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.

A confusing ordeal

Early in the day, we had a group WTF meeting with the maestros, where we could try to make sense of the night before. It was here that I noticed the broad variety of ayahuasca experiences. There were longer lasting visuals, setting the theme of the night in intergalactic fairyland. Many talked about "synesthesia" (although not by that name). That's the phenomenon which all babies are believed to begin with. It blends one stimulation (eg. sound) into the sensation of another (colours or patterns). The auditory cortex crosses wires with the visual cortex. The common source of this was the singing of the icaros which took people for a rhythmic ride on its pictorial melody. Amazement was the result.

For a few, a rising surge of dramatic energy travelled up through the body in the form of heat. Another type of force had shaken some like a taser. Not everyone was sharing their experiences in detail, but I was the only to recount being crushed by the weight of emotional relics. I was feeling much lighter now though.

As guests of this retreat, our daylight hours were undemanding. Not so for the family of workers who cheerfully performed a wide range of tasks. It was the norm, not the exception, to hear bursts of genuine laughter coming from the kitchen, water's edge, or wherever more than one of them had gathered. I knew they had their hardships like everyone else, but it didn't show. I'd overheard other people's curiosities in their ages and it was surprising how young they looked. There was not a dvd box set in sight, yet these were the happiest people I'd so far encountered on the planet. The highly regarded, yet unassuming shaman were the same people carrying hefty pails of water up from the river and emptying the saw dust toilets.



The middle of the day was once again a time for the seamless triple combo - yoga sweat, Amazon swim & appetite-enhanced lunch. At sunset, we downed another brew of tree bark tea. This one had the harshest taste yet and was mildly nauseating. I still wasn't exactly clear on what type of protection the tree spirits granted, but I just imagined that I now had a crusty old Ent on my side because I drank from his skin graft.



We cleared out of the ceremony hut as it was prepared for the main event of the evening. As we returned, a thunderstorm flashed and rumbled in the distance.

Ayahuasca round two.

I took my cup as it was handed to me by the maestro, and instead of being specific with my intention before drinking, I just left it open to the summoned spirits. I accepted the plant medicine as teacher, and myself as a student, so I wasn't going to dictate the lesson plan.

Rinse and repeat as each member of the group took their turn. The candlelight was snuffed and the chant of the icaros began. Before long, I was swaying to the tempo, letting myself enter the cadence like a methodical cyclist. Chilled and wiser from my inauguration the night before, I knew there was a chance of returning to the same emotional pain, but I thought that was unlikely. I'd confronted that previous wall of heavy stone. I'd dug through the avalanche that bombarded me and now I was ready for whatever was next.

An atmospheric lightning storm flickered into the room at random intervals. It cast silhouettes at best, but these weren't a focus as it was more appropriate to let the eyes close.

Discussion is discouraged during the ceremony. One of the reasons is a phrase that stuck with me - "conversations create linear thought". Linear thought seemed like a crude way for the mind to travel when wormholes of wonder were available. Talk was unwanted anyway - it's not a social drug, it's an inner journey. I was trying to take this a step further and remove the "I" from my thoughts, to unidentify with the ego. There was potential there, but the notion was easier contemplated than done.

No conversation didn't mean the group was continuously silent. Apart from the inspired songs of the shaman, these were occasionally punctuated by a sudden liquid laugh. The rhapsody also included other uncontrolled noises, such as the moans and groans of personal narratives that will never survive a retelling unscathed (a bit like this blog).

In the darkness, it's not too difficult to direct attention to the beyond within. I had two nagging thoughts. The astonishing fractal ocean was notably absent and my turn to throw up was late. It was the latter that was more bothersome. I didn't want that transitory fluid brewing in me for longer than necessary.

In due time, it arose and it was hideous. Unlike the relatively easy satay marinade I'd refunded yesterday, this was a different animal entirely. The chains were let loose on a ghastly puke of thick, toxic sludge. I didn't need a gastrointestinal expert to tell me that this came from deep, dark, disturbing depths. If the "purga" was all about getting out bad forces, then I'd just exorcised a ghoul that had first been liquefied in a blender.

On the tail end of my last shuddering heave, I could tell their was still more to go. It had only taken a few minutes, but the effort was deceptively tiring.

I had the thought that maybe now I could just lay down and focus on getting the visions that others had described. I was prepared to select a different ayahuasca flavour, as if that was a choice available to me.

