a friend, without too much direct attention, and he decided not to leave this dry shelter.  This was a flashback to my lodging in the Amazon, where another dog did the same.  It was also a link to my dog at home.  If I put a full stop on the end of my thoughts here, all seemed right in this section of the universe.

Samui & The Witch

Where to next?  The decision between more islands or the jungle was decided by the footwear I'd brought with me.  At home, I had ideal boots for trekking in Khao Sok National Park, but my current shoes weren't up for the task of mud and leeches.

Another item on my to-do list was "dental tourism".  My last dentist visit claimed that a couple of fillings required replacement.  The savings of having it done abroad could offset a large chunk of the travel expenses.  Thailand's hospitals have a good reputation for quality work and I'd looked into a particular place in Phuket.  I was now intent on leaving Phuket and a bit of online investigation revealed that my next destination also had an international hospital used for such treatments.

An hour's flight over the tail of Thailand's mainland and I landed on an island experiencing a different season.  In Koh Samui, it was raining heavily enough to thwart my plans of walking out of the airport grounds before finding a taxi.  I had booked a one-way flight and one night's accommodation, but the weather today didn't favour exploration.  When I arrived at my room, the rain stopped.  This allowed time to explore a little, but I didn't venture far as recovery from the previous week was still needed.  The rain came again and soon flowed into some delta brain waves.

The next day I ventured along the main street and parallel beach of Chaweng.  I didn't have a feel for enjoying Samui.  As far as I could tell, it catered to the vacationist - a subspecies of the tourist that favoured the sedentary dip of deck chairs.  There was a strange mix of middle-aged couples milking their golden watch years, and younger, bar-bound groups (mainly Australian males).  The beach had a trashed-beauty to it, and in the morning resort employees would use wide brooms to sweep in the direction of the ocean.  I wasn't sure why this was necessary until I stepped on a fragment of broken glass.  A beach-strolling hawker offered me cocaine for sale.  Apart from being a bad choice of poison at the best of times, it seemed a strange market for such a stimulant here.  What were people doing - relaxing by the beach with a really intense focus?

I checked in with the dentist and made an appointment for my last day before flying home.  I then booked a ferry to another island to the north, although that would leave tomorrow morning, so I also arranged another night's lodging.

While again walking the main road, I thought to explore the street behind and a set of steps appeared to go up and over.  I climbed the stairs and came across several makeshift curtain-divided rooms that each had a thin mattress on the floor.  In the same second that I realised what this was, a lady emerged from a darkened tent which may, or may not, have contained a cauldron.  I couldn't guess her age as she was withered by more than time.  An unidentified facial malformation spread across part of her nose and upper lip.  Immediately my mind flashed to a graphic witch scene in a novel I'd recently read (The Sad Tale of the Brother's Grossbart).  It was daytime, but she was working the graveyard shift.  As her eyes locked on and she hovered towards me, I abandoned the idea of taking this shortcut.

"Massage?"  If I didn't recognise this as a codeword, she rasped straight to the point, "I'll give you happy ending". 

She had the voice of a retired death metal singer who still chain smoked all day and gargled gravel for breakfast.  With insistence she added, "Happy ending good for you."

In this particular instance, I felt a strong degree of skepticism.  I thought that the opposite was more likely true.  Obscure damage to the mind, body and spirit via PTSD, STD & possible need of an exorcism.

I backtracked with a distance-creating hand that I thought might look like a wave goodbye, but was less concerned with the pleasantries.  She might think it never hurts to ask, but I can still relapse the shivers.

Questionable Crotch Contents

Saturday night.  Time to see what Patong is all about.  I had two keen tour guides, including someone I'd recognised from back home and now officially met.  Located half an hour taxi ride away on the west coast, this is Phuket's debauchery district.  Getting there involves driving over a steep hill in the middle of the island.  Buses severely struggle when climbing this and they are a known cause of death to anyone behind them when the brakes fail.  Our taxi driver was quite eager to overtake the faltering bus in front, although that came with risks of its own.

Patong nightlife is mainly spread over Bangla road.  This is a wide street for pedestrians that was far removed from being pedestrian in the "dull" sense of the word.  A flood of people wandered along a smorgasbord of brightly lit neon disorientation.  Instead of sex being used to advertise everything, here it was direct marketing.  I'd say it was at least ten times more available than coffee.  Families kept a firm grip on each other as they navigated the outskirts of the zoo.  Budget party goers sipped their alcoholic beverages from straws in small buckets.  Middle aged men exchanged cash for charisma as Thai bar girls let them role-play high flyers.  Lady boys (and work-in-progress lady boys) made their presence know too.

