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.

Just a Fraction of Action for Traction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unspoken Understandings Unswallowed

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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


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

To quote another part directly:

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clues to the Muse

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Time for Ayahuasca Ceremony # 3.


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


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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

And then I wrote some more.

The Humbling Spew

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

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



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

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

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



But first, an editorial comment...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Still here?

Let's rabbit hole...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Going deep

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

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

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

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

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



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



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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Tomorrow, the internal rollercoaster ride begins.