Psychedelic Marine

by alex seymour

  There was no questioning his sincerity. The room held a diverse bunch of voyagers, late teens to fifties and sixties. Andreas launched into his welcome speech.

  “Argonauts, welcome to the Mythic Voyage!”

  His voice boomed, loud as a triumphant medieval monarch proclaiming victory in battle. Hotel staff, waiting in the wings with refreshments, shot each other nervous glances. In a voice as oversized as his body, he explained that we were going on a journey into the deepest parts of the jungle. Our characters would be tested, and we would need to trust each other, trust him, and trust his team. This was the sixth Mythic Voyage, and there were several people who had participated three, four, even five times before. Each new setting for a ceremony in the jungle would produce a new unique effect. He assured us that we’d discover the power of intention and go inside ourselves using ayahuasca to heal, evolve, and transform.

  We paid our money and decamped en masse to a nearby restaurant, incongruously named The Texan Rose. We sat around a long table that comfortably accommodated all twenty of us, snaffling the last supper down our necks. I sat in the middle on one side, able to peer along each side of the table to both my left and right. Some were traveling solo, others in groups of two, three, or more. I sat opposite a young man and woman, Trey and Belinda, who were part of a group of Australians in their twenties. Ruth, Belinda’s twin, sat farther down the table. They had a hippie sensibility in their clothes and jewelery, right down to Belinda and her sister having long, fair hair on their legs and armpits.

  We tucked into the food, and Andreas informed us that it would be our last indulgent meal for at least a week, as we would be starting the ayahuasca diet right away—meaning just vegetables, boiled rice, fruit, no seasonings or condiments. Only two small bland meals a day.

  Everyone was upbeat the next morning as we rode by bus to board the beautifully restored nineteenth-century riverboat. There were two main decks, with twelve two-berth cabins on the lower deck. The upper deck had an expansive lounging area where everyone tended to hang out and most of the socializing took place.

  I explored the ship, impressively restored to its old-world charm, with many original period fittings. The dining room on the lower deck was luxuriously decorated. In the center of the room was a huge, dark wood table that could seat twenty-four people. On the upper deck, there was a small, plush library.

  As we set sail Andreas flamboyantly shouted, “Argonauts! You are all now fucked! Because you are all now mine!”

  He paused, looking into the eyes of each of us, and said, “We are going on a journey miles from anywhere, and you have to trust me.” He smiled. Most people laughed, soaking up the theatrics. To me it sounded a little ominous. He intended to use psychoactive plant medicines in shamanic ceremonies. The only one to be genuinely concerned about was datura, used for centuries in some cultures as a deadly poison, although it has been known to be used in tiny quantities for its psychoactive properties by some shamans. Vice.com had filmed a documentary on datura called Colombian Devil’s Breath—something to avoid at all costs.

  Expectations were high and the weather ideal, so I wandered around to the front of the ship to enjoy the view. There I came upon a young man, alone, standing in the premium position, right at the apex of the bow. The river was over a mile wide, and the full panorama presented itself as glorious river, forest, and sky, truly breathtaking. I approached him smiling, holding out my hand and introducing myself, and he greeted me warmly. His name was Phil, one of the Australian party, twenty-seven years old, conspicuously good looking, with a Jim Morrison haircut and three weeks of stubble. I assumed he must be an actor or something similar but obviously didn’t ask. This was his fourth Mythic Voyage. We were quiet, admiring the stunning vista painted with the most exquisite clouds I’d ever seen. It seemed appropriate to offer up some kind of appreciative comment, but when I spoke, it sounded contrived, spluttering, “I’m really appreciating the sky and clouds today and looking forward to enjoying more of them while on this trip.” Quite possibly the dorkiest thing I’ve ever said out loud. I managed to make myself cringe in self-sabotage. A voice in my head shouted, “No! Stop talking before you damage yourself forever.”

  No need to panic. He turned to face me, his eyes shut, seemingly wincing slightly in response to a minor pain. Shaking his head ever so gently, he said, “Oh, man!” He screwed his eyes even more tightly shut. “Oh, man. Oh, man.” Then he put his hand on my shoulder. Barely audible, deliberately slowly, he whispered, “Dude. You honestly have absolutely no idea how beautiful it can get. Believe me.”