Google provides the photos I didn't take

Being my first time here, the company I was with were treating it like it was my 18th birthday.  We sampled a variety of establishments.  There was only one place they didn't want to go, but sometime after midnight and vodka funnels, that's where we ended up - at Patong's main nightclub.  In the VIP area we met up with some of the Tiger staff.  Eddie Bravo had been there earlier, but left because of a seminar in Singapore that day.

On nights out like these, there comes a point in time where it seems that a futile chase is continuing for something that has long since fled the area, if it was ever there at all.  After 4-something in the morning, I decided to pull the pin.  In less than three hours I had to be at a meeting spot for an island tour by boat.  I exited the establishment, zigzagged past gender-unknown Thais selling their questionable crotch contents and found a taxi.  I first negotiated the fare then jumped in the back of an empty "songthaew" (I can type it, I can't pronounce it) which is basically two fixed bench seats on the back of a pick-up truck.  This allowed me to lean out the window and appreciate the night view of the island from the climb up the hill on the way back to base.

Sleepless, I prepared my gear for a trip to the Phi Phi islands and then rode to where a van was collecting the tour group.  The morning became a classic case of hurry-up-and-wait and by the time we were in the high-speed ferry, my head was noddy.  I would have caught some shuteye behind my sunglasses if it wasn't for the Russian bikini-clads sitting across from me.

Towards the front of the boat, a heavy-set guy with ill-fitting shorts was giving everyone a cringe-worthy display of bushy buttock cleavage.  His wife failed to address this mutant mohawk.  When the tour guide urged us to see something out the front of the boat, the Australian family sitting near me was the first to make comical remarks about "No thanks, I'll be right" and references to "furry crack".  I laughed and then joined in with comments about a full moon party and how it seemed to go up to the 7th vertebrae.  For the remainder of the journey, the persistent eye-sore allowed a fun trade of amusing remarks.  Childish humour is even better with a dose of sleep-deprived delirium. 

Part man, part stegosaurus.

The Phi Phi islands are beautiful.  The tourist experience of the Phi Phi islands is not beautiful.  I'm sure I've learned this lesson before.

"There is nothing new except what has been forgotten."  -- Marie Antoinette

In a horseshoe-shaped bay, short white-sand beaches are surrounded by vertical cliff walls.  Keeping the dinosaur theme, here's what it would look like to a pterodactyl in flight -

As far as I could tell, for all daylight hours a continuous tide of tourists battered the small coast.  The beach was subjected to the relentless unloading of boats, like a re-enactment of the Normandy landings.  Once emptied, each ferry would make way for the next expulsion of people.  As demand was high, the visit was brief, and our tour was soon herded back into our water craft.

Here's a much better picture found online, compared to the overpopulated ones I took from the same location -

Do hospital emergency rooms continuously update the types of grievous injuries for which they keep statistics?  If so, I suggest a new and soon to be increasing category - namely, "Impalement Upon Selfie-Stick".  Most likely administered by others, this penetrating wound is a questionable mix of malice and public service.

I'm sure there's some practical benefit, but holy shit, have you seen the trance people go into when they use this attachment to their mobile phone?  Held like a Hamlet prop, they swirl around taking dizzying footage as nearby people lean out of the way, lest they be clouted.  But there's also a strange stupor cast upon onlookers, as they can't help but stare at the use of this extension to vanity.

I try not to rant on this blog.  It's too easy to fall into the self-indulgence.  This has been an exception.  A recent podcast on my traveling playlist referred to the cleansing effect of getting annoying thoughts out into written form just to clear the way.  The expression was something to the effect of "I'm just caging my monkey mind on paper so I can get on with my fucking day."

Speaking of monkeys, there was an island with them scheduled on the tour itinerary.  This ended up being our boat watching people from another boat throw pieces of banana at them.  The primates climbed out on branches that overhung the water and took turns trying to catch the flying fruit.  That was a quality encounter, like throwing chips to seagulls.

There was a prior drinking night smearing my judgement, but this tour reminded me that my preference for travel wasn't tourism based.  This experience put my penciled-in plans for the next few days into question.  I had intended on booking a flight to another island for tomorrow, but another option was to explore a jungle on the mainland.  Some research would be nice when I got back to a wifi connection, but priority alpha was sleep.

