Psychedelic Marine
Page 11
So far, 42 Commando had lost seven men killed in action and suffered eighty-three casualties. The longer I served with these men, the more I viewed marines as masters of pain management. Much as I loved the corps, that’s how I viewed it—an institution that teaches you how to cope with pain. Despite all the bravado, most marines I talked to had had enough and just wanted to go home. I knew for sure that I was ready to leave. I was almost through my year-long reenlistment. As the tour came to an end, I wasn’t going to figure out anything substantive about the moral questions about the war with my two bits’ worth of musing. I hunkered down and worked through my final week with an entertaining six-foot-five sergeant major in the unit’s command company. He had previously served a tour in Iraq leading a troop.
Each day I’d strip down the gear from the unit’s battle casualties. A lot of it was covered with congealed and dried blood from catastrophic hemorrhage injuries caused by gunshots, grenades, and IEDs to marines’ necks, heads, and limbs. I’d think about the man the kit belonged to as I stripped it down, itemized the contents, packed it all up in boxes, and shipped it back to the UK. Compared to the regime of nonstop patrols at Zamrod, this was the easiest job in the world.
During a break for lunch one day, I took the bus with some US Marines over to their PX store to get some American sweets for my kids.
“Where you from?” I asked the marine who was sat next to me.
“Paradise, California. It’s a small town northeast of San Francisco. It’s real nice.”
I frowned and said, “So let me get this straight. You left your home in Paradise to come and fight in Helmand?”
“Yup,” he said, with zero recognition of the irony.
One thing was certain about returning home: I wouldn’t immediately go back to my old life. I needed a couple of months of contemplation. I’d had twenty years of beach holidays, but after six months in the desert, the last thing I needed was more sand, a beach bed, and a deeper tan. I craved more—something very special. I vowed to do everything I could to leave the darkness of Helmand behind. The insecurity I’d picked up as a youngster from my stepfather had been vanquished, and the validation I needed from serving during a war had been delivered.
I brooded as I stripped down those bloodied kit, boxing up dead men’s belongings to be shipped home. There must be more to life. What now? What’s next?
An idea began to take hold. Afghanistan was just the first stage of a much-needed quest. I was transforming from someone needing an adventure into a person seeking the truth about consciousness, spirituality—why we are here. During this time-out from civilian life, my inquiry had shifted from its gender-dominated expression—wondering about the nature of manhood. I was no longer interested in learning how to be a good man. What was of more interest was how to be good. And also how to become a person who could seize the value of every remnant of life.
Many of us believe that, despite their prevalence, traditional faith-based religions do not deliver any sort of sustaining satisfaction. Yet millions still yearn for spiritual fulfillment, while having no idea how to gain it. We grapple with the quandary that logic, rationality, and science practically demand the denial of spirit. Modern secular life is devoid of anything genuinely mystical or magical. But quite possibly there really is something present—a higher force to inspire and comfort. I knew for certain that the modern industrialized lifestyle and the prevailing paradigm of scientific rationality left no room for any divine element in my life. Whichever way I looked at it, there was a gap to fill, and for the first time in my life, I actually had the inclination and the time to explore it. I was still on a mission—but now a mission of a different kind. Breaking free of the military brotherhood and the experience of war would lead me to a new opportunity to see if it was possible to connect with the Maker and, critically, accomplish this without the aid of any existing faith-based religions. I had already seen enough of their failings, particularly those born out of the desert lands in the Middle East. These Abrahamic desert faiths had originated from a sense of scarcity, had sin and shame embedded at their very heart, and control was their ultimate agenda.
Based upon my earlier experiences with DMT and mushrooms, I had the unshakable conviction that there really was more to this life than meets the eye. The original plant source of the DMT was the lure; the Amazonian Natives called it ayahuasca. So, like a bee to pollen, the Amazon inexorably became a powerful attractor, drawing me to it.
I untethered the belief that masculinity should be tested and my life put at risk for a cause worth dying for. My first stepfather had inadvertently sparked my inquiry into the nature of manhood: what it means to be a good man and a good father. Since then I’d sought to learn how good men deliver stoic kindness and compassion in difficult circumstances—because he robbed me of the experience when it mattered, as a child. He forced me to seek out the company and character of good men. Since the birth of the Royal Marines in 1664, the marines poster that aimed to recruit “A Few Good Men” had been nailed to many a tavern’s timbers, with no doubt the world’s rustiest nails. What did “good” mean? What were the qualities? In the year working with Taff, Yoda, Matt, the sergeant major, the commanding officer—in fact, every single man in 43 Bravo, some of whom were barely old enough to be called men—I’d never witnessed a single brazen act of selfishness.