  A reasonable prophecy, in fact completely correct. All I knew was in that moment, in the now, with the breeze on my face and the sky and river so lush and vivid, it was intoxicating. Like the sandstorm in the desert the night before our insertion by Chinook chopper into the front line—the cusp of adventure. Caught up in the spirit of the moment and in the clumsiest way, I blurted out, “You know what? I’ve never let anybody down.” Then I paused. “Well, not in any significant way. Not ever.”

  What a dickhead. Really? Who says that shit to a person he’s just met? Why be compelled to gush like that? The result was embarrassment for oversharing of the highest order. At some unconscious level I was desperate to create a good first impression but instead sounded like a needy little bitch. What is someone supposed to say in response? “Oh, well done. And would you mind terribly if I gave you a round of applause?” When, what they were really thinking was, “You liar.”

  Without missing a beat, and bless his gentlemanly heart, all Phil said was, “Yes. But have you ever let yourself down?”

  A perfect gotcha.

  Looking down at the deck, I replied sheepishly, “All the time. All the time.”

  He grinned, and we stood in silence immersed in the view. I had been affected by the recent time invested at La Kapok Center. I wanted to connect and engage with other people on a deeper level. Antisocial boundaries and English reserve were crumbling as I felt a stronger immediate affinity with each new person I met.

  I went to my cabin, curious to meet my new bunkmate. Panos was tall and gangly—about thirty-five—and wore tiny oval glasses and had a pointy goatee and straggly, shoulder-length hair. A socks-with-sandals kind of guy. Romanian, a photographer, married, with a four-year-old daughter. He came from a quiet rural area and seemed genuinely sincere.

  I went to the top deck to meet the others. Pietro was a well-built guy from Rhodes, Greece, who owned a watch shop. Stergiani was a pretty and slight young woman, also from Greece, with light-brown hair and blue eyes, aged thirty-one but looking ten years younger. We sat together on the deckchairs drifting downriver, village life extending to the riverbank languidly passing by.

  “Have you ever drunk ayahuasca?” I asked Stergiani.

  “No.”

  “Ever tried any kind of psychedelic?”

  “Nope.”

  “You know what’s in store tonight, right?”

  “Yep. Well, kind of . . .”

  What compelled her to travel all this way alone from Europe into the jungle to drink a powerful psychoactive brew that would blast her into an alternate state of consciousness with people she didn’t know? That was the kind of thing you expect from young adventure-hungry men but not her—she was so demure, right down to her modest wispy dress covered with tiny flowers. She hadn’t the faintest hint of the unconventional about her.

  “Stergiani?”

  “Yes?”

  “What does your name mean?”

  It was a long time before she answered. Looking at me, she said, very softly, “She who comes from the Earth.”

  I didn’t speak for a while, letting images settle. From the Earth, I mused. Then spoke the words out loud. “She who comes from the Earth. Nice . . .”

  I was in a dream. Better than a dream. We sat in silence, watching the view change as we sailed on and on to who knew where. I felt connected to Stergiani as if we’d known each other for years, yet we had only just
met. I don’t have sisters, but with this newfound emotional thread, I felt what it might be like to have a sister with whom I was very close.

  Getting up to stretch my legs, I was drawn to the sound of talking. A group had gathered around a tall, slim, gray-haired man with a crew cut in his early sixties. It was Eddie—the ship’s pizzazz, an American and a bona-fide one-of-a-kind, full of vitality and warmth. A freelance political consultant to a number of regimes in South America, he had worked for five different governments and was now contracted to work in Argentina. He had a wealthy, beautiful Argentinean wife. His charisma was alluring—so easy to listen to. Over the course of the trip, he held court, regaling us with stories. A very clever guy, always smiling. Fluent in Spanish, he translated for Andreas and some of his special Peruvian guests.

  On the bus to the boat, I had become friendly with a young Californian, Josh. He exemplified the affable, laid-back West Coast stereotype. No hostility, so easy to get along with. Tall, well built, and with a shaggy mane of hair, he inspired confidence.