Where the Rubber meets the Road

It was a bit of overkill, having a moped for this week of training where everything I needed was on the one street.  Having a speedy transit from one place to the other and exploring back streets was still fun though.  Bike rides of less than 100 seconds weren't uncommon.  With a big emphasis this week on training and recovery, there wasn't much time for exploration.  Anyhow, chaotic adventure was next week's plan.

One day I did decide to ride up one of the main roads towards Phuket Town.  This was like launching a paper boat down a fast flowing river with unknown rapids upstream.  Traffic swarmed in different directions.  Three lanes were marked each way but the lines on the road apparently don't mean shit.  Merging was less about indication and right of way, instead following a "be like water" philosophy.  Demanded reverence came from trucks and other vehicles of heftier, roadkill-causing capacity.  Even the direction of travel seemed optional as several bikes chanced head-on collisions.  I'd only had a brief look at Google Maps beforehand, but that wasn't going to help.  The road signs were written in the Thai alphabet and obscured by complex nets of overhead power lines.

Back at training HQ, I tried a different type of yoga class by a lady named Ocean Bloom.  I figured it would be either really good or a bit too hippy.  It was really good.  Mental note to try a few more types of yoga back home. 

In the submission grappling class, I wrestled Stephan who I'd overheard was (Sweden's?) Heavyweight MMA champ.  He was all over me like a Rottweiler on a chew toy and I was glad there was no striking involved.  I kept escaping his submission attempts, only to be squashed in a new position as he setup the next finish.  Eventually he locked up a body triangle which uses the legs to control and squeeze the torso.  It's not usually a submission by itself, but with Dolph Lundgren strength he compressed my innards until I felt and heard multiple crunches like mangled cellophane.  This came from the nomadic section of my ribcage where I'd had previous relocations.  I tapped just to get him off me and assess the damage.  In something like an Arnie accent (although that could be my untrained ear) he said, "Your defence too good - I had to use my strength."

I sucked in a shallow breath to wheeze out a "Thanks".  I wasn't being sarcastic, I'll take that compliment.  There was one more wrestle to that class in which I did a Napoleon impression with a forearm protectively held across my body.  After that, there was one more sparring class I had been considering, but now decided to take a pass.

On my last training day, I began with a private lesson from James McSweeney.  Unlike the Muay Thai PT's, this was customised to my preferences and questions.  In his last fight, James had broken his hand, so he brought in another guy when my questions related to ground fighting technique.   Within seconds of meeting this person, I was being instructed on the finer points of grinding his head into the floor while setting up knees to the face.  Pleased to meet you.

Straight after that, I jogged to a nearby training area for the reason I'd timed this week of combat sports.  Eddie Bravo of 10th Planet Jiu Jitsu had included Tiger on his worldwide seminar circuit.

I'd missed the opportunity back in Australia last year.  Eddie has a creative approach to No-Gi (ie. without a kimono/gi/uniform) Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, specifically in regards to its application to Mixed Martial Arts.  He questions the traditional grip-based approach and this has (disappointingly) drawn criticism from parts of the wider BJJ community.  The alternatives he offers are constructed with wicked logic and he encourages inventiveness. 

Part of the 10th Planet system is leveraged off having flexibility in the higher percentile.  Yoga's half lotus position (one foot folded up to the opposite hip) gives gateway access to the Rubber Guard.  The ability to do full lotus makes it dangerous.  Greater flexibility makes it deadly.

The Rubber Guard was the focus of this seminar.   This shuts down the striking ability of the opponent on top while still leaving one hand free to "take their phone out of their pocket and call their mom", or otherwise elbow strike while navigating to a range of submissions.  By naming a vaster degree of individual positions and the transitions between them, he has mapped out this part of the battlefield in fine detail.

During the seminar, he was animated in his explanations and inspired by the continuing rapid rate of evolution in both BJJ and MMA.  The 3 hours went quickly and was an excellent way to finish up this phase of my time in Thailand.

One more week in Thailand, and up to this point, no fixed plans or accommodation.  The feeling is a weird splice of complete freedom and indecision anxiety.

Melting Moments

It wasn't a psychiatric holding cell, but the walls and floor were completely padded in black dense foam.  Over the course of a packed, 90 minute MMA class, the humid room attempted to become a sauna.  Growing pools of sweat on the floor went from dangerous to ridiculous.  Sliding from one end of the room to the other would be possible, if only one could get the footing for a running start.

