Ayahuasca 02: The Set and Setting
The maloka at Etnikas Ayahuasca Retreat Center, in Taray, Peru.
[I am sharing my first ceremony in two parts. The first, to explain the setting and rituals involved in the lead up to drinking ayahuasca. The second, to describe my experience of the medicine]
6:18 p.m.
Read the clock on my phone. I lock it, and tuck it neatly under my pillow. I would not be needing it where I was going tonight.
On my bed, I have laid out the items specified by the retreat leader:
two liters of water,
a roll of toilet paper, and
a 1-liter bottle of electrolyte drink from a pharmacy in Cusco.
I place these items in a backpack, along with my journal and pen, an amethyst geode, an extra jacket, and a sleep mask to use as a blindfold.
I make my way down the exterior metal staircase from my third floor room, arriving at a cement landing flanked by a nicely landscaped garden—a well-manicured expanse of grass, flower beds, and fruit trees—criss-crossed by rustic stone pathways, all leading to the heart of the walled retreat property: the Maloka.
“Maloka” is a word used by the indigenous people of Northern Peru and Columbia that means ‘cabin’. The Maloka here at Etnikas Ayahuasca Retreat Center in Taray, Peru, is a hexagonal, thatched-roof structure, with one main entrance and only very small windows, situated high up on each of its six walls.
The maloka is where ayahuasca ceremonies are held, in the case of Etnikas, nearly every night of the week, year-round.
Nervous, I drop my bag on the cement landing, and start to do some stretches, as if I’m preparing for a Pilates class. A few of my fellow retreat go-ers are already congregating here, as the rest filter out of their rooms and join us. The six of us loiter outside, sharing quiet jokes and nervous laughter. None of us have done ayahuasca before.
After a few minutes we can stall no longer, as we are summoned inside by our retreat coordinator, “Mariana.”
We file into the dim room, lit by a single bare light bulb affixed to a beam near the apex of the thatched roof, nearly 20 feet overhead.
On the wood floor, around the perimeter of the large room, are pre-arranged spots for each participant — six in total for this evening, spaced about four feet apart and arranged against four of the room’s six walls. Each place consists of a padded mat, a sleeping bag, a couple of folded wool blankets, and a large overstuffed pillow leaning upright against the wall. Each spot also has a plastic bucket next to it, for the inevitable purging that would take place later that evening.
The shamans—a Shipibo “maestro” and Andean Q’ero priest—sit cross-legged on pillows, along the wall closest to the door, donning traditional ceremonial garb and decorative hats of their respective tribes. The Q’ero priest, “Angel,” greets us with a big smile, while the Shipibo, “Pablo,” stares ahead stone-faced, making eye contact with no one. He is the primary conductor of this ceremony, as ayahuasca originates from his tribe’s region, in the Amazonian jungles of Northern Peru.
I find an unclaimed spot situated closest to Maestro Pablo, and get into my sleeping bag, noticing a chill in the air. The resident nurse, “Camila,” donning scrubs, comes over and kneels next to me. She wants to check my blood pressure and pulse, to ensure I am healthy enough for what can be a physiologically intense experience.
Worried that my nervousness might spike my vitals, I begin breathing slowly and mindfully, trying to quell my nervous energy. Camila gives me the all clear. I breathe a sigh of relief, but almost immediately realize her blessing feels more like a sentencing—there is no “out,” no turning back now.
“We begin this ceremony...
...with a ritual for protection.” Mariana, our coordinator, announces suddenly, prompting us to stand at the front of our mats. Camila comes around with two metal bowls, one containing water, and the other soil. I take a pinch of soil, placing it in my left palm, and dip the fingers of my right hand in the water, rubbing them together to form a dirt-paste. I rub the resulting mixture over my forehead, through my hair, to my neck, and repeat this motion two times, per Mariana’s demonstrations.
The other participants follow suit, and Mariana shows us the next phase of the ritual. Camila comes around again, this time with two bottles of floral essences — and pours about a teaspoon of each in my outstretched palms, one in the left, the other in the right. I rub these together, and then spread the strong-smelling blend over my head, hair, neck, arms, torso and legs.
My fellow participants and I sit down, and a solemn mood descends on the room. Most are sitting silently, eyes closed, in apparent meditation or prayer. I close my eyes too, and check in with myself, remembering my intention.
I hear the door open.
The resident doctor “Isabella,” enters the maloka, and begins to whisper in consultation with Mariana, who has seven clear glass cups set out in front of her, each one encircled with a dozen or so horizontal ridges on the insides of its walls. Lining them up on the floor, she produces a glass stopper-top bottle of dark brown liquid, the ayahuasca. “PLUNK” — the sound echoes around the room as she pops open the suctioned, rubber-sealed gasket. All eyes are suddenly open and intently staring at Mariana and Isabella as they determine our individual fates.
Studying information on her phone, and then lifting her stone-serious gaze to each participant in the room, the doctor whispers names and numbers. Mariana follows her direction, counting the corresponding ribs from the bottom of the vessel and, holding her finger there, pours the ayahuasca to that line, raising the cup to eye-level to ensure a precise dose for each participant.
The doctor gazes to me and I meet her eyes, straining my ears in her direction. “Quatro” she whispers, and four lines are poured for me, filling approximately one-sixth of the 12-ounce glass.
The pouring is now complete, and the glasses are handed one-by-one to Shipibo Maestro Pablo, who makes a rhythmic blowing melody from his mouth, exhaling his breath into each glass to bless the sacred brew. Nurse Camila takes each glass, and carries it to its predetermined participant.
We are all holding glasses now. I stare down into the dark brown brew, but see no reflection in the glinting sludge. Grasping it with both hands and holding it next to my heart, I silently pray my intention into the vessel.
I lift my gaze, and lock eyes with “Justin” — a fellow American guy from New York, one of my two roommates, and my closest companion in our retreat cohort. He flashes a knowing grin at me. I respond in kind, feeling my nerves relax a bit.
The final glass, with only a small amount of liquid in it, goes to the Shipibo shaman. As he blesses his cup, Mariana reminds us to wait for the shaman’s cue to drink, and to drink the entire contents of the glass in one go.
“Salud!”
Maestro Pablo proclaims energetically as he raises his glass. I am caught off guard by his alacrity, as it is the first word I’ve heard him utter tonight. We all raise our glasses in a perverted “cheers,” for the mood does not feel very cheery.
I bring the glass to my lips and my nostrils are filled with acrid fumes. Tipping the vessel up, I watch as the semi-viscous liquid flows into my mouth. I cannot recall ever imbibing a more foul-tasting substance. It is at once bitter, sour, salty, and earthy—I swallow it back trying to get it off my tongue as quickly as possible, but that offers little relief. The brew seems even thicker now, sludge-like, and sliding slowly down my throat. I think this must be what it’s like to drink used motor oil. Swallowing hard I can feel my stomach start to gurgle, and I immediately understand why most people cannot keep this medicine down.
The coordinator informs us we can rinse our mouths with water, but warns us not to swallow. I swish and spit the foaming, brown water into my bucket.
“Now, we are going to turn out the lights,” and instantly the room goes completely dark.
[This ceremony to be continued in Ayahuasca 03: “Please Mama Aya, Show Me How to Love Myself”—coming next Thursday]