by alex seymour
He took a breath from the lengthy monologue. He had served up his personal information and now wanted payback.
“Tell me, Alex, why did you come on the Mythic Voyage?”
“To see the Amazon.”
“Come on, let’s get real! I think we both know that there are reasons that a man does something and then there are the real reasons. What was your real intention?”
I fumbled for a moment. “Er . . . to be happy?” Why had I phrased my answer as a question?
“To be happy,” he echoed, arching an eyebrow. He sat in silence for a while looking troubled and extremely unhappy with that answer. “Really? OK, but let’s take a step back, shall we? Tell me again, why did you go to Afghanistan?”
I rattled off my reasons. “Adventure. To do some good in the world, to set an example for my kids. To help people—since we’ve been there, more than two million girls have been able to go to school.”
He looked intensely irritated, waving the comments away with a derisive sweep of his arm. “Yeah, yeah. I heard it all before from you. Don’t give me the same shit. I don’t give a fuck about the suffering of the Afghan people right now. This is bullshit! These are bullshit reasons!” He paused ever so briefly before continuing. “What about your wife? What the hell did she think about you choosing to abandon her and the children? What were you thinking?”
Now put on the defensive, my first thought was that other married men with children went to war and always had. I said, “Andreas, it was all fine! Honestly. I took care of business—arranging everything before I left. I made sure that if I was killed there’d be enough insurance to pay for the house and leave some extra cash. If I was killed, I felt pretty sure my wife would find somebody else to love and to take care of the children. And, besides, as a man I felt I really needed to do this.”
He stared back in revulsion. Then he spoke slowly, very deliberately, enunciating every word, each syllable—it felt like a bitch slap and his words stung. “So you devalued yourself so much that you reduced yourself to an insurance payment?” He shook his head in disbelief. “That is so fucked up! You assumed that your wife and children wouldn’t miss you? That if you were killed, you wouldn’t leave a hole in their lives? Do you really think so little of yourself that you mean practically nothing to them? Do you really believe this?”
His face was now a mask of shock and contempt. I had never seen anyone look at me that way, and I felt the flush of confusion and shame rising up as heat to my face. I had sounded clinical, unfeeling—that’s not what I’d meant. The impact of his words left me speechless.
He sat back on his chair, his palms on his thighs, his head tilted upward so that his eyes locked onto mine. Out of the blue he said, “OK, so tonight . . . I have been thinking . . . I want you to run the ceremony!”
My mind reeled. Run the ceremony? What the hell was he saying? He continued as if reading my mind, a common occurrence lately. “Alex, there is a hole inside of you. I can feel it. You need to fill it. So I feel it will benefit you greatly if tonight you run the ceremony. I have never asked another person to do this on any Mythic Voyage before, but it is what you need. I trust my instincts. You will be fine. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. The choice is yours.”
I didn’t know what to say. He pushed on, explaining that the key difference for me would be that by leading the ceremony I would have to help with everybody else’s needs. If they needed water, help to the toilet, had a breakdown, or needed comforting words—it would be my responsibility to give it. He said it would be virtuous, and I would have to try to appreciate that when I helped others, I was also helping myself.
“This is good!” he exclaimed. “It is self-serving.”
He went on to suggest that my intention for the ceremony should be: Show me what it feels like to have intense pleasure. He explained, “Knowing and experiencing intense pleasure will provide you with a taste of what it feels like to become enlightened.”
Feeling both privileged and daunted, I thought about his offer for a few minutes. “OK. I’ll do it . . . although what if I need some help?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be there, and Ben, too. We will both be there for you.”
I said OK again, although I immediately started questioning the wisdom of doing this. What if I made a mistake? I had no training. There was absolutely no doubt I’d be having powerful hallucinations of my own. I had participated in ceremonies but didn’t know how to run one. Tonight’s was in only four hours—barely time to get used to the idea, never mind prepare. I thought about reneging—and then just as quickly thought, “You will never have this opportunity again.” Andreas indicated the matter was settled by ending our meeting. He repeated the intention I should hold, “Show me what it feels like to have intense pleasure.”