An etched discipline pushed these thoughts aside. First, there was more purging to be done. Desire to rest would not be indulged until the last repulsive mouthful was unswallowed. My will was proportional to the distastefulness of what was in that bucket. My internal organs were offering no relaxed refuge to the dregs I'd detected.

Many times I retched blanks. My determined posture kept weight on my fists as I leaned over the pail of puke. Gagging out my stamina, at some point I reverted to my hands, and then down to my forearms. I was glad I couldn't see what was inches before me, although my nostrils were filled with the sharp fumes of bile. From here, my body filled with vibrating weakness. If i had held the bowl in my hands, I wouldn't entrust the strength of my own grip

This was the time that the entity approached. From behind me, and far above my left shoulder, was the bizarre humming of a being that could be felt before it was seen. Choosing the right words here is tricky. It was many things. It was the psychedelic owl, though this time more distant. It was the shape-changing spirit of Ayahuasca. It was a giant extra-terrestrial craft, on a passing flight path.

With great effort, I slowly lifted my head from my mortal bodily functions and let my gaze be mesmerized. Like an insect observing an alien mothership, the insignificance of my plight was amusing. Being a human reduced to a cicada lifted the pressure of self-importance. There was no stopping by. She or it was passing over and letting me be. I'd received a glance at best. I understood that because I was otherwise physically pre-occupied, the time was not right for tuition. It was a diverting pause in my suffering and I was resolved to not miss the next opportunity.



Back to the beaker of disgorged ugliness. Like a jungle animal at a distorted watering hole, it was a twisted opposite of drinking nourishment - expelling foulness. At once, both consuming and draining. I wanted to add to the grizzly fluids with the HR Giger-esk beast in my belly. "Better out than in" was the common saying. My attempted methods were many. I pushed and forced with my fingers dug deeply into my contorted stomach and under my ribcage. I kept them there thinking, "If it's above that height, it ain't coming back down". I relaxed and breathed until I second guessed that maybe I was too relaxed "Isn't this the method I'd use not to spew?" From this came the ambush method - relax, relax, relax, heave, heave, heave. Just the spit remnants of a hidden revulsion were enough to befoul my palate, but none of the desired splatter.

Annoyance played a cameo here. My implicit trust in the process was irritated at this disrupting time investment. There was a chance for something profound or euphoric and I was missing it.

If this was my stand-alone experience of ayahuasca, I'd be recommending it about as much as gargling ebola. However, I wasn't prepared to classify these ventures in binary - bad this time, good last time. This was a weighty piece of an otherwise obscured puzzle. I couldn't see the forest, because I'd metaphorically face-planted into a tree. I was losing the battle, but not the war, even though that's a much more comforting sentiment when you're not currently being disembowelled on the battlefield.

I reverted to my kneeling position, back straight, knees parted, thumbs lightly touching. A couple of weeks beforehand I'd offered a few words of advice and now it was time to apply them to myself. Although a completely different situation, I'd said "Be the flame, not the moth." Chasing it isn't working. I had to let the sickness come to me and be unattached to the result.

Vicious nausea aside, in one aspect this worked with flying colours. The unmistakable ayahuasca rapture drew near. The rising swell of a brain penetrating buzz signalled its return. This time though, instead of sharing the driver's seat, I was churned through the gears of the ghost machine. From my upright seated position, ethereal flame surrounded my body and formed a peak over my head. I was engulfed as something upon me and/or within me was consumed by strangely coloured fire. I had the faint inclination that part of my consciousness was being burnt up.

An enchanting female duet reached out to me from the darkness. Synesthesia had come my way and it bridged between the maloca floor and a foreign, unbalanced dimension. My essence was being stretched into a warped reality. Their captivating voices were both alien and insectoid, establishing my whereabouts light years from the familiar. Control was lost and I understood only their implied intention to help navigate this "spirit world" to the plant medicine's goal. The pot at the end of this rainbow was filled with vomit and beckoned more.

Trembling convulsions overtook my nervous system. This was what I'd heard about at the morning meeting. I could feel a purge incoming. Apart from the voluntary gagging actions of encouragement, my body performed the involuntary, unfakeable muscle contractions of an expulsion. As high as my throat I could taste it, but I could not expel it. It was not through lack of trying. Like a flailing, drowning man I tried.

