Psychedelic Marine

by alex seymour

  PART 2

  THE MYTHIC VOYAGE

  12

  Power in the Jungle

  Folks, it’s time to evolve. That’s why we’re troubled. You know why our institutions are failing us, the church, the state, everything’s failing? It’s because, um—they’re no longer relevant! We’re supposed to keep evolving. Evolution did not end with us growing opposable thumbs. You do know that, right? There’s another 90 percent of our brains that we have to illuminate.

  BILL HICKS, COMEDIAN

  Power accomplishes what force cannot do because it goes where force cannot follow.

  DAVID R. HAWKINS

  M y attention heightened as we flew over the Amazon, struck by the incomprehensible enormity of the jungle. Iquitos is a gateway city to the Peruvian Amazon, my first stop on the way to the La Kapok Center. I spent two nights in Iquitos organizing the boat trip that would take me four hours upriver to the small settlement of Herrera. While on that journey, as the small boat motored upriver, I couldn’t help marveling at the contrast between Afghanistan and the Amazon—the difference in the environments was staggering. The lush abundance of natural resources and the warm waters of the river contrasted sharply with the arid, hostile desert.

  At Herrera I met Richard, the founder of La Kapok Center, and a Southeast Asian woman who had also contacted him for this ayahuasca adventure. Miley was in her midforties and had made the journey from Singapore. As we introduced ourselves and talked a bit, I learned she was married to a futures trader and had a fifteen-year-old daughter. She’d worked for Microsoft for many years and so was familiar with the company I worked for.

  Richard was a friendly American and quintessentially clean-cut, with short dark hair and broad shoulders and a six-foot-two athletic build. He sported a Panama hat, and his white T-shirt and khaki cargo shorts were immaculate. Prior to settling in the Amazon, he had worked in finance on Wall Street. He had become disillusioned with the industry and turned his back on it. He had lived in Thailand for three years and was streetwise—dump him in the midst of twenty young marines, and he would thrive among the merciless piss taking. If you were to view Richard as the result of a social experiment in what happened to a “normal” person after years of committed ayahuasca use, then he could be the poster boy for an “Ayahuasca Needs You” ad campaign.

  He explained about ayahuasca: to the indigenous people it is a sacred healing plant, which is why it is often referred to simply as la medicina. “It is the healing plant of the Amazon,” he explained. “It heals me, you, society, spirit, our species. And love is the connection through which it heals. Love is the connection you really will understand.”

  Over lunch we continued to get to know each other. After we had paid Richard and his team for their services, he led Miley and me to the motorized canoe that would take us into the jungle.

  Within half an hour we rounded a bend, tucked into a small tributary, and then came ashore at the retreat settlement that Richard had built from scratch. It comprised just a few buildings. Richard showed us around the kitchen, dining area, and bedrooms. There were about ten bedrooms in total, each a small hutlike room, one adjoining the other with only a six-foot-high rough-hewn wood partition/wall separating them. Each room contained a bed with a mattress and clean sheets. I dumped my large black North Face holdall in the corner of one room, taking all of ninety seconds to unpack.

  We were then given a quick tour of the surroundings set in 250 acres of prime jungle habitat. Richard had found a location that dazzled, nestled in a gorge. The river that ran through it fluctuated between a wide and powerfully destructive torrent that uprooted trees and boulders to a relatively gentle stream no more than twelve feet wide that you could wade in when the water level was low. The location’s crowning glory was a literally breathtakingly stunning waterfall, about thirty-two feet wide with a thirty-foot drop. The wide pool at its base spilled over another precipice to form a second waterfall of equal height. At the foot of the second waterfall was another large pool in which we could swim surrounded by hummingbirds and blue morpho butterflies the size of saucers. Even in the dry season, the waterfalls’ thundering was loud enough to drown out voices. Thick vines drooped down from the canopy offering the temptation to reach out and grab one to see whether it could hold my weight. Huge slabs of flat rocks offered themselves generously as natural sunbathing platforms either side of the top pool, right at the waterfall’s lip. The crash of the water drowned the sounds of the jungle birds and insects, and as I stared at and listened to the cascade, I was wrapped in a soothing, hypnotic feeling.

