Biting the Bucket with Ayahuasca

How does it feel to die and be resurrected?

It wasn’t until I was vomiting neon snakes again in the middle of my second ceremony that I started to have real doubts about taking ayahuasca.

The evening before had been a mixed affair. I had lost control of reality almost immediately, spent an eternity staring into the abyss of my bucket and then experienced my own death in terrifying detail. However, the extreme euphoria of finding myself alive on my return was a high I had never experienced. A score draw then.

Ayawhat?
Ayahuasca is a traditional spiritual medicine that has been used for centuries and possibly millennia by the indigenous people of the Amazon basin. Translations can vary from the ominous “the rope of death” to the slightly less ominous “the vine of the soul”. It’s a brew made from two plants with the main ingredient being from a vine which contains the hallucinogenic drug DMT.

You may be surprised to hear that DMT is found naturally in many plants and animals. The science is far from concrete, but it’s believed that humans may produce it in the pineal gland and that it may flood our brains just before we die. The more extreme views held by some suggest that ayahuasca is a gift from a higher power which opens up portals to other dimensions. Spanish and Portuguese missionaries thought similar in the 16th century by declaring it “the work of the devil”. Although I’m sure the pious bores said the same when first encountering chocolate and potatoes.

DMT is by all accounts safe in that you can’t overdose and it’s not addictive. It has been known to trigger schizophrenia, but only to those who were predisposed to it. The rare deaths associated with it tend to involve tobacco poisoning as part of a separate cleansing ritual. It should be noted that you can’t mix it with certain antidepressants or you will most likely die from a serotonin supernova. It can now be extracted and smoked to provide a quick and intense ten minute trip. I’ve only read recounts, but DMT seems akin to watching a trailer for a summer blockbuster whilst ayahuasca is like an eight hour space opera in which you need to play every role.

Why?
If you’re cynically assuming these ceremonies are simply just westerners meditating in a hut then you would be quite correct. However, the demographic is less that of a backpacker hostel and more of a retreat for the long-term emotionally damaged. Ayahuasca is not a recreational drug and it’s certainly not a fun or cheap high. It’s probably best described as a journey of spiritual healing. I knew very little about it until some friends proposed the idea. We were initially quite flippant before doing some research. However, it’s fair to say I was still embarrassingly cocksure beforehand:

That’s not to say I wasn’t one of the long-term emotionally damaged. It’s just that the others had prepared themselves. Some had childhood trauma. Some had addictions. Some had family issues. Some had depression. I didn’t have any of those. Well, that’s not really true. I’ve most likely had mild depression since puberty, but like most Scottish men my age I tend to just get on with life and hope it doesn’t engulf me one day.

The real problem I had developed in the past year though was an overwhelming nihilism. It’s funny that I lived through those nu-metal vain pain years only to succumb to such shameful patter as a grown man. Nevertheless, I walked about the past winter with an existential dread which left me not so much sad as just completely empty inside. There is a certain type of physical pain that comes with a bad bout of depression, but nihilism is a flavourless and sterile despair. It felt like a light bulb inside of me had blown and I struggled to replace it. How many nihilists does it take to change a light bulb? It doesn’t matter. I did search how to mediate once and moments later my laptop charger exploded. A fitting metaphor for my mental health.

It was therefore a welcome coincidence that I found myself lined up to take ayahuasca at the time I needed it most. I was told by someone that it was the medicine calling me. I wondered if it only contacted those who could afford a ticket to South America. Indeed, we had opted for a retreat near the historic and beautiful city of Cusco in Peru. It took safety very seriously with nurses, a doctor and a psychiatrist all on site. All of us were based in an old house with stunning mountain views and friendly dogs. It was very relaxing. It did occur to me that perhaps all I needed was a holiday rather than the world’s most powerful psychedelic.

The first trip
The ceremony took place in a circular hut called a maloca. Each participant had their own spot comprised of blankets, pillows and the famous purge bucket. It’s this “organic” reaction that makes ayahuasca distinct. It can occur in many forms, but it’s mostly vomit. After a few nervous minutes I was handed a calculated measure of a viscous and lumpy brown mixture. The shaman had blown wild tobacco called mapacho in the cup in order to protect it from bad spirits. This addition made it feel even more like I was drinking the contents of an ashtray left out in the summer rain.

