Fade to Black

I’m no stranger to spiritual seeking. As some of you know, I’ve been shopping around for the answers to life’s biggest questions for many years. I’ve tried Buddhism, Kabbalah, Transcendental Meditation, Reiki, crystal healing. I’ve even had a dabble with channeling aliens (although I was rather young and naïve at the time).

I’m a committed yogi. A strict vegetarian. Hell, I’m a cast-iron, copper-bottomed, dippy flipping hippy!

So when around five years ago, I stumbled upon a documentary about the transformative powers of Ayahuasca, I thought that this was right up my strasse. The film uncovered some pretty strong evidence that supported the extraordinary, enlightening efficacy of this so-called ancient medicine.

And after years of esoteric experimenting, the idea of indulging in an act so seemingly tangible, so utterly irrefutable…well, it was something I simply had to try.

Nonetheless, finding the right setting in which to indulge was no easy task and it was only when I met Michelle and Ruben last year that the pieces finally fell into place. They told me they only worked with the plants in their place of provenance, with healers who had been handed down the recipe of this special brew directly from its Incan origins. This sounded like the real deal. So I signed up immediately.

Three nights ago, after years of anticipation, I finally got my first taste.

And dear God… was it fuckawful!

The ceremony was held at night. In a huge domed room. In pitch darkness. Eleven of us took part. We were each assigned a bed, a bucket to throw up in and a roll of toilet paper to mop ourselves up with, if things got messy. Don Maximo, our ayahuascaro sat at the epicenter of our circle and began proceedings by smoking a shamanic cigarette, which he then chased down with a few shakes of his wreath of dead leaves, followed by a bout of intermittent whistling. We were then each handed a cup of the foul-tasting tincture and told to set an intention, before knocking the contents back.

I asked for the medicine to show me my path.

What I got was a two-hours of earache as Don Maximo crooned his ‘Icarros’ (shamanic songs), while the rest of the group proceeded to belch, fart and vomit their way into their out of body experiences.

Not to be outdone, I stuck two fingers down my throat and threw up just so I could fit in. I then spent a further two-hours sniffing the contents of my stomach as it lay there in the bowl at the end of my bed; did a bit of crying and then fell sound asleep.

The medicine had barely touched the sides.

When I awoke a few hours later, I was apoplectic. There had been no mind-altering effects. Not so much as a speck of a psychedelic swirl. Nor even a snifter of revelation. Nada.

So I stomped straight out of the room.

The following day, as my colleagues regaled their tales of cosmic travel, communing with their ancestors and connecting with the universe, I wanted to punch myself in the face. All I could share was the frustration of spending 10 hours enduring absolutely nothing, in total darkness. Spiritually speaking, I felt like an amoeba. My hair still wet from climbing out of the primordial soup.

But with one more bite of the ayahuasca cherry to go the next evening, I wasn’t going to take any chances.

I demanded a double dose.

The result? Not a fuck of a lot.

Aside from some vague pain in my head, which lasted for perhaps an hour, I basically fell asleep again.

Today, as I reflect and try to make sense of my two ‘healing’ experiences, I do admit I feel different. Happier somehow. Like some weight has been lifted. But was it the medicine? Or was it the result of two unbelievably good night’s sleep – something I rarely enjoy, thanks to a decade of unceasing insomnia?

Or is it simply that, to quote Richard Farina, “I’ve been down so long it looks like up to me”?

Perhaps, as Ruben suggested in our circle this morning, the medicine was working on me subconsciously and the impact will reveal itself more gradually, later on down the line.

All I know is that I am bloody glad we’re leaving the jungle tomorrow then flying home soon after where I am very much looking forward to being back in the warm embrace of my boyfriend and my straight-talking family and friends.

Grumble in the Jungle

While there’s no denying the majesty and splendor of the Amazon, with its dense, lush and verdant landscape and the ceaseless, yet enchanting symphony of its exotic critter concert, I can’t say I’m particularly built to last in this environment.

Since arriving here via a complex choreography of interchanging planes, busses and boats, I have not stopped sweating. And as it turns out, this thick film of perspiration has rendered my flesh a smorgasbord of succulent temptation for every insect in this fucking jungle to dine out on.

