Ayahuasca

I was still a little bit convinced that I was dying. — Amazonas, Ecuador

Last week, I was throwing up buckets in the middle of the Amazon rainforest.

I’d been curious about ayahuasca for a while now. It’s not the reason I came to South America, but once I was here, I couldn’t miss engaging in this tradition within its native culture. Also, yes, I was down to finally uncover the meaning of life and completely cure my anxiety, because who wouldn’t be? (For those unfamiliar, ayahuasca — a hallucinogenic plant containing DMT — has been studied extensively as a highly effective treatment to depression and anxiety).

For almost a week, I stayed with an indigenous Kichwa community in the Ecuadorian Amazon, about a 30 minutes drive (and a lengthy boat ride) from the nearest town. Like many tribes across the Amazon, the Kichwa have been utilizing ayahuasca as medicine for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Mother Aya, as she is affectionately called, is integral to the Kichwa way of life. She is so important that newborns are given a teaspoon of ayahuasca to start their lives with wisdom and health. She is considered the mother of all plants, allowing the Kichwa to connect to the soul of the Amazon. I felt so grateful to be welcomed into this community, and I knew that they would provide me with a safe, pure experience.

My casita is on the left; the Kichwa families lived in similar casitas around us.

Night One

Over the course of about five days, I would take part in three ayahuasca ceremonies. They say you should go into the ceremonies with an intention, and I had mine: I want to know what to do with my life. I knew this phase in my life gave me a fresh start, an chance to do and be anything — but there were too many options. Where do I want to live? How do I want to earn money? What do I want? Who do I want to be? All of these questions begged me for answers that I could not give.

Before our first ceremony, my group — two guys from Germany, one girl from Morocco, and I — were prepped on what to expect. First, we would be given rapé, a tobacco mixture blown into our nose to open up our third eye (the rapé left me incredibly relaxed, with my sinuses clearer than they had ever been). Then, we would sit for a limpia, which translates to cleaning. An elder would cleanse negative energy around us as we prepared for our experience. After the limpia, we were given our cup of ayahuasca. We’d drink the medicine, follow it with a glass of water, and then take a few breaths by the fire before sitting back down on our floor mattresses. There, we’d wait for the medicine to do its work.

A picture of the maloka (on the right) during the daytime, in an area that functions a bit like a town square. In the open air setup, a smokey fire (and multiple layers of clothing) kept us protected from mosquitos during the overnight ceremonies.

Ayahuasca is best known as a purging medicine. For most, this takes the form of near constant vomiting. For many, it also comes out the other end. The lucky few (none were in my group, though I hoped it would be me) purge in different ways — crying, laughing, something of the sort. This purge is highly important and believed to cleanse the body of illness, ailments, and trauma. (Many stories have circulated about ayahuasca curing cancer and other diseases; this study reports that ayahuasca does have antiviral and anti-tumor effects.) After I swallowed my ayahuasca and sat back down on my mattress, I cradled my bucket (generously provided to us all) and waited for the magic to happen.

As soon as I started puking, I realized I had no idea what I had gotten myself into. I had prepared my brain for fear, for panic, but not for this intense nausea that had me clutching my stomach in fetal position during the few moments between vomit sessions. An ayahuasca trip lasts for six hours; I have no idea how long I was puking for, but I was terrified it would never end. Whenever I had a moment of peace, I would try to remember why I was there: What do you want to do with your life, Zefan? Think! Is the ayahuasca telling you anything? Then, I would lunge toward my bucket, and my thoughts would change: What have I done to my body? I’ve literally ingested poison. This is horrible. I am never doing this again.

Eventually, I reached for my bucket less and less frequently; after what I assume to be a few hours, I was done purging, and stared at the ceiling of the maloka while clutching my stomach. I was done asking myself questions, angry that ayahuasca had made me terribly sick without bothering to provide me with any grand revelations. I laid there listening to the hundreds of insects making noise across the Amazon, waiting for it all to end.

And then, I felt something pleasant. Something I had felt perhaps once or twice before. A feeling that I was intertwined, inseparably, from the universe, from everything around me. Some describe it as ego death, the loss of a distinct sense of self. I imagined the universe as a circle, and I — along with everything else — was running across its perimeter, all at once, like light. I basked in the comfort of being everything and nothing, until I fell asleep.

The light of dawn woke us up, and we returned to our casitas. I clutched my stomach for the rest of the day, convinced that this was all a waste of my time and I would never do it again. I’ve experienced ego death before. While it was beautiful to experience again, it wasn’t what I came here for. I could get there without the constant puking.

During the day, we’d go on various excursions in the Amazon. One of the days, we climbed up to an awesome mirador, or viewpoint, with sweeping views of the rainforest.

Nights Two & Three

When I complained to a friend back home, telling him I was done, he convinced me to finish what I started — so at 9pm that evening, I found myself again under the maloka, sitting for a limpia, anxious about the hours ahead. I vowed to spend that night asking myself questions a little less rudely; instead of demanding to know what I wanted to do with my life, I would reflect on: What makes me happy?

I took ayahuasca two more times on this retreat — three in total — and these experiences were much more pleasant than the first (read: less puking, though still a lot).

Less purging gave me more time to sit with the ayahuasca as DMT flooded my brain. The second night, I thought about how, even though my own self wasn’t distinct from the universe, it was also the only thing that I could be 100% sure existed. For someone who spends most of their waking moments looking for approval from others, this was poignant. I felt that none of this approval was real, and in some weird way, nobody else was as real as I thought them to be. I was the realest thing, the only real thing.

On the third night, I was convinced my heart had stopped beating. I felt it beat twice, and then I felt it stop. I looked for it in my chest, panicking that I couldn’t find it. I almost called someone over to raise the alarm, hoping that the jungle clinic would have a defibrillator, but decided to wait.

For some reason, I let myself accept my death. I thought about my life in total — and was relieved to feel that, in total, I was somewhat satisfied. Then, I thought about the unavoidable reality of death, and that whether it was now or later, I would have to face it. For all my big questions, no matter how well I answered them, I would die. They seemed smaller, less important. Getting the “right” answer felt like a futile exercise. Nothing I did actually mattered — and that felt awesome. My only responsibility in this world was to do good and to have fun, and face the end peacefully when it came.

Canoe was a common way for members of the community (and us) to get around.

The Answers

I didn’t walk away from my ayahuasca experience with Mother Aya telling me to go start an avocado farm in Gabon. I didn’t have visions of mystical spirits revealing my most hidden traumas or answering my deepest questions. I didn’t have answers to any of my questions; my anxiety about the future was not cured. Everything I had discovered, I — on some level — already knew. (A friend described my experience as a Kung Fu Panda moment.) However, I did walk away with a sense that the questions I had weren’t as paralyzing as I made them to be. I can take time to figure the answers out, and those answers don’t have to impress or be approved by anyone else. In the end, my joy will be all that mattered. And if I can’t get my answers right now, I’ll take my peace.

What I’m Up To

This week, I’m in Cuenca, Ecuador. Considered one of the safest cities in South America, I’m enjoying a little break from watching my pockets — and my phone — so closely. There’s a thriving expat community, mostly of retired Americans looking for a temperate, affordable town with quality healthcare. I’ll be spending a month in Cuenca to slow down a bit before I cross the border to Peru.