Introduction
I’ve been called many things over the past few years: free spirit, nomad, transient. I guess it comes with the territory of not having a permanent address and jetting around multiple countries and continents.
So, after over two years of being “on the road”—or a plane—I find myself here...
My eyes sweep across the room as I settle into my chair. The walls are painted white with a subtle hint of gray, reminding me of the institutional colors commonly found in hospitals or dentists’ offices. Chairs line the walls, and in the corner, there is a pile of blue mats that look like they’re intended for stretching or landing gymnastics moves.
At the front of the room, there is a table with figurines of the Hindu god Ganesh and a small Buddha. They’re surrounded by an assortment of beads and colorful crystals. Hanging above the table is a portrait of Jesus with the Portuguese inscription, “Jesus cu confio en vos,” which loosely translates to “Jesus, I trust you.” The room is quiet with no sound from the outside world. There is no breeze, which makes the air feel stuffy.
On the corner of the table sits the ceremonial tea, ayahuasca. Referring to it as a “tea” feels somewhat misleading. It looks much thicker than tea, instead resembling a dense, brown tar.
Felipe, my shaman and the owner of this healing center in São Paulo, Brazil, sits across from me. When standing, he’s about six feet tall. He wears small, circular, rimmed glasses and a simple white t-shirt paired with dark blue shorts. Maybe I’ve watched too many Hollywood films, but this isn’t the mental image I get when I hear the word “shaman.” I’d envisioned a person with long, flowing hair wearing a robe and maybe a headdress. In contrast, Felipe looks like a regular, everyday person, like someone you’d see at the local corner store. He’s the middle-aged man you might pass while looking for a shaman.
To be fair, Felipe might be thinking something similar about me. After all, how should a first-time attendee of an ayahuasca ceremony be dressed? I was given guidelines on what to do and what not to do before the ceremony, like abstaining from sex and alcohol, staying hydrated, minimizing meat consumption, and opting for fruits and vegetables instead—practices I ought to incorporate more routinely into my daily life anyway. But when I reviewed the extensive list, I couldn’t find any guidance on what to wear. It’s entirely possible that my black leggings and loose white t-shirt are inappropriate for the ceremony. And yet, my primary focus seems to be on Felipe’s choice of clothing.
It’s comical how preoccupied I am with our outfits. One would assume that clothing is probably the least of a person’s concerns when preparing for what some ayahuasca users describe as an otherworldly, transcendent, out-of-body experience.
If that’s truly what I’m about to undergo, our attire should be of little concern. I should probably redirect my focus toward more pertinent questions, like: What should I expect? What if things take a distressing turn? How long will this “journey” last? And is there a contingency plan or magic word in case I wish to return to my body early?
I sit up straight with my legs crossed and my hands resting on my lap. I’m surprised at how calm I am. It’s a similar feeling to sitting and drinking coffee with a good friend. My heart isn’t pounding like I thought it would—like it does when I’m about to do something that’s out of my comfort zone. Being here feels right. After a few years of travel, I’ve hit a wall. Recently, I find myself asking, What is the purpose of all this travel? Where am I going next? What am I even doing? I need something more, but I don’t know what that is. I hope this ceremony will help me answer these questions.
I also want to note here that my decision to participate in this ayahuasca ceremony was not made lightly. I had several ongoing discussions with friends about their own experiences, conducted thorough research, and mulled over the decision for about two years before ultimately committing.
As a shaman, Felipe hosts up to three or four participants at a time. They come from all over South America and beyond to attend his ceremonies. He tells me that his first experience with ayahuasca was over ten years ago, and it was “life-changing.” He then pulls out his phone and shows me a video of the tea being prepared in a small town in northern Brazil, not far from the Amazon rainforest.
Felipe asks me question after question. One centers on my belief in God. I tell him that I believe in a higher power, whether it’s referred to as “God” or some other name. I know that something guides, supports, and watches over us, gently calling us back when we veer too far from our intended path. Felipe acknowledges this with a nod of his head, seeming satisfied with my answer.
His next question stops me in my tracks and forces me to sit in quiet contemplation for a few seconds:
“Do you want to get to know the plant or take a journey with the plant?”
I decide on the latter: to embark on a journey with the plant. Given that I’ve been mulling over this decision for two years, it feels right to fully commit.
This whole time, I’ve been waiting for others to show up. Now, to my surprise, I learn that I’m the sole participant scheduled for the morning ceremony. It’s just going to be me, myself, and Mother Ayahuasca—and Felipe, when his assistance is required.
I start the ceremony sitting in a chair and can’t help but notice the bucket Felipe places beside me. Apparently, the act of “purging,” sometimes described as “puking your guts out,” is not uncommon during these ceremonies. It’s regarded as a spiritual purification, a means of expelling the emotional and energetic obstructions stored within us that hinder our progress toward greater healing and transcendence. The thought of this “purging” is one of the main reasons I put off doing this ceremony for as long I did. After all, why would I intentionally drink something that would make me sick? Ultimately, though, my need for answers and my desire to connect with my inner guidance system became stronger than my fear of getting sick. I made peace with the idea that if it served a higher purpose, I could tolerate the temporary discomfort.
Felipe says a blessing in Portuguese and then a prayer asking that I receive the answers I seek before handing me the tea. He instructs me to down the tea in one shot due to the unpleasant taste—and to avoid any ‘pre’ purging.
I plug my nose and take the shot, followed by a candy to neutralize the taste. Even still, there is a bitter taste left behind that resembles mud.
I surrender to the music and close my eyes...