I stayed with intent and dry retching for what felt like timeless hours. Lost in a world of phantom chunder limbo. It ignored the full force of my straining will. It would not come out. It's hard to explain the type of unpleasantness. It wasn't so much the physical pain, as I had many harder degrees to compare that to. It wasn't emotional pain, as I'd had a considerable serving of that dish the night before. It was something else, and the answer, or at least the question, was probably the best revelation I was getting tonight. Apart from the two recognised channels of pain, this was my proof that distilled torment could still exist in a refined and intense form.

BOOM! An explosively loud thunderclap suddenly shook the internal worlds of everyone in the hut. I tried to use it as a catalyst for literally scaring the shit out of myself in barf format. No luck to chuck.

Heavy rains followed and I used the visual to imagine the vileness being washed away from its internal cling. No-can-do-spew.

My mind had gone to many places without finding any clear association of what this was related to. I was reaching for a reason and coming back empty handed. Despite my misery mileage, I was no closer to solving this riddle of woe.

Eventually, my ability to stay upright was too compromised to rely upon. I was a biped, reduced to a quadraped in front of this bucket, and now my immediate ambition was to simply be a lump. I aimed my collapse upon the mattress, and there I lay, crushed and defeated. Exhausted from the fight, but no closer to knowing what it was I had fought.

The ceremony came to its informal end as the candle was relit. I'd missed the opportunities for teachings and guidance that I was hoping for. I couldn't event find the classroom. My body, mind and spirit were all depleted, leaving me holistically shattered. As one consolation, my mind was still lucid enough to summon thoughts of my dog laying by my side to comfort me.

The door of the maloca opened. In the candle light, I observed one of the family members carrying in a large bundle of fresh coconuts. He lit another candle near the back of the hut, grabbed a machete and started skilfully chopping. I knew these were for us and the thought touched me. The well-timed virtues of electrolytes aside, this was above and beyond any assumed duty of care. These people loved openly, and within that wide embrace, we were included.

A coconut with a protruding straw was delivered and gratefully received. It took me a long time to be able to take more than a couple of sips. From a biological standpoint, enough time had passed for digestion to transfer responsibility from the upstairs to downstairs departments. Whatever it was inside, it didn't want to come out and had slithered to a hiding spot that I couldn't reach.



The next morning (Day 4 of the retreat), I arrived late to breakfast. On all levels I was drained and my mind still carried a dense cloud of confusion from the previous night's events. I was now carrying my notepad and pen, trying to make sense of it all. Despite my lack of meaningful landmarks to draw upon, I knew that this scribing tool I held was mightier than the sword. Of course, if faced with an enraged, blade-brandishing barbarian, I wouldn't be sharing that revelation while suggesting we become pen pals.

There was no ayahuasca scheduled for this recovery day. In the evening we started gathering in the dinning hut for dinner instead. From a distance, the nightwatchman yelled out a concern and Zach exchanged a few words in shouted Spanish. This was the only time I'd heard these people have any sort of alarmed tone in their voice...

But first, a brief introduction of a group member. Darlene is an Australian lady that is no stranger to the outback. I imagine Steve Irwin's friends would have had a raised brow reaction if he spontaneously began flossing a crocodile's teeth. Darlene could rouse a similar response with her fearless curiosity cut from the same cloth.

On this occasion, she had chosen to enjoy an afterhours swim. The concern came from knowledge that schools of electric eels also swam at night. They had poor eyesight and if they bump into you, they shock first and ask questions later. After the previous year's flood, an eel two metres in length was found washed ashore. At that size, the encounter can be an organic way to ride the lightning. Darlene was fine and unfazed by the fuss.

That brings me to an observation about the other, non-human inhabitants of the Amazon. I was expecting a meaner version of creepy crawlies ("teethy maulies?"), but everything seemed as chilled out as the family. In a previous mindset, I wouldn't have considered jumping in the river during the day like I had been. Parasites that leave doctors perplexed, aggressive fish with faces of angry teeth, and anything else up the food chain would have been enough reason to wait until I returned to the clearer, sharky beaches of Perth. Perhaps it was my cleaner body due to the dieta, or the protection of the tree spirits - I didn't analyse that thought, I just let it grant a subliminal level of comfort.

Admittedly, the mosquito net that covered my bed gave me a lot of peace of mind. It was like a protective blanky that I purposefully had no contact with. It shielded against more than regular and jumbo-sized mozzies. Spiders, roaches and vampire bats (which preferred sleeping hosts) were all creatures of the night. With their access to my flesh removed, this allowed the pursuit of untroubled sleep. As I drifted off each night, I enjoyed the sounds of the natural surroundings, instead of dreading the desired tastiness of my blood.