  Richard told us that we were the only guests except for a young man who had been staying at the camp and would be joining us for ayahuasca sessions. His name was Reuben, aged nineteen, Norwegian, a recovering drug addict who had already been at the retreat center for three weeks, working on getting clean.

  Richard surprised us by announcing that the first ayahuasca ceremony would happen that night. Prior to our arrival he had asked us to reflect on our intentions for the visit. We needed to set some personal goals as we voyaged with the shaman and the plant. Mine were simple: recover. After months of anxiety I needed to relearn how to be content. I was lucky not to have PTSD, and I wanted to use this time to reflect and send out good intentions for the families of the men in my unit who had lost their lives or limbs. Furthermore, following the war, I wanted to know how I could integrate back into society and be inspired. I had been wrestling with this concern. With all the intensity experienced over the last year, slotting back into previous roles might be challenging, and I was concerned I’d be hampered by the humdrum aspects of modern life.

  The first ceremony began at 6:30 p.m. It gets dark quickly in the jungle with its thick canopy, and it was already twilight as we gathered in the maloca, a huge, wooden circular hut with a domed ceiling. It had a windowlike space in the wall covered with gauze that ran around the circumference of the entire room so that it was exposed to the outside except for a fine mesh to keep out the insects. All the ceremonies took place here. Hammocks hung low, their supports affixed to the ceiling, and rocking chairs made of wire and cord were positioned around the space, as were several mattresses. At the back of the room were several toilets that could be flushed using a bucket of water. The floors were bare wood, and the conical ceiling was impressively high and supported by thick beams that ran from its apex down to the level of the hammocks twelve feet below.

  The shaman was already there—Humberto. He was youngish looking, maybe midthirties, about five seven, with wide shoulders and a taut build. He had been conscripted into the Peruvian army and had risen to become its youngest sergeant. Certainly he looked like he was physically capable of handling himself in a tough spot.

  Reuben appeared, and Richard introduced him. I was shocked at how thin and pale he was. He had a ghoulish pallor, his skin almost translucent. His chest was practically concave, and he looked close to emaciation. I figured I could completely encircle his upper arms with my finger and thumb. His eyes were the palest blue, huge and unblinking; his sincere and steady gaze emitted a wide-eyed innocence and trust. When he smiled his teeth were a grayish brown. He had a wracking cough that appeared to drain him physically. So this is what happens when you live above the Arctic Circle with very little natural light during the winter and abuse drugs intravenously for six months. He had obviously been devastated physically by his addiction, and I wondered what his mental state was like.

  Now that everyone was here, we settled ourselves in a semicircle around Humberto, who sat in a rocking chair with its back against the wall. Miley and I chose to lie on mattresses, and Richard and Reuben sat in rocking chairs. Humberto laid out a sort of shrine on a woven mat he placed on the floor a few feet in front of his chair. In the center he placed a Buddha statue and then positioned thirty to forty smaller polished rocks and crystals around it. A clear glass wine bottle full of ayahuasca sat there, brimming with potential. As Humberto called us forward individually, he pour
ed the thick, brown brew into the cup.

  I was apprehensive. I had heard that the hallucinogenic brew tasted foul and knew that it was a purgative: thirty minutes after taking it, it’s common to have bouts of vomiting.

  When my name was called I crawled forward on my hands and knees and accepted the proffered cup. Three or four gulps and it was down, a gloopy brown liquid, disgustingly bitter. Everyone pulled expressions of disgust as they swallowed it. We quickly gulped some water, swilling it around in our mouths in a futile attempt to get rid of the aftertaste. Humberto—a veteran ayahuasca drinker in every sense—grimaced involuntarily after imbibing, and I was surprised to hear him actually groan in displeasure. Clearly this wasn’t going to be an acquired taste.