Suffice to say, I am in a perpetual state of itchy, sticky irritation.

And yet, most of my comrades have had no problem embracing all that this terrain brings. They’ve sploshed about in the grimy brown broth of Amazonian waters. Saturated their bodies in the stinky mud baths that line its swampy banks. And waded through tangled labyrinths of tropical wilderness without so much as a sniff of consideration for the dangers that lurk within.

I just don’t think “devil may care” is part of my programming.

That’s not to say I haven’t tried to feign an airy halo of nonchalance. I spent a good 48 hours or so doing the whole ‘fake it to make it’ routine. I exuded nothing but graciousness towards the local “ayahuscaro” (healer) as he battered my head with a shriveled bunch of leaves and blew smoke in my face in honor of our inaugural blessing. I ballyhooed bon mots of “awesome”, “wow” and “amazing” during a boat trip to spot pink dolphins, when in actual fact all I really caught sight of was an amorphous blur of wet mammalian arse. And I have generously extolled delight and gratitude at the frankly bland and tasteless culinary offerings that have been peddled at us during mealtimes.

But in the end I thought, who am I fucking kidding?!

Since then, I’ve been more or less consigned to the hermetically sealed environment of my room, where I have either splayed myself out on my bed, under the soothing wafts of the fan, or lolled around languidly on the hammock that hangs in my equally enclosed, netted veranda.

Added to all this discomfort has been the horrible inconvenience of being outrageously constipated. I don’t think I’ve been able to squeeze out so much as a high-pitched fart since I left Urubamba and consequently, my stomach is now about as distended as an African famine baby’s.

But then I don’t know who is more full of shit…me, or the one or two rather more happy clappy members of the group that I find myself trapped here with. Thanks to them, there’s a somewhat interminable whiff of spiritual bullshit around these here parts. Then again, different strokes for different folks – I mean, who am I to question other people’s metaphysical proclivities?

But tomorrow begins the first of our Ayahuasca ceremonies. My chance to finally communicate with the cosmos. And if ‘Mother’ really does know best, then I hope she brings me something to assuage all these tribulations – along with the spoonful of tolerance I need to survive the remainder of this trip without doing or saying something I might deeply regret.

Apu Do You Think You Are

I should have twigged on the flight out here upon discovering that I’d been seated next to the world’s most flatulent man that this trip was going to be somewhat overpowering. But as uncomfortable as those 13 long and smelly hours were, they in no way compare to the agonizing experiences I’ve endured since I landed 6 days ago.

Not that I’m complaining. I’m not doing this for shits and giggles. That said, had I known just how much ‘work’ this was all going to entail, I undoubtedly would have opted for a fortnight in Spain instead.

I am currently in Urubamba, in the Sacred Valley of the Incas. A mystical place that is nestled between the bucolic foothills and snowy peaks of the Andean mountains…or Apus as the folks here call them. I don’t really have the words to convey the beauty of this place. It is quite simply breathtaking.

I’m here with a mixed group of people who, like me, are searching for some perspective on the challenges that life has thrown at them. Under the guidance of a great Peruvian Shaman called Ruben and his American colleague Michelle, who together run a retreat called Shamanic Space, my cohorts and I are being gradually exposed to the wisdom and medicine of the ancients.

So far, we’ve undergone a succession of ceremonies, involving plant medicines, sound healings, crystals, inner journeying and in my case, a significant amount of spewing, shitting and crying.

The opening gambit was a shamanic offering, held by three fifth generation Inca ‘curanderos’ who came to bestow a sacred blessing on everyone in our circle. It was a profound and insightful experience.

Well, it was for everyone that is, but me…

Esther, a girl I feel a particularly close connection to was given the blessing of the senora – the mother, which considering she’d only discovered she was pregnant a few days ago, couldn’t have been more pertinent. Paul, a somewhat reserved and introspective chap was awarded the blessing of wisdom and told that he had the potential to be a healer.

Yet somehow all they managed to conjure up for me was some half-arsed blessing of the Apu. A mountain.