This particular inquiry into the nature of manhood had been sated. I had grown. Now I needed to go a step further. The drama we were surrounded by in this godforsaken place had to mean something. JJ had been taken out by trauma, and I hadn’t. Why? Mere luck, or was it something to do with another role I had yet to play out? It was time to seek out a bigger question: How does a person become and feel enlightened? Why fuck about? That was the question. I still had an extensive period of postdeployment leave, and so I now had an opportunity to seek out the truth that was true for me. Furthermore, I was determined that this next step on the road to “wisdom” would have precisely nothing— nothing—to do with organized religion. There is a type of man out there—I’m one—who finds nothing in all the spiritual wisdom preached and written, who remains cynical. It’s all meaningless yak, yak, yak, yak—until a natural psychedelic is consumed, and only then will the divine be experienced directly, not through a sermon. My friend David had already lit the psychedelic torch and helped me navigate with a rough mental map. I needed to learn and experience the nature of the Source for myself, by direct personal experience, not by listening to priests, sermons, or religious fables—all the frailties of fallible human beings projected onto false and nonexistent deities and megalomaniacal doom gods. I could never have done this in Afghanistan because my mind had been constantly preoccupied and locked into either two modes of consciousness—surviving or sleeping. There was no room or time for real contemplation.
Now, I felt I had two choices. The first was to go via the traditional route—northeast to the Himalayas or another Buddhist region—and seek enlightenment with a guru. But that approach didn’t fit well; it had almost become a late twentieth-century cliché. The other choice was to go southwest to South America, commune with a shaman, and drink ayahuasca. There was never any question as to which option to take. Based on my experience with DMT, it was obvious that for me the Amazon was where the answers lay. It seemed to me that the Eastern philosophies and practices in the meditative Buddhist traditions are all about striving, reaching, seeking. With natural plant psychedelics the opposite is true—I’d already discovered it in the seven seconds after I’d smoked DMT with David. You don’t have to strive or seek for anything! It’s all instantly available to you—just consume the plant containing the psychedelic magic. Whether you “believe” or not is irrelevant. No matter who you are, you will feel the power of the entheogen—like it or not. I knew already that spiritual experience isn’t somewhere out there; it is right here, inside us. For me, the shaman in the jungle held the key. I decided the next step to delving deeper was to drink a very special kind of jungle juice in
the Amazon.
During my last few days at Bastion, I searched the Internet for trips to South America. Research revealed that there were no known cases of anyone dying directly from the consumption of ayahuasca. For a healthy, psychologically well-adjusted person, the risk is minimal. Even though my previous experience with DMT had been relatively limited, it had shown its own power, which had induced a genuine sense of humbling awe. My consciousness had expanded in ways beyond description or comprehension. I felt unified with the cosmos and nature, attaining depths of feeling I would never forget. The experience had been so profound, fascinating, and beneficial that I couldn’t wait to tell my children when they were old enough to properly understand. I wanted them to know that there is more to who and what we are than Western consumer culture leads us to believe. I made a simple list about why taking ayahuasca made sense:
It is 100 percent natural and organic, brewed up like a tea.
It is generally safe. Thousands of people have taken it over the centuries without deaths or injury.
An ex-Royal Marine officer called Bruce Parry had consumed it with Natives in the jungle and had a very positive experience. The BBC funded, filmed, and broadcast his experience to millions of British people.
It is known by indigenous people to have healing properties and provide spiritual nourishment and is renowned to be a “teacher” plant.
It is legal in the country where I’d be taking it.
It makes you feel good.
DMT, the active ingredient, occurs naturally and endogenously in the brain’s neurochemistry.
To go through the rest of life without further inquiry into these mysteries would be a huge loss—like only using one-half of your brain. To deny the insights gained through exploring this option would be like having the Buddha, Jesus, Krishna, and Keith Richards turn up for dinner, recording the event on an HD camera, and then dismissing it as a mere daydream. With a small budget and an inquisitive mind, I could give myself this. So, as I packed up to head home from Afghanistan, I was already planning my foray into the Amazon. It was important to find a group that provided more than a tourist’s romp through the jungle. I wanted to be guided by legitimate and responsible people. Looking online I stumbled across two appealing ayahuasca-related websites, both offering retreat-type ventures. One was called the La Kapok Center, and another was enchantingly named the Mythic Voyage. After Helmand, a Mythic Voyage was exactly what was needed. After scrutinizing many websites, I knew these two were for me.
My mission was transitioning into a once-in-a-lifetime, perhaps insane, inquiry into the real nature of life. A tall order. Men I knew and admired had been blown to pieces. I needed the real deal to make sense of the world, something epic. Little did I know at the time, one man had already conceived, organized, and delivered exactly what I was looking for. Even better, he was doing it all over again and would put me on his team and take me under his wing. I was about to embark on the wildest, craziest journey of my life—one that would match Afghanistan for freaky and unwelcome surprises and yet offer insight into the deepest human longings, which war could never deliver. All I had to do was lose myself in the jungle, relinquish control utterly , and trust that everything would turn out well.