  Humberto began singing an icaro, and the ceremony began. His voice was strong. Icaros are songs to call in the spirits from the forest and luminal realms. I was feeling disoriented, aware of the near absurdity of my being here, sitting with strangers in the dark in a circle in the jungle, being serenaded by an ayahuasca master, and knowing full well that in a few minutes something extremely strange would be happening.

  Each of us had a bucket in case we vomited, and they sat there ominously. Within twenty-five minutes I started to glimpse the merest tickle of something at the edges of my peripheral vision. I tried to ignore it, deny its creeping inevitability. Two minutes later hallucinations came on in full force. I felt a strange energy moving through my body that made me nauseated. Humberto was singing the icaros with ever-increasing vigor, his voice growing louder and clearer, feeding off the ayahuasca energy coursing through him, channeling it.

  Incredible geometric shapes swirled kaleidoscopically behind closed eyes. They took on a more deliberate action, swooping wildly into my center of vision and away again, like a swarm of bats, so clear and real that I flinched. They morphed into sleek angular reptilian creatures, swarming, popping out of nowhere, then just as quickly disappearing, only to be replaced by even more almost indescribably bizarre-looking creatures. I still felt lucid and began to hope that it wouldn’t get any more intense—it was already beyond strange and who knew where it was leading.

  After half an hour, maybe forty minutes, I was in the full grip of the ayahuasca. All the while the icaros had been getting louder and more forceful, and Humberto was shaking two schacapa rattles—nothing more than sheaves of thin, dry leaves. He had one in each hand and was waving them vigorously. The effect was a rhythmic swishing sound that became unbelievably loud, adding to the texture of his singing. How on Earth could a bunch of shaking leaves sound so loud? It filled the entire room. All senses on every perceptual level were heightened—maxed out. Too much going on.

  An unexpected sense of empathy was growing that became so strong that it felt like a door was opening into a whole new and separate sense—as important and relevant as sight or sound, so powerful it scythed through all other emotions. There was so much more to perceive than just the content of this three-dimensional world. Incapable of resisting any longer, I opened my eyes. Ka-boom! The entire room was full of alien life interwoven with a multicolored geometric mesh. Everything everywhere was made of throbbing neon electric grids of energy. The grids entwined with writhing sharp-toothed creatures that scuttled with dazzling, slinky agility. Fractal centipedes and millipedes in iridescent high definition—their glistening, heavily armored bodies trailing off into infinity—encroached. Then with alarming suddenness, they spawned, birthing new hordes of shining exoskeletoid creatures that actually had the audacity to smile. These new creatures’ glinty eyes made sure their presence was felt as they confidently claimed their new territory. Then they slunk back to some other-dimensional realm, receding with the same speed and agility. They vanished but, in the very act of disappearing, somehow spawned new creatures, each progeny more strange and alien than its predecessor.

  The visions were overwhelming. I was surrounded by fantastical alien beasts, spirits, entities—who knew what the hell they were—that had no physical form. No time for introspection or to rationalize any kind of philosophical interpretation—scenes shifted and morphed with incredible intensity. I struggled to maintain my grip on any kind of ordered thought. How on Earth could this ever be interpreted as therapeutic? Confusion reigned, and I sought some semblance of comfort, unconvincingly forcing myself to think, Everything will be fine, every thing will be fine.

  The sounds of the jungle—insects and frogs—were loud now, and they interwove with the swishing of the schacapa rattles until they reached an all-consuming crescendo that swept me up to ride the waves of a clamorous alien-sounding symphony. Oh my God! These Indians know exactly what they’re doing! They had had thousands of years to perfect it. I was journeying through a kind of grotesque, carnivalesque world, and the icaros and leaf rattles were the pilot and navigator. Sounds were things, and these things shaped my consciousness, which became as unnavigable as a termite caught in a tornado.

  My eyes strained in the darkness. The visible matrixlike energy had a very technical nature, aesthetically pleasing in a very measured and precise way, contrasting with the organic sprawl of the jungle. I remember thinking— knowing—that this geometric matrix pattern of multicolored light-energy must be part of life itself, but it was ordinarily hidden by the veil of rational sanity. I had seen these same gridlike patterns in the artwork of the local Shipibo. It was obvious now that these visions had been the inspiration for their art.