As I rose to leave, he tapped his finger on his chest, where his big fat heart beat beneath his big fat frame. As I opened the door to leave the room, he said, “And remember, Alex. The best gift you can give to your children is to show them a happy father.”
21
The Most Amazing Night
A s I waited to board the canoe to go ashore for the final ceremony, Stergiani approached, her brow furrowed. Without any context she asked, “How do you cope?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you do to get through each ceremony?”
I thought about it. “You know what? I do this . . .” I put my hands together in prayer formation, the tips of my fingers pressed lightly against each other, but palms slightly apart. Like an upside-down heart, or a mushroom, or a pyramid—take your pick. “I don’t know why, but I find it helps. And sometimes I lay my hand across my heart while thinking about my intention. And when things get too intense, I force myself to smile. Force it. The sensation over my face has a psychological effect, makes me feel better, slightly stronger, able to cope.”
When we were finally seated in the canoe, she leaned in silently, resting the side of her head on my upper arm. She stayed close, but neither of us said another word during the ride. We were both nervous.
Ben had chosen a good spot. We gathered in the clearing, and I took a long look around. From now on I was supposed to be running the show. Everything was in place: the mattresses and puke buckets were arranged in a circle along the edge of the clearing, and a toilet area had been hacked out of the bush. César and the shamanas were gathered in a group. The jug of ayahuasca and a clutter of cups sat on a blanket in front of César. Just looking at the jug made the corners of my mouth turn down in disgust, and my body practically shuddered at the very thought of once again swallowing the bitter brew.
Once we had all drunk a cup, everyone settled into their places. The shamanas began to sing an icaro. I stood off to one side feeling awkward and unsure, not knowing what to expect or do exactly. Andreas made an announcement to everyone that I would be leading the ceremony and then, thankfully, came over and gave me some instructions. If anybody cried out for help and called for him, I was to go to that person and say, “Tonight I’m Andreas. I’m here to help. What do you need?”
He escorted me to his chair, which was positioned just beyond the perimeter of the circle so that anyone sitting in it had a commanding view of the space. “Sit in this chair and watch over,” he said.
I took his seat, appreciating the line of sight into the ceremony. I’d never seen the space from the outside, and it was daunting to see twenty people laid out flat on their backs. The eight Shipibo women sat in a line, singing. César was at one end of the line, his deeper timbre entwining perfectly with the higher pitch of the shamanas.
Waves of nausea pulsed through me, partly ayahuasca, partly nerves. Visions came on fast and hard. My mind was in upheaval, and soon my stomach followed suit, the nausea rising again. I grabbed a bucket, but just as quickly put it back down empty. I didn’t want to disturb the people lying just in front of my chair, so I trotted into the brush and puked there. Midretch, I heard Andreas. “Alex, please come here.”<
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I wiped my mouth roughly on the back of my sleeve, took a swig of water, and staggered over. The jungle spun wildly, and I could hardly walk in a straight line. His voice was superhumanly deep, an earthquake in human form, and he gripped my shoulders tightly, his face only a few inches from mine. “Listen to me carefully. Pay close attention!” Sounding deadly serious, he shook my shoulders as reinforcement. “I want you to go to each person and offer them words of comfort throughout the night. If anybody cries out, remember tonight you are me. And make sure you walk quietly around the perimeter when you approach them. If you need to be sick, then be sick. But make sure you fulfill your duty! Can you do this? Can you conduct yourself in a way that is mythic?”
His huge black outline stood before me. The forest surrounding us continued to spin wildly. Inexplicable shapes—part carnivalesque, part animated fauna—swarmed everywhere. Colored lights popped in and out of existence. I fought the urge to be sick again—it was too much. Sensing a dent in my resolve, he shook me again, and rumbled, “My brother, can you do this?’
I was a grown man, yet he made me feel like a callow adolescent.