We drank in unison and sat quietly as a single flame was lit in the centre. I was excited, but even in the darkness I could read the apprehensive faces of the others. This made me panic at the worst possible moment that I hadn’t prepared myself properly. I tried to think of a focused goal as the shaman began chanting the first of his songs called an icaro that help guide the ceremony. It was too late now. I was strapped in. I shamed myself by settling on “be happy” which is the sort of mass produced IKEA nonsense people have on their bedroom wall.

Thankfully, the medicine began to kick in after about 15–20 minutes. I was in between my friends and both became sick quite quickly. I felt concerned for them, but soon noticed my vision change as the floor and wall slowly merged together. A throbbing distortion started to grow from inside my ears. I looked at my hands and they began to shimmer and leave a trail in the air as I turned them over.

What generally happens next to most is the casual introduction of some playful colourful fractals. These are referred to as the sacred geometry. You would probably recognise them as generic Aztec or Inca art. You’ll find them on gringo tourist tat, but they’re believed to show the complex vibrational make-up of the universe. It’s like looking through a kaleidoscope except the kaleidoscope is looking through you. That still sounds pleasant whilst what happened next to my own audiovisual experience is what I imagine it’s like to be in a disintegrating spaceship as it hurtles into the fucking sun.

Each trip can only really be understood by the individual, but nevertheless many have tried their hand at explaining. Unfortunately, it’s similar to a colleague describing a dream they had about making pottery with David Bowie. An intriguing premise at first, but ultimately a truly mundane endeavour. The more spiritual commentators often assert that Mother Earth or more accurately Pachamama guided them through their journey. My own was quite traumatic, but then I suppose some mothers abandon their children in hot cars.

The next thing I remember is that I couldn’t remember. I had forgotten that I was in Peru and that I had taken anything. I knew I was in a room, but I couldn’t see or comprehend anything past my own mat. I was kneeling over the bucket in the position we had been instructed to do. I could feel that I had been sick, but I had no recollection. I became aware that I was hyperventilating. I then felt a hand rub my back which immediately calmed me down. This was not a hallucination, but instead was a wonderfully kind nurse who I was later told sat with me for close to an hour.

Eventually, I managed to pull it together for brief moments of clarity. The nurse insisted that I drink water in order to continue the purge. I was surprised at how strong it had hit me. It reminded me of the time a goalkeeper missed the ball and punched me in back of the head. The Scottish treatment for concussion in the 90’s was to run it off in case you’re wondering.

Ayahuasca really does work its way through you. The most common imagery is that of a snake and this is often associated with the vine itself as it twists and turns inside. I must agree with the comparison as I could feel it actively wriggling deep down as well as connecting with my mind. The medicine shows you a reflection of your inner self in a broken mirror and begins to examine every crack.

My emotional barriers started to come down and I began apologising profusely for needing help and worrying that my vomiting was ruining it for everyone else. This transformed into a wandering need for confirmation that I was doing good. I was then surprised to find myself recognising a need for approval or validation from others. It was something I wouldn’t have self-analysed beforehand. It’s quite a negative trait although I acknowledged it came from a desire to make everyone content. I realised that this had led to unnecessary stress and self-hatred on my part. I was pleased at such instant therapy in exchange for only a few vomits.

The nurse told me that I was purging the darkness in me and I truly believed her. My cynical core had gone and I felt overwhelming compassion and love from her. I thought things were going to be alright, but then the shaman cranked up the icaro speed and reality began to slip away once again. The nurse rubbed my back once more and told me that I was stronger than the medicine, but by then the first round of neon snakes had appeared and I wasn’t so sure.

I found myself caught in a terrifying purge loop that felt like an eternity. I say that with sincerity as my concept of time itself began to vanish. The nurse would force me to down as much water as I could. I visualised it as a glowing snake going deep into where the vine was twisting. It would then collect the darkness and I’d expel both. I was panicking at being stuck in such a predicament, but tried to embrace each vomit as best as I could. At times I thought it would never stop. It felt like this was now my life and that this is the way it had always been. It did come to an end though because I died.