  Then there was Robert—an accomplished heart surgeon for the previous eighteen years. Married, with three children, hailing from Norway. A classic Scandinavian, pale and blond, fine featured and boyish, with a strong jaw and blue eyes. Six feet five with broad shoulders. His hair was parted on one side, the epitome of conservative respectability. He had followed a straight line from school to medical school to the rarefied atmosphere of the higher echelons of the medical world—no detours. Yet, his clothes looked like they came from a local budget department store, plain and rather drab. Every day he dressed the same way: functional shorts, pastel-colored polo shirt, and sensible shoes. His voice was one of the softest and gentlest I had ever heard, giving the impression that he’d never resorted to any form of aggression in his life. A winner of life’s golden ticket? Not quite. It was inevitable that some of his patients would not survive his surgery, and I’m sure his humility was partly attributable to this grim reality. A few days into the trip, he showed me a picture he carried in his wallet of his severely autistic eleven-year-old daughter. She was so disabled she was permanently confined to a baby carriage. He explained how unusual the photo was: he had managed to catch his daughter in a rare instance of actually looking into the camera. For almost her entire life, she avoided all eye contact with others, even her parents and brothers. When I asked him what his motivation was for coming on the voyage, he said, “To increase my compassion.” He had an ethereal quality, aloof to the banality of everyday life. To describe him as deep would be a substantial understatement.

  After a day sailing, the ship pulled close to the riverbank and moored. Andreas’s team began preparations ashore for that night’s ceremony. He had given us an indispensable list of items to take into the jungle at night. My patrol backpack had served me well up till now. Inside were water, a head-sized mosquito net, two types of industrial-strength insect repellent, two lock knives, a tiny waterproof survival kit, waterproof notepad and pencil, jungle/desert hat, a jacket, and two small Maglite torches with spare batteries.

  Panos and I waited in our room until it was time to go ashore. I peeked out of our cabin’s porthole. It appeared that the boat had been moored along a stretch of riverbank with no apparent purpose, as if Andreas had randomly picked a place in the jungle and said, “Here will do fine.”

  Killing time, Panos let me try on his beekeeper’s hat, which he wore during ceremonies. It looked outlandish with its draped netting, but it was a practical choice for keeping mosquitoes off. Then we just lay on our beds staring at the ceiling in silence, waiting to be called to disembark from the boat deck.

  At six thirty Rebecca knocked on our door and told us that it was time to go. The perfect summoner—a smoking hot Italian therapist, with long, dark curly hair and huge wide brown eyes. She peeked around our cabin door, delivering the inevitable invitation with poise. “Gentlemen, please make your way to the lower deck where we will board the canoe that will take us to land. Andreas is ready for you now to join the ceremony. The Mythic Voyage is going ashore.” She closed the door quietly. Panos and I sprang up and grabbed our stuff. This is it!

  15

  The Gift of Ego Death

  Force is temporary, consumes energy, moves from one location to another. Power is self-sustaining, permanent, stationery and invincible.

  DAVID R. HAWKINS

  W e boarded the large motorized canoe that would take us all to where the riverbank met the jungle. The moon shone overhead, the water reflecting its brilliance like a mirror. The air temperature was a comfortable 75°F. Ten minutes later the boatman killed the motor, and the canoe began to drift toward the riverbank. Waiting on shore to greet us was Alfredo, who prepared the ayahuasca, and his crew of four men, who had already cleared a space in the jungle for the ceremony and would act as a safety team.

  We stepped ashore. Torches flicked on, and everyone trod off in single file into the jungle, each person walking quickly and staying close to the person in front. No one wanted to get left behind or stray off the freshly beaten path. We came to the clearing. A quick flick of the torch revealed it to be about twenty meters wide. Standing in the middle were eight tiny Shipibo women. None of these medicine or holy women was taller than five feet and most appeared to be quite old. None flinched as our torchlights passed over their faces, their eyes shining brightly in the swathes of light.

  Torchlight was the only light. Insects buzzing, and occasional whispers from group members were the only sounds apart from the gentle footfall of people as they moved around, choosing a place to sit. Twenty thin mattresses had been laid out around the edge of the clearing. The Shipibo shamanas—all trained ayahuasqueros—sat in a row in the middle. César, an elderly man with a wide, beatific smile—the Shipibo master ayahuasquero—was seated on the ground at one end of the line of women. He nodded a welcome to each of us as we settled in.