“Yes.”
“Good. Now listen! Ben will not be able to help you tonight. He has a special task of his own to fulfill. He has his own demon he needs to deal with, and that is what he will do. He has now gone inside himself. You cannot count on him to help you.”
I groaned. Bollocks! I’d been counting on Ben tonight. Now, spinning out, with the prospect of support withering, I pleaded inwardly that this night wouldn’t erupt into a dark ordeal. My mind then raced back to something Richard, at La Kapok Center, had said “People are entrusting their souls to us.” I glanced over to where Ben was lying on a mattress in the circle. I could barely make out his form, his arms folded across his chest. Jesus, this was going to be monumental. I fought the urge to puke my guts out, and with mind spinning I wondered how Andreas and Ben coped, dispensing compassion and kindness throughout the ceremony while tripping on a gut full of ayahuasca. My admiration rose to new heights.
I bumbled back to the chair. Everywhere I looked kaleidoscopic colors sparked out of the darkness, intricate patterns drenched everything, the air was saturated with pulsing energy as if it were alive. Synesthesia enveloped me; colors and shapes had sounds; senses crossed wildly. I began to seriously doubt that I could cope. I sat down in the chair and breathed deeply; trying to control it all helped me to settle my bewilderment. Taking stock, I regained my bearings. This was supposed to be a privilege . . .
It wasn’t long before I heard the first person cry out. “Andreas!’
I sprang to my feet. It was Julian, the American. I made my way over as quietly as I could.
“Julian, it’s Alex. Listen! Tonight I’m running the ceremony, remember? If you need Andreas, I’m acting on his behalf. I can give you whatever you need. How can I help?”
“It’s my chest. It feels tight.”
I ran my torchlight along the length of his body. He was wrapped up unnecessarily tightly in too many layers and covered with a blanket. “OK, you’re overheating. Believe me, I know what that’s like. Take off the blanket, remove your coat—there’s no need to boil up. Just keep your T-shirt on and keep the blanket draped over your top half. It’ll keep the insects off.”
Once he was comfortable, I walked into the middle of the circle and took a long moment to reflect. I was surrounded by twenty souls journeying under the influence of one of the most powerful psychedelics on the planet, each sending out their own strong personal intentions for insight, healing, and hope. My own mind was reeling from the ayahuasca. Despite the eye-popping alchemy, I was sober enough to appreciate that I was able to move about at will—still able to think and talk. I felt responsible for the welfare of the people around me. We were in the world’s largest rainforest, camped next to the most powerful river on Earth. The moon beamed expansively, its power reaching down—it had to be seen to be believed, like a smaller version of the sun. The shamanas were singing beautifully, their songs sounding as natural as the insects and frogs of the jungle. It was perfect. I embraced it, and my arms instinctively reached up to the sky, stretching toward the moon. I could feel the energy from the atmosphere seeping into me as a potent power. The straighter my arms stretched skyward, the more energy I felt channeled down and into me. It was enchanting. I dropped my arms and walked over to the shamanas and faced them. My hands moved together into a prayer position, and I bowed the lowest bow of my life, a bow infused with respect and endless gratitude. Words cannot express the love and sincerity I felt. I bowed over and over. The power of their icaros was incredible: I stood in front of a wall of fluid sound energy that reverberated through me. In contrast, the prospect of assuaging an angry god with pathetic human negotiation was revealed as ridiculous historical folly. Surrender. Yield. Accept this is the path for infinite power—the supreme benevolence.
With growing delight I realized that what I was feeling was intense pleasure. The intention was working! I was on a rocket ship of pleasure, propelled on a course to the heart of the ineffable. Artists and musicians have navigated these realms for millennia, and I had become an initiate.
The insight led me to turn to bow to all of the voyagers, one by one. There was that feeling again—a compelling feeling of interconnectedness. This wasn’t about me. It was about us. We are evolving into a single global civilization. The Internet is proving this. A collaborative, always on, planetary hive mind.