The death
It’s difficult to remember and almost impossible to explain. This is because I didn’t exist anymore. There was no “I” remaining to try and process what was happening. I had what was called an ego death. It’s a term I find to be both underwhelming and melodramatic. People mostly associate the ego with that of self-esteem or self-importance. However, in psychoanalysis it’s described by the likes of Carl Jung as the feelings of identity comprised of thoughts, emotions and memories. It’s basically what makes us human and what makes you an individual.

There are four stages of ego death. The first is basic confusion and lack of focus. The second is a near total collapse of short-term memory. The third is when the long-term memory begins to fail which is the beginning of the fragmentation of the self. The person may be unable to recall loved ones, details of themselves and even language. The fourth and highest level is where it all really kicks off though with complete loss of both short and long-term memory. Basically, your ego vanishes and therefore so do you.

I’ve since read hundreds of accounts of psychedelic trips to find trauma companions. A full blown ego death appears to be somewhat rare. It’s amusing that so many people seem desperate to achieve one. I didn’t want it at all. I was told the post-purge was meant to be a nice flashback of my life. I was promised the generic clip show episode of a waning sitcom, but instead got the equivalent of Apocalypse Now. Dubbed in Dutch. On VHS. Being rewound.

It came in waves with each one increasing with intensity. Occasionally in a trough I would have a glimpse of reality, but only for long enough to reflect on the utter horror of the situation. The concept of time had long gone by this stage. Seconds. Hours. Past. Present. Forward. Back. It meant nothing. I was just there. I had always been there. I wasn’t in the hut. I wasn’t in Peru. I was there. I felt a degree of comfort with my bucket. It was acting as an anchor, but eventually even that started to go. I bent my head down and instinctively bit the plastic rim.

I was now losing the war of attrition with my mind. The real panic and fear began to set in now as my ego was being stripped down further and further with each wave. It was the constant disintegration of my memory. I could feel the increasing pulsation and vibration as each layer of my self was blown away in the wind. At small intervals it almost felt liberating as all worries, regrets and anxiety dissolved away. I felt like I was a lump of sodium reacting in water. A ferocious struggle immediately followed by a deathly tranquillity.

My body had gone and with it my animalistic grip on the bucket. I could just about sense my core self whatever that meant. I was in absolute terror at this stage. I tried to recall the situation, but each question was met with a rebounding question. I tried to think of anything to help me, but words lost meaning and soon the concept of language itself meant nothing. There was little of me left. There were no memories or thoughts. All that remained was the briefest concept of life or existence.

That is when I began to accept that I was dying. Ego death is truly traumatic. You are dying. It isn’t some playtime drug tricking your brain. You are dying. At some stage there comes an acceptance. You are stripped down completely. There is nothing. It feels only logical to surrender and embrace it.

What follows can barely be put into words. The umbilical cord of self-identity and reality had been cut. All I can really say is that you become the universe. You become aware of the unity and how everything is connected. It was devastating and yet so calm. It all made perfect sense. I understood everything. It was where I belonged and had always been, but I didn’t exist. I wasn’t me. I was a part of it. I was it. I was everything that had ever been.

I can’t say for sure what else I fully experienced or for how long it lasted. It slowly seemed to edge off the same way it came on. I dipped in and out of the pure awareness of the universe to a realisation that I was alive and erratically shivering. The nurse soon covered me in blankets. It felt like a shell was been put on to protect me. The distortion in my ears had quietened down to an almost peaceful humming. I was still sitting up and clutching my beloved bucket.

The fear had been replaced with a sense of love and warmth. I was still hallucinating, but it had changed to a slideshow of life experiences. I had the standard highlights package of family and friends, but I also participated in some obscure memories. I found myself doing Thriller by Michael Jackson in a shady Osaka karaoke bar after being gently coerced by self-proclaimed yakuza types. I was then in a Melbourne suburb buying an R2-D2 suitcase off the pothead son of a woman who had won it at bingo. The wheel spun again and I was once again forced by my primary school teacher to do the call to prayer to the whole school in made-up Arabic wearing my grandpa’s flat cap as a costume. Again, it was the 90's.

It felt like I was being reminded of the joy and humour I used to find in the ridiculousness of life. It had somehow become corrupted. I began laughing into my bucket which soon gave way to tears of pain and sadness. The two alternated without much distinction. I ended on laughter when I concluded the last time I had cried was when Paul Gascoigne scored for England against Scotland in Euro ’96.