  In Afghanistan the mantra after each patrol as I lay in bed was “don’t think, don’t think.” Over and over I’d repeat this to myself in an attempt to meditatively anesthetize myself to sleep. Here I was invoking the same technique: “Stop thinking, trying to making sense of it.” The message was surrender—the exact opposite of everything the military had taught me. Yield and allow the visions to flow. Sublime surrender—now I see. Don’t fight it, feel it: submission was the solution, ego the enemy. It couldn’t get any worse than Helmand, surely? That thought became my grounding rod. This was the connection to an alternative life force, and I had jacked into the main vein.

  Eventually, after another hour, the icaros stopped. The sounds of creatures in the jungle flooded in to fill the silence. Then I heard Richard’s voice.

  “Miley?” Richard waited for a response, but none came.

  “Miley?” Still nothing. “Miley, are you awake?”

  Another few seconds of silence, then he began to speak more forcefully.

  “Miley, wake up! Don’t sleep! Wake up!”

  I couldn’t see much in the darkness but heard him rise from his chair and leap over to where Miley was lying on the mattress to my left, only twelve feet away. He knelt down and gently shook her. She was unresponsive, either in deep sleep or unconscious. He shook her gently again, then more vigorously.

  “Miley! You must wake up! You must not go to sleep. Please, wake up now!”

  Humberto came over and joined Richard, trying to awaken her. No good, she remained completely under.

  “Very unusual,” Richard mumbled, more to himself than to the rest of us.

  I could tell he was trying to restrain his concern, but his observation seemed to be the understatement of the century. Incredulously, I thought I heard him say, “She’s stopped breathing.”

  Oh for fuck’s sake—just great. My first ayahuasca session, and we have a potential fatality on our hands! I crawled over to them, and the movement brought on fresh waves of nausea. I whispered to Richard, “Can I help?”

  “Thanks,” he said. “We need to sit her up and keep her in an upright position. She must not be allowed to go to sleep.”

  It’s way too late for that, I thought, as I tried lifting her upright. She was an absolute dead weight, and I had to kneel behind her to get leverage. I held her in a sitting position with my palms spread across the span of her back at the shoulder blades and her weight supported against me. She was still out of it, her head slumped forward, chin against her chest and eyes closed. I couldn’t hear her breathing.

/>   Richard asked for a torch, and I reached with one hand into my pocket and gave him my little Maglite. He shone it at her face, but there was no reaction from her whatsoever. For the next ten minutes, Richard and I took turns propping Miley upright or massaging her back. He peeled her eyelids back with his thumbs, and under the harsh light it was ugly. Her pupils engulfed her irises entirely. Huge, black, and empty; I’d never seen anything like it. This must be what catatonia is. In an effort to stimulate her, Humberto blew tobacco smoke over her head. In the Amazon this pure jungle tobacco is a healing remedy. The smoke from these thick hand-rolled cigarettes, called mapachos, is used in rituals as a cleansing agent, supposedly clearing a person’s field of bad energy. Richard confirmed she was still breathing.

  Humberto and Richard conferred quietly, muttering ominously together in Spanish. Richard finally turned to Miley and spoke to her somewhat self-consciously, the way you might speak to someone in a coma. “OK, Miley. Humberto is going to sing you a special icaro. He’s going to sing you back to us. You will wake up and you will come back.” Humberto began to sing loudly, infusing the song with his entire life force. I’d never heard anything like it—so powerful and alien.

  From the darkness Reuben called out. “Richard? Richard! What are you doing? Why aren’t you here next to me?”

  I was gobsmacked—did he actually just say that? For the first and only time, I heard Richard speak tersely, a strained tension in his voice. “Reuben, I’m with Miley. She needs our help! If you’re not going to help, then at least be quiet!”

  My arms were aching from bearing Miley’s weight. Richard said, “I appreciate your help.”

  “No problem. This is what we do, right?” I said, sweating bullets, peering through the darkness and failing to meet his gaze.