  The mood was somber. We all attended to our own needs, making ourselves comfortable as best we could, aware of the implications of where we were and what we were about to do. Most checked to ensure their torch, water, and other comfort items were close to hand.

  Andreas called us all to rise from our mattresses and move toward the middle of the clearing and form a circle. He said “Argonauts . . . happiness is a choice! And know this: it’s also a skill, and with intention you can commit to making that choice and learning that skill.”

  He instructed us to face north and hold our arms up toward the sky with hands outstretched. He began an incantation, his voice booming into the darkness: “To the eagle of the north, soar above us. Look out for us and guide us as we journey inside.”

  He shuffled his bulk a quarter to the left, and we followed suit. “To the hummingbirds in the west, fly near and protect us, let your wings beat softly over us as we make this journey inside to peace.”

  We turned south. “To the spirit of the Anaconda, encircle us with your protective strength as we seek love from the Divine Mother of the forest.”

  Facing east. “To the spirit of the jaguar, give us your courage, your agility as we seek a connection to you and the spirit of the forest and of the Earth and the mighty river.”

  Turning for the last time back to the center of the clearing, we lowered our arms, completing the calling in of the directions with a loud ho. This ritual would start the ceremony each night.

  César began to sing very softly. Andreas called out names in groups of four, and we crept forward to receive a cup from one of the female ayahuasqueros. Each person stoically drank the foul-tasting brew, a few shuddered in disgust as the thick brown gloop made its way from mouth to throat to stomach. We crept back to our mattresses and prepared to journey. Andreas admonished us to remain sitting upright for the next twenty minutes to ensure the ayahuasca sank deep into our stomachs. César stopped singing, and we sat in silence, waiting for the brew to take effect.

  Out of nowhere a long swathe of light snaked into my peripheral vision. OK, here we go . . . Within mi
nutes phantasmagorical visions erupted volcanically in cataclysmic sensory overload. I watched multicolored geometrical shapes morph into organic sentient forms. As the visions came on in full force, I steadied myself. You’re grounded, you are sane. Despite the attempt to self-soothe, the sensations escalated to the completely otherworldly.

  The eight tiny Shipibo women singing icaros were unbelievable! Their voices harmonized beautifully in layer upon layer of exquisite choral vibration. Each of them was singing an entirely different song, but it was woven into an aural tapestry, a giant sound-shawl gently laid over us. Alien, yet soothing. Pure South American genius.

  The singing was the cue for us to lie down flat on our mats. A few people had already started purging into their buckets. I glanced up at the sky and the jungle canopy above. Wow! I could only see a chunk of sky filling one-third of my visual field. The rest was a mass of dark foliage. The jungle was dancing! This was my first session outdoors, and everywhere the branches, shrubs, and vines were bathed in neon light and were in motion in a primordial dance. Through the dancing canopy, stars were shining like I’d never seen light shine before. Luminescence from a thousand fireflies flickered on and off. Seeing them burst here and there, flashing one second, dark the next, it seemed Peter Pan’s Tinkerbell and her friends had come to visit. I extended my arms trying to grab them, like a child reaching for bubbles. Then I lay still, and they landed on my outstretched forearms, lights flickering on and off in concert. This couldn’t be happening! It was too magical!

  The visual fireworks began to settle down, and I focused on my intention: show me how to trust. Overwhelmingly the thoughts were of my friend JJ. Over the next hour there wasn’t a minute that went by when I didn’t think of him. Here was that sense of the divine once again. I was feeling interconnected to everything, sensing how life on Earth was about us, the collective, not the individual. It’s our separation that’s causing our dis-ease and war. We are connected! My sense of ego diminished to something infinitesimally insignificant—to practically nothing—and it felt so good. For the first time in my life, I actually felt sensations emanating from my heart—emotions literally becoming heartfelt. Much of this energy was directed toward JJ. I sensed the pain from the catastrophe he had suffered in a way that was far more than empathy. JJ, I feel you—all the way from the Amazon. My God, our God, dear God, I feel you in my soul, brother. I felt comparable to a disciple and sensed that JJ was a true holy man. These were the extraordinarily peculiar thoughts that looped over and over for an hour. I got a sense that JJ had been born before and had been revered. It sounds insane, of course, but if you met him, you would know this was not an entirely insane thought.