I couldn’t physically move and so they had to lay me down and tuck me in. It was sheer bliss. It felt like every perfect morning in bed condensed into one. I had never felt so comfortable. It was a feeling of being home and loved. I rode this euphoric wave out with thoughts of the importance of being good and that I was too harsh on myself. I felt great empathy and compassion for those in the hut and humanity in general. I thought that everyone on the planet had to go on this journey.

The ceremony had begun at 7pm and I was one of the last to leave at 2am. I was escorted outside by the coordinator who was effortlessly cool and had beautifully strong Amerindian features. The trees, mountains and sky pulsated and flashed. I sat down and asked for one of her mapacho cigarettes. It burned my lungs horrifically, but it made me feel alive. I then went to the dining area where I had the best bowl of soup in my life. A bald man called Sebastian from Toronto was also there. We exchanged a stunned glance as we struggled to find the words.

I went to sleep surprisingly easy. My friends had good trips with one enjoying a beautiful encounter with God set in the aesthetics of an 80’s Atari game. I was slightly concerned to find that whilst people had difficult times nobody else died and became space. The shaman told me that I had passed a test, but the euphoria of the first trip had worn off and I was apprehensive of doing it again. I think I partly did it just to avoid the boredom of fasting alone in an empty house. I also wanted to meet an 8-bit God. I had been put through the wringer and it was now time to collect my reward.

The second trip
The exact same thing happened all over again. I was absolutely raging.

The waiting room
The second trip did differ slightly. The purge was just as brutal, but I was able to focus quicker. It was around here where you first joined me. Of course, the nature of an ego death meant I soon completely forgot about the night before. I was lucky to experience the trauma all over again with fresh eyes.

The better tether allowed me to experience some of the more famous trademarks of DMT. These being the dramatic launch through hyperspace into different realities of colourful geometric patterns and aliens. I deliberately left this out before as you can imagine it’s quite an unhinged distraction. You can view recreations of this online, but they just look like all the screensavers from Windows 95 merged together.

I found myself stuck in what I’ve since discovered is called the “waiting room”. It’s your standard psychedelic cosmic chamber full of various entities. I was incredibly nonchalant about being in the room and felt a connection to all present. However, much like the predawn remnants of a flat party I felt I had been there too long and wanted to leave immediately. I started to panic that I had permanently damaged myself and my mind. Again, much like the predawn remnants of a flat party.

It’s at this arduous moment that the shaman saved me. He grabbed my head and shook it around like a sugared up child with a Magic 8-Ball. He then started chanting right at me and I could physically feel my mind erupting upwards towards the roof of the maloca. There was an aurora of incredibly vibrant colours surrounding him as I settled down and became aware of another shaman spitting ceremonial fragrance all over me.

The chanting was genuinely so useful and integral to the ceremony. I’ve heard it described as the oars of a canoe on the journey. My interpretation of the icaro was that of the Rainbow Road level in Mario Kart. You might keep falling off, but eventually you’ll be back on it. I suppose I got my retro video game vision after all.

I struggled to sleep that night and spent the next morning in the garden staring in wonder at the plants. I could sense how everything in nature was connected. I only stopped when I caught the concerned eye of the retreat cleaner. I was feeling quite emotionally and physically knackered by this stage. My friends had also had a rough time and we greeted new guests that morning with the confidence of shell shocked jugglers. All three of us were adamant we would never do it again. Ever.

The third trip
I’ve never been so nervous in my entire life. The shaman had praised my efforts again and promised me a reduced measure. He lied. I tried swirling it in the vain hope some of the thick space juice would stick to the side of the cup. As it happens, my last trip was about as far removed from the first two as possible. I wasn’t sick once and fully aware of the hut. I watched the birth of life from the ocean floors to the mountain tops. I felt the bond of everything from atoms and strings all the way through the atmosphere into space. I understood that life and death were not merely the beginning and end. It was a bit boring in comparison actually.

The next morning a nice English woman who had been in our original group asked me to join her for breakfast. She explained that I had appeared in her vision and had helped her through it. I was quite taken aback and approached it with care, but was also secretly wondering if the retreat would ask me to become a shaman given my apparent spiritual powers.