There were two types of MMA classes available at Tiger, both run by Ultimate Fighting Championship veterans.  The McSweeney class covered striking from a distance and in the clinch.  Judo throws were also added to the mix, followed by swift soccer kicks to the head.  Unlike the UFC, the rules of the local MMA promotion (One Fighting Championship), allowed these usually illegal strikes.

Roger Huerta's class was wrestling-based MMA.  Apart from competing in various organisations around the world, I just learned that Roger was in the Tekken movie (that may or may not be impressive news).

His class focussed on securing the takedown and grinding the will out of an opponent via position control and GNP (Ground N' Pound).  GNP is not a reference to buying coffee by weight.  It refers to controlling an opponent on the floor while hitting them repeatedly, often with the benefits of that thing Isaac Newton invented - gravity. 

My training partners varied for different classes.  There was Hilo from Japan, who shared the discipline of continuously drilling technique repetitions while others sat and rested in puddles of perspiration.  Karim was a stuntman from California, likely adding some realism to his fight scenes.

A partnered warmup for one class involved taking turns in throwing combinations.  For this, I teamed up with Boris from Russia.  I figured he'd be a strong wrestler, as Sambo is the national combat sport of grappling, with an emphasis on leg locks (No time to tighten my knee brace).  For some reason, he was the only person not encumbered by protective gloves for this drill.  Boris also had some surprisingly adept spinning head kicks in his game.  He either had great faith in my defence, or he was trying to decapitate me.  Each time, I'd return fire with something unorthodox until he finally cracked a smile after I'd snuck a clean heel kick into his liver.

The dynamics of respect varies.  The formula I prefer is - give respect to gain respect.  But sometimes in the combat sport world of the wolf pack, the rule is - prove your ability to maim and kill to earn respect.  Boris turned out to be a great training partner.

Immediately after most classes, I'd order a meal at the on-site outdoor restaurant.  Some people took this time to hold a garden hose over their head for a while to cool off.  It would be luck of the draw if I used this time to socialise (with sweat-sparkly, crossfit ladies perhaps).  Otherwise, I'd add a few pages of scrawled notes from the previous class.  This extended beyond the techniques taught, and included anything useful I'd noticed from anyone in the class.  It was a timely mining of hindsight for insight.  I never noticed anyone else taking notes, but... good.

Armed With More Than 8 Limbs

For decades, Thailand has been a training destination for the national sport of punches, kicks, knees and elbows.   More recently, world-class Mixed Martial Arts and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu instruction has become available.  For the first week of this trip, I have open access to the many classes available at Tiger Muay Thai & MMA. 

I began with a private lesson in Muay Thai.  All of the Thai trainers at Tiger seemed to  be former champions of particular stadiums or parts of the country.  It's a brutal art of accelerated appendages aimed in the direction of damaging your opponent.  During my 1991 introduction, I remember being impressed by the tagline - "the art of eight limbs". 

Years passed before I began to see some shortcomings.  There are benefits to tradition, especially when passing on a skill-set to the masses across multiple generations.  But there are downsides too, as anything bounded by tradition secures its limitations.

My training here helped clarify the fundamentals I didn't agree with.  One private Muay Thai lesson began with around 40 minutes of padwork then chilled sparring.  I kept my game respectfully Thai-style.  As the pace increased and I realised there was no time clock on this long round, I started to dip into the bag of tricks.  Knowing "the proper way" to defend certain strikes, I'd just feint these then attack somewhere else.  No need for Kung Fu to use Sun Tzu.  It worked more consistently than expected.  This could either be a misrepresentation by my ego, or a weakness of my expectations. 

Muay Thai training applies a ton of pad and bag work to create cardio machines that can roundhouse kick in their sleep.  It is the charging up of a battery for bones of bludgeoning.  Instead of having an R&D branch, they instead stockpile standardised ammunition for a war of attrition.  This simplified approach isn't to be taken lightly.  To quote someone else's line, they're as tough as woodpecker lips.

Although I draw much from this combat sport, my preference is for a more innovative approach.  By definition, Mixed Martial Arts allows for this (with an instructor of a similar mindset).  The stand-up striking coach for MMA at Tiger very quickly addressed some of the points I'd been thinking about in his class.  James "Sledgehammer" McSweeney had a justifying resume.  He also asked questions while teaching, to allow mindful ownership of technique.

While Muay Thai boldly ticked the check-boxes for "What" and "How", it's the "When" and "Why" that allow better strategy to be employed.  Add takedowns and groundwork to the mix and the terrain significantly changes.  I'd heard it stated in a submission grappling context, but it applies here:

Lead your opponent down a narrowing selection of options until they are left with just two, and both lead to their demise.