I checked on everyone individually, walking as stealthily as I could around the outside of the circle, wearing battered old desert combat trousers. I felt like the ex-marine in the film Avatar (the opening line of the movie is “There’s no such thing as an ex-marine”) when he lands for the first time in a rainforest on a new world, in his avatar body. He had physically regenerated, and in his new environment everything looked different. I too, felt as if I were in an avatar body. I looked the same but inwardly had changed. And like the rainforest in the movie, while I was under the influence of ayahuasca, the Amazon around me was captivatingly bizarre and beautiful.
I knelt beside Robert and put my hand on his heart, bent my head close to his ear, and said, “Trust. Truth. Peace. Forever and ever and ever and ever . . .”
I put my hand on Giselle’s heart whispering, “You are perfect and always will be. Love lives inside of you. You are love.”
Clearly, when it comes to compassionate creativity, I was no heavyweight, but I was doing my best under the circumstances, with all my senses reeling and my heart wide open. At times I felt completely connected, at others conspicuously inept. I’m no holy man, no shaman. Those skills take years of hard training to acquire, and I’d had no such training. When self-doubt or feelings of inadequacy crept back, I forced myself to be mindful that I was imposing limiting beliefs on myself, and I recovered the capacity to be compassionate.
I saw someone sit up on the far side of the circle. It was Pietro. I walked over putting my arm around his shoulder. “Pietro, are you OK? Do you need anything?’
“My bucket . . .”
I passed him the bucket, and he puked hard into it, the harshness competing with the ethereal sound of the icaro. Robert was sitting up, too, and I heard him purge. It was often like that—one person’s retching would set off a daisy chain of vomiting.
Everything was going smoothly until I noticed the silhouette of someone else sitting up. I went over to investigate and found Anna, obviously in distress. She had her head in her hands. Peering through the dark, we looked at each other. Her eyes pleaded with mine as she uttered words I will never forget. She stared up from her mattress at me and implored, “Suck it out!”
“I’m sorry—what?”
No chance that I’d misheard. She begged. “Please, please, just suck it out!”
Jesus Christ— my eyes rolled under the cover of darkness—you have got to be fucking kidding! I am in way over my head here! I didn’t have the knowledge to suck out a bad spirit, or whatev
er it was, from a troubled woman in the throes of powerful visions.
“You need to stare it down, Anna. Face it! This is not an option. Don’t let it feed on your fear. Give it your full attention! Don’t let it deceive you. Tell yourself everything is as it should be.”
But she was getting more desperate by the moment. I had to do something. So I composed myself, grasped her head with both hands over her ears, bent my head, and burrowed my face deep into the hair on the top of her head—and sucked. I sucked and sucked as hard as I could—deep, deep, deep. Then exhaled with equal power, spewing out every remnant of anything energetic that I’d inhaled that could be spiritually foul. I wasn’t taking any risks, making sure every vestige of air sucked in was spat out. I repeated the process several more times. After several attempts, it was clear that I’d failed. She was still writhing and in considerable distress. I sucked at sucking. Time to get help.
I found Andreas and explained. He listened intently, his response typically oblique. “You must stand tall like a God and have confidence to face any man—or anything—anywhere. I know you have this capability. Do you understand me? Do you believe me? Tonight you must become mythic!”
I understood, but believing him was an entirely different matter. No doubt he’d be great for morale in a firefight, but right here, right now, spirits appeared to be swarming, not bullets.
Luckily his appraisal of the situation included more than just little ole me fronting it out against her demon. He directed me to go to César and get his help. I suspected that César was about to perform the Shipibo shamanic equivalent of an exorcism. Relief surged—everything was going to be OK. We had a plan. I could do this with César’s help. I really didn’t know Anna that well and wasn’t entirely convinced that it was a bad spirit causing her distress. In all likelihood, Anna was manifesting some psychological issue that ayahuasca was exacerbating. But the shaman in me wouldn’t be fully squelched. If this was a possession, I wanted help.