La Kapok Center offered a stay deep in the Peruvian Amazon jungle where an American man, Richard, had built a retreat center and had a team of local Shipibo, including a master shaman, who led the ayahuasca ceremonies. Accommodation was basic, and they required that guests follow the strict diet necessary to prepare yourself to imbibe the psychotropic brew. As was customary, the ceremonies took place communally in a large circular lodge called a maloca. That’s where I’d head first. Depending on how that went, I’d continue on to the Mythic Voyage.
With the plans in place, I flew back with the men I’d joined 42 Commando with to start the decompression period required before we could leave for home. Decompression is a mandatory forty-eight-hour stopover in sunny Cyprus, where activities included enforced “fun” in the guise of a four-hour beach visit, a strict rationing of beer and wine, and a live-entertainment show with a couple of singers and a comedian. It was a great show, and despite the fact that all of us just wanted to get home and see our families, the decompression time was welcome. Laughs rang around the auditorium as the comedian cracked his jokes. The music act was sufficiently rousing that soldiers in the front two rows were inspired to join them in belting out the lyrics of Florence and the Machine’s “You’ve Got the Love” to each other. I’d enjoyed this song in one form or another during adult life but never imagined hearing troops singing it to each other with platonic love for their compatriots. The song had always been significant, and I’d enjoyed the Frankie Knuckles version all the way back to my early twenties. Now, as they sang the lyrics, these troops had their arms wrapped around their friends’ shoulders and were looking into one another’s eyes, singing their hearts out in a moment of shameless sentiment. They were serenading one another, and it was both hilarious and moving to witness. They had suffered and now it was over. The lump in my throat and hair that stood on end was a testament to the perfect fit of the song.
Sometimes it seems the going is just too rough
And things go wrong no matter what I do
Now and then it seems that life is just too much
But you’ve got the love I need to see me through
You’ve got the love, indeed. Underscoring all the revelry was a palpable sense of relief—we had made it out alive. Time to go home.
Arriving home was pure elation. Once the emotions of being home settled, integration back into family life was effortless. My first instinct was to spend as much time as possible being physically close to the children.
I felt so lucky to have found my wife, Julia. When I told her about my desire—my need—to go into the Amazon so soon after my return home, she agreed. She explained that seeing me come back alive was such a relief that a trip to the Amazon felt like far less to worry about. She knew I needed some downtime to decompress my way. She agreed that I could go, on the basis that I support her to move out of her career and retrain as a health and well-being practitioner. The qualifications she needed would take several years to acquire, and during this transition period, it would fall upon me to do the lion’s share of the childcare. Homework supervision, cooking, kids’ sports clubs—all mine to look forward to when I got home while she juggled motherhood, work, and study.
But I wasn’t quite ready to head out to the Amazon yet. I had a few things to do first.
My mother volunteered to look after the children, and I took a holiday with Julia. We went to a sunny Mediterranean island for five days and danced. Each night fully immersed, surrounded by thousands of euphoric loved-up revelers, beautiful people, floating in Space, heaven-bent on having the best time of their lives. To top it all, a sublime remix of Florence and the Machine’s “You’ve Got the Love” thundered through the speakers, the lyrics and melody an eargasm in a perfect setting that delivered everything I needed: life, wife, and music. Thank you, God. I don’t know who you are—or what you are—but thank you, thank you, thank you . . .
Another priority was repatriation with JJ. He was at Headley Court, a veteran’s hospital where they do amazing rehabilitation work. Nearly four months after his injury, he could walk unaided, but his right arm was still in rough shape. The only way he could move it was by manipulating it with his left hand, and that hand itself was missing several fingers. His face seemed vaguely different to me. I couldn’t pinpoint why. Eventually he explained that he’d had extensive plastic surgery, with surgeons inserting a plate to reconstruct his smashed eye socket. Incredibly, they did this without leaving any trace of the surgery. The net result was a slight reshaping of his face that actually made him slightly better looking!
We jumped in my car and headed to a pub, where he filled me in on the details of the explosion that had injured him and three other men and had killed three more. The details were horrendous. Initially, after
the blast, he’d been in so much pain that the nurses couldn’t administer any more painkilling drugs without increasing the risk of death. Among those drugs were huge doses of ketamine. For a long time he’d become paranoid, believing that the nurses were trying to kill him. He interrupted his story for a moment to stand up, in the middle of the pub, and drop his trousers to show the damage to his legs. Massive blast scars covered his thighs, but at least they were still well muscled and working properly. He had several more operations to undergo. But hearing him talk, seeing his attitude, was such a relief. Despite everything that had happened to him, he was still exactly the same man.
We talked about what was next for each of us. He was going back to his teaching career— after he climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. The expedition was being funded by a veteran’s charity, and JJ was on the team. Of course he was climbing Africa’s highest mountain, I thought. Being JJ, what else was he going to do?
I explained about the pull of the brew called ayahuasca. Within a week I would be on a plane to the Amazon. I don’t think he really understood, but he wished me well. I didn’t know it at the time, but I would need those good wishes and more because deep in the cradle of the Amazon, things would get weird—weirder than I could possibly have imagined.