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.

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.