My Experience With Ayahuasca
It was Thursday night and I was inquiring about getting my laundry done at the hostel front desk. After discussing how to identify the magic mushrooms growing in the field out back with the two guys working, the discussion turned to ayahuasca. I must admit, up until that point I had never even heard the word ayahuasca, but what these two men were so enthusiastically describing sounded awesome. They talked about its healing powers, and its ability to change lives. One of them told me it made him quit smoking. There was mention of a beautiful ceremony with music – one that started at midnight and finished at noon the next day – and a high that gave you visions. I was sold.
Then by what seemed like a sign from above, they mentioned that there was a ceremony happening on the Saturday night and that I could drive down with them. I spent the next day googling. Turns out it’s a drug called DMT that is made from a brew of leaves and shrubs and administered by a shaman. The websites that I read recommended following a strict cleanse-type diet for two weeks prior, and to avoid things like smoking pot and sexual intercourse, in order to feel the full effect of the drug (at least I was covered for the no sexual intercourse part).
The big day arrived and I was more curious than ever to see what this whole thing was about. I was told to dress in white, warmly, and to bring a blanket. We left just after ten pm and arrived around eleven. The venue was a large, wooden veranda set in the middle of a finca. Inside, the floor was covered in thin mats, and the evening’s participants were scattered around, some quietly chatting and others mentally preparing themselves for what was to come. In the centre of the veranda where the floor was clear of mats, the shaman was busy at work preparing his instruments for the evening’s activities, a ritual which appeared to involve him shooing away the evil spirits by spitting on the different items with a special liquid. Meanwhile, a helper was distributing little black plastic bags to everyone in the room – you know you’re in for a good night when puke bags are preemptively passed out. I noticed the different age groups that were present; old, young and in-between – there were even a couple babies. After a quick meeting with one of the shaman’s helpers and then the shaman himself, the ceremony began. The shaman’s helpers formed a U-shape around him and reverently looked upon him, the rest of us followed suit by quietly finding places in seats or on the floor. It was midnight and we were over fifty in total, all silent save for the chanting voice of the shaman who alternated between speaking and cleansing/spitting on different objects and people. Meanwhile, a man with a Virgin Mary shirt quietly walked around the room swinging a thurible which filled the room with a musky odour, adding to the mystical ambiance.
That’s when things started to get weird. Suddenly the Lord’s Prayer was being recited in unison, and pictures of different religious saints were produced for admiration. While I pride myself on being an open-minded and tolerant individual, I felt like I had been duped into going to church, something my own parents haven’t been able to get me to do in years. When the praying and mini sermon ended, two lines were formed before the shaman’s magic potion table. One by one, we presented ourselves before the shaman to be handed a blessed and personally customized mixture of the two liquids he had before him. The participant would drink the cup, thank the shaman and quietly walk to their mat and lie down. I cannot describe to you the eeriness of this ritual. I felt like I was a part of the Peoples’ Temple and that I was about to drink the Kool-Aid and board the magic spaceship. I reminded myself that it wasn’t too late to back out, but my curiosity got the better of me and so I persevered until I was the one holding the communal drinking cup. I brought it up to my lips and drank the solution down in one foul gulp, then walked over to my mat and lay down. Over the next few hours, the Ayahuasca worked on me. My body felt lighter and my thoughts were uncontrollable. At times I thought I was merely having a lucid dream, but the visions were so strong and real, the presence of the drug was impossible to deny. I was in a field with wild flowers as tall as trees and as colourful as a summer’s sunset, running and frolicking alongside this really cute blond baby, and the freedom and happiness were real. And I could feel the sun shinning on my skin and even smell those giant flowers, and as I lost myself in those senses I was very rudely brought back to reality by the gut-wrenching sound of my neighbour vomiting. And then another person. And then another.
In a room of fifty people on ayahuasca, if you factor in two pukes per person, that’s a pretty constant symphony of vomiting all night long. It was the weirdest thing to experience, and the fact that no one else thought it was weird made it weirder. I sat up and looked around the room. The band was playing soothing music, the shaman was performing rituals and singing along, most of the participants were laying on mats in different states of passed out or puking, and a few were mingling around, hanging out. I scoped out my two friends and decided to join them on the male side of the room. Up until this point I had been able to keep everything down, but when my veteran ayahuasca friend Chris told me it was time to line up for a SECOND cup, I knew the future was looking grim for my unused plastic bag. Chris explained to me that vomiting was a good thing; it is seen as the evil leaving your body, a sort of cleansing, and very much part of the process, and that I would get more out of the experience if I could just “push myself”. Wanting to have a complete ayahuasca experience, I joined him in line. Sure enough, the minute I swallowed the up-chuck reflex was strong. Like a gazelle on fire, I stealthily leaped past my high friends and into the bushes outside, and with bulimic expertise silently expelled the contents of my stomach all over the bushes, pavement, socks and pants. To my relief, the taste of my vomit overtook the taste of the potion (just to give you an idea of how bad that stuff tasted). For me, that’s where the fun ended.
I spent the rest of the morning wanting to die. Finding the smell of the thurible smoke now asphyxiating, I found a spot in a hammock outside in the fresh air, and counted the minutes until the bus came to pick us up. Inside, the party continued. Those who weren’t on their second round of vomiting were sitting in chairs lined up in the middle having tobacco blown into their nostrils with a straw-like instrument. On my way to buy a lollipop from the vendor set up outside, I was convinced to try it. Reluctantly I let the straw into my nose, and immediately regretted the decision when my sinuses blazed in agony and my eyes watered in response. That was the last straw (no pun intended). I was officially ready to leave at this point, but everyone else was lining up for seconds and thirds of the nostril crack. It was almost noon at this point, and I was completely baffled by the level of energy at this gathering. The shaman was still up and about, exorcising spirits from people and chanting, the helpers and the rest of the group, %100 of whom were surely dehydrated from the self-inflicted flu, were dancing and socializing. Even the kids, whom I was told were also administered ayahuasca, were bouncing off the walls. I returned to my hammock and bided my time, promising myself to never forget this awful sensation lest the temptation to do ayahuasca again were ever to come upon me.
It took me two days to feel normal again (although I did look great in a bikini that week). Having said all this, I still don’t regret my experience. It was a very culturally interesting one, and although the visions I had were not the life-changing type, they were moving and memorable. It was also incredible to see a shaman at work and in his element. These men are chosen as little boys and are sent to live with a shaman at age ten to be trained in all things holy. The passion and dedication is evident in the shaman and in the followers as well. Many people at the ceremony really benefit from these ceremonies, it is where they heal and grow and connect with the forces that be. It’s their religion, for lack of a better word. While the tone of this article may suggest otherwise, I do have a lot of respect for this system of belief and peaceful way of life. Having said that, I also know that it is definitely not for me. Would I recommend it to anyone else? Sure! Just because the experience didn’t resonate with me, doesn’t mean it wouldn’t for someone else. Just don’t forget your puke bag.
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