Naturally, I was devastated.

I mean, what the hell was I meant to do with a fucking Apu?

Swallowing the urge to shout, scream and generally kick-off, I decided to see what the next ceremony would bring. This one was going to be huge. It involved the drinking of a cactus concoction called San Pedro, which is meant to elicit huge breakthroughs.

But no.

All it brought me was a full-blown, full-body breakdown. I spent the whole session crying. The only discovery I made was that I was a total and utter mess.

All the shit I thought I’d dealt with over the last decade or so had come back to haunt me…The traumas of my early childhood...The collapse of my marriage…The assorted belly-flops that have punctuated my somewhat checkered career. And the heartbreak of last year’s tumour. This parade of fuck-ups high-kicked and waved jazz hands at me for three solid hours. This was my medicine. And it was one mother-fucking bitch slap.

I left the circle feeling empty, lonely and overwhelmingly nauseous. My search for answers had been reduced to yet another epic fail.

I wanted to get the first plane home.

Instead, Ruben sent me to bed with a large black rock of meteorite and a jar of sacred lagoon water. Apparently, this was going to help me to release my blockages.

I was beginning to think this whole thing was a gargantuan mistake. But I followed his instructions anyway.

That night I sobbed harder than I’ve ever sobbed in my life…and projectile ‘released’ from every orifice. I went to bed with that big ball of rock resting on my chest and the lagoon water by my side. And you know what? It was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years. When I awoke the following day, I felt considerably lighter. Something had definitely cleared.

Finally, I was getting somewhere. Or so I thought…

The following few days were wonderful. We set off for the Crystal City of Machu Pichu and had the privilege of seeing parts of that site that few tourists get to see. The place was virtually deserted and the appearance of a double rainbow made the whole experience even more magical. We completed the trip with a sound healing from a local man who had gathered all the sacred sounds from cultures around the world, delivering a complete assault on the senses.

When we returned to our retreat in Urubamba for the second of our San Pedro ceremonies, I felt fortified. As I knocked back that cup of bitter liquid, I had a sense of purpose. I was ready for whatever the plant had to throw at me – all I asked was that ‘he’ would give me the guidance I was looking for.

Instead, I fell asleep.

As this leg of my journey draws to an end, I can’t say I’ve unearthed any answers. I feel abandoned and lonely. Exhausted and empty. I’m more confused than ever and I have absolutely no idea who I am anymore.

But we’re heading to the jungle next where I will be introduced to another healing plant – Ayahuasca. She’s known as ‘The Mother’ and I hope she’ll be the one to nurture my spirit, bring me some clarity and ultimately put me back on my path.

Are You There God? It's Me, Kelly

As I stare down the precipice of my near 43 years I’m somewhat baffled. I mean, what do I really have to show for all these hard-lived years? A Decree Absolute…A media career that, since its peak a decade ago, has entered what I can only describe as a phase of turbid indifference…Oh...and a womb that’s as barren as a brick.

God knows where I went wrong. So I reckon it’s high time 'He’ and I had a little chat.

Yes, folks. I'm off on another nutty adventure. But I won’t be raiding India for any more of her enlightenment. This time, I’m off to find my woo-woo in Peru...

You see, I’ve heard about these Inca shaman who practice an ancient rite that’s said to give you a genuine connection with God / the Cosmic / the Universe – whatever you want to call it. And I’ve managed to nab a spot in their circle.

Over the next few weeks I’ll be dancing with spirit animals, vision questing with guardian angels, losing my own body weight in perspiration as I trek through dense Amazonian jungle and chucking my guts up on shamanic tree drugs as I join an array of ayahuasca ‘tea ceremonies’. I’ll be swapping my skinny jeans and stacked heels for an Egyptian white cotton Kaftan and a pair of feathered earrings and once again, I’ll be surrendering my pristinely moussed ringlets to a thicket of wild and unruly frizz.

But will any of this get me a direct line to the big guy in the sky?

I’m about to take one major leap into the unknown. I’ll definitely make mistakes. I’ll probably make an arse of myself. But you never know…I might find God…