Also, efficient strategies involve idleness, which I increasingly find appealing.

Eye of the Tiger Balm

I've heard it referred to as "fight street" (in tuff talk) - a stretch of road in Phuket lined with training camps for several combat sports as well as crossfit gyms, places to eat, thai massage and other establishments that support the theme. It draws an international selection of athletes, martial artists and the fitness focussed.



My time here was mostly spent at Tiger Muay Thai & MMA with my wooly pyjamas stored at the other end of the road. When in transit, I'd pass by cafe seating and stern looks from all over the world.

After a few classes where I'd proven myself hard to kill, the vibe seemed different with nods and waves from recognised training partners.

I later noted that the grim faces at meal times went with slowed movement when getting up from a chair, or a favoured leg to limp the steps. Battle hardened or war weary?

Frequency with intensity has its toll. I was late to get a handle on dehydration. Apart from first thing in the morning, I didn't have a piss to colour-check. By day's end, exhaustion wasn't looking for more problems to solve.

In hindsight, I can see a stupider contributing factor to my dehydration. I hadn't bought the bulk water conveniently available in the accommodation foyer because of a logo on the label. This was badly-timed consumer resistance. I already had my misgivings about bottled water in general, but now here was the brand stamp of Nestle - world hydration overlord.

I bought 6L of a different brand (likely a Nestle subsidiary), and set my resistance plans to the long game. Global water privatisation wasn't going to be solved with 60 baht.

The all-inclusive training package allowed a daily timetable of impact, crush, twist and stretch options. I wanted to at least try most things on the menu. These discomforts were the paid-in-advance currency of endurance, strength and skill. Super size me.

Even the yoga became a minefield of cramping body parts.

A few days in, I joined a morning fitness session. This was just a chance to see a beach on Phuket's southern coast. It was also the first photo for this trip.

This Is Not How The Story Ends

Ayahuasca (pronounced something like "eye-a-what-scar") has two interpretations.  It means both "vine of souls" and "vine of the dead".  The growing tourism industry in the Amazon favours the first translation.  Either way, this vine grows roots that reach to unfathomable depths.  This is not just another flavour for the recreational trip.  There's purging work to be done and bile evacuation may be the easier part.  In our meat-suit realm it's not pretty, but on another level, a blissful, fractal design is revealed.

DMT is the main active ingredient of this brew.  This mysterious, naturally occurring chemical is already present in our bodies and widely found in nature.  Rick Strassman refers to DMT as "The Spirit Molecule" in his book and documentary of the same name.  He writes:

While chemically simple, this "spirit" molecule provides our consciousness access to the most amazing and unexpected visions, thoughts and feelings.  It throws open the door to worlds beyond imagination.

When deep in a dream, it IS reality.  There's nothing more real at the time.  But when we awaken, it gets a new perspective.  The waking world is revealed as THE reality and the dream is something else of less actionable consequence.

When passing through a higher consciousness, waking life is downgraded as less real.  After returning to the bump-your-head-and-oww-fuck world, the hierarchy persists.  Feet planted squarely back on planet Earth, there remains an insight into another tier of existence.  The people who don't dismiss it as hallucination are the ones who have been there.  This is part of the reason why the "visions" of holy texts have left a door-knocking legacy of annoyance.

The psychedelic experience is a strange fusion between the two worlds we frequent each day and night.  With ayahuasca at least, it's the ability to go fully conscious into the dream state.  The takeaway understanding is fleeting - at best we get to fill up a cup from a tidal wave - yet the importance is persistent.

These last few blog entries are my alternative to recommending the enlightening entrail eruptions of ayahuasca.  I don't feel I have the authority.  Besides, individuals can exercise the often atrophied muscle of free will.  My written words only graze the surface because there are known unknowns I can't access to remember.  That said, these sentences still hold a better foundation to the shapeless-something than the fading strength of a few conversation sound bites.

I blazed through several books in my last days at the retreat.  "The Psychotropic Mind" relates this particular plant medicine to a car crash.  The experience is dramatic and close to death.  Your life flashes before your eyes.  You feel shocked, ill and dazed.  The key difference is that a car accident lasts 3 seconds, whereas ayahuasca lasts over 3 hours.


You can witness the "flash" of your existence with clarity, but it's not a passive observation.  It turns you upside down, folds you inside out and leaves a mess in a bucket.

That's a good summary of the inner journey during my maiden voyage.   There's also the privileged glimpse into awe where mental photography is not permitted and an abstract flavour of infinity is temporarily revealed.  Professor Alan Watts described these DMT effects as:

"Load universe into cannon.  Aim at brain.  Fire."

It was during this I encountered an entity - maybe an inter-dimensional being, maybe a construct of my own mind.  Either way, it commanded my full attention and peered inside my forehead.  Trying to make sense of the communication now just scrambles the transmission.

During the 2nd ceremony, I was exposed as an insect of insignificant - and that was the highlight.  On this night the enchanting icaros was punctuated by many an "urraaht!" of exiting spew.  Hoping for the divine, I instead received a stockpile of puny mortal.

The 3rd time left me with a vague but persistent sense of direction.  If I don't know what I want, then what I want is clarity.  Compelled to write, I didn't have any destination revealed, but it was revealed that didn't matter.  The answers to someone else's career-planning questionnaire were a barrier that had stopped me from beginning.  No more.

The 4th session revealed a step-by-step plan for the immediate terrain.  "A knowledge of the path cannot be substituted for putting one foot in front of the other."  This wasn't simply motivation, as motivation doesn't last and is just another hurdle if it's a requirement to get started.  This was about a disciplined allocation of time and trust into the process.

The 5th and last ceremony was a bumpy ride.  My molecules were put on a spin-cycle of relentless shaking to pry free the anaconda's clutch.

On the leaving day of the retreat, I was up early again.  Increasingly less sleep was needed and more energy was available.  My brain was blotting paper for the info in books, so I read and wrote more.  As the day heated up in the final hour, I sat under a tree's protective shade with members of the group and local family.  The language barrier didn't prevent light-hearted humour.  It softened the small death of an impending goodbye.

During the return to Iquitos, there was a boat transfer mix-up.  At our rendezvous spot on the Amazon, there weren't enough places on the speedboat for the passengers on the longboat.  This caused a few hours of delay.  I didn't have a chance for agitation before I saw that feeling rise in others.  I took this as a warning as we returned to the world of civilization's schedules.

When a new speedboat finally arrived, the driver pulled down a flat screen tv facing the passenger seats.  This was hooked up to custom stereo system.  We took off and were blasted with cheese-heavy, Peruvian pop music.  The skipper thought it was "the shit", but that's about half true.  This unrelenting assault on the senses for the hours of boat ride felt like rendition.  I could already feel the lure of previous modes of cynicism.

Out of this group of 13, I'd safely say that most of us had our orientation in matter recalibrated.  Whether or not we all stay on that new course or navigate back towards the old one remains to be seen.  Resistance of change is not to be underestimated. 
Transformation requires vigilance.

The next day in in fast-paced Iquitos, several of us met at the Dawn of the Amazon Cafe.  After a leisurely breakfast, we wandered through the city markets.  This wasn't to order the fresh chicken being chopped up in the hot streets.  Instead, a few of us sought physical reminders of what we'd experienced.  The variety of local handicrafts seemed to cover all bases.  Pumas, snakes, owls and jaguars all made their way into artwork.  Shiva, Buddha and other holy references made their cameos too, with varied degrees of personal relevance.

While I did encounter a hard-to-explain intelligence, I invoke no deity as an explanation.
It's an accessible mystery, a parallel consciousness.  I understand the temptation is to fill this void with the "god of the gaps", or alien putty, or cult Q&A.  The thing these "answers" all have in common is a human middleman.  That makes for an unacceptable filter when you've directly chanced upon the source.

A mind, once expanded by a new idea, never returns to its original dimensions. -- Oliver Wendell Holmes

Ayahuasca is not an acquired taste.  It's a taste that eludes acquisition like a crude-oil-coated eel.  The dark liquid slithers into the flesh which begrudgingly accepts it as a trick of gravity.  It snakes its way into the mind, body and spirit lands within.  When it exits, there is a lifting to the flesh burden.

I have temporarily cleared my infestation.

My hovercraft is no longer full of eels.




At least, that would have been a neat, final sentence if this was a happily-ever-after story.  I didn't kill any demons - at best I bulldozed their internal headquarters.  It's been several months since I ceased my traveller's momentum and I know they're rebuilding.

In this time I've enforced daily habits that support sketched blueprints with far horizons.  I've enhanced important relationships while the pathway to others remains clouded.
Many times my actions fall short of my intentions.  I'm not sure if greater awareness of this counts as progress.  These missed opportunities of the moment now seem more painful.

There's not much I can say with certainty.  I'm different.  I don't know exactly how.

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.