The return
The Baader-Meinhof phenomenon is a frequency illusion where you notice a recently acquired piece of knowledge everywhere. It has since plagued me in regards to ayahuasca. I spot references to it and psychedelics all the time, but the headline that really made me stop in my tracks involved a bald man called Sebastian from Toronto. He was brutally lynched in rural Peru after supposedly shooting dead a revered shaman. It turned out not to be the same man from my retreat. However, it brought ayahuasca into the mainstream news briefly and not in a good light. I never intended to write about my experience, but I felt the need to give an honest account from a fairly grounded and cynical perspective.

I also believe that there is huge potential in these plants to fix mental health problems across the world. There are ongoing successful trials where mushrooms are being used to treat depression and addiction. The basic science is that they can reset the default mode network in the brain as well as stimulate serotonin receptors. Ayahuasca in particular seems to have a significant response on the limbic system. This is the emotional core of the brain largely responsible for the formation of memories. This would help explain the “ten years of therapy in a night” that many use to explain their encounter with the rope of death.

I do believe we’re on the cusp of a change in attitudes towards such drugs. This was hammered home only the other week when I caught an American author called Michael Pollan on the Colbert Report. He is well-known for writing about agriculture, but he somehow got on a mainstream American show to promote his book about psychedelics. One of my first coherent thoughts as I returned to earth was that I couldn’t believe the hippies were right. They’re also slightly to blame for the lost decades of research. For example, LSD in the 50’s had no stigma and was seen as a potential cure for alcoholism. However, the carefree abuse of the drug by professionals along with the growing counterculture movement scared the establishment. By 1971 the UN had classified psychedelics as Schedule I drugs which are described as “a serious risk to public health”.

I can’t help but feel the west has a distorted view on what should be regarded as medicine. I read an article on this very site that said “millennials are now taking LSD and mushrooms as casually as someone popping an Adderall”. Adderall is basically meth in a tablet, but because it has a patented name and comes in a box then it’s accepted. We have long been detached from nature. I don’t know how much of that is (ironically) rooted in our colonial superiority. The Amazon basin is treated like a capitalist’s picnic. We patronise traditional cultures and their way of life as we destroy the lungs of our shared planet.

I would have called myself an atheist before Peru. I’d occasionally contemplate a higher power whilst enjoying a good coffee on a sunny morning, but I’m very much an agnostic now. There is something so ineffable and inexplicable about the experience that I can’t quite shake off or denounce. You can have all the debates about what is the result of a misfiring brain and what is another dimension, but the end result is the same. I lived through it all. I died and I was born again. Twice.

The broader historical significance of these plants can barely be covered. I would say there’s good grounding to believe that every major religion has origins in psychedelics whether that be “the tree of life” in the Middle-East or similar. This also extends into my interest in the theory behind the monomyth or the hero’s journey. This is believed to be the common template for every tale told from the dawn of time. The carbon copy similarity to an ego death and what this may reveal about our human core fascinates me. If you wish to escape the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon then I suggest you don’t read up on it as you’ll have every film ruined for you.

Ayahuasca is legal in Peru as part of a supervised ceremony. I really have nothing but praise for everyone involved at my retreat. I would however advise caution in your selection as the influx of foreigners such as myself seeking their own “spiritual journey” is bringing the coarseness of capitalism to many indigenous areas. This is a concern for the lands, but also a concern for vulnerable participants at the hands of chancers. I’d say this extents to underground retreats in North America and Europe too as there might be some western wolves in alpaca clothing.

The experience has definitely had a lasting and quite profound impact on me. In particular, my perspective of life has greatly shifted. I don’t really feel afraid of death, but at the same time want to live as much as possible. I recently spotted a draft tweet from last year where I stated that if life is a gift then I’d like to see the receipt. I smiled, but it also seemed a bit jarring. I was always burdened by melancholy and nostalgia, but now I seem to appreciate the present more. The daily grind is still there, but previously it felt like trying to ride a bike with no wheels whilst now the tyres are merely flat some days.

I work professionally with mental health experts and recently watched a conference that was critical of the effectiveness of both antidepressants and cognitive behavioural therapy on many people. I’ve never wanted to use either, so perhaps there are similar people to me out there. I’ll say this bluntly in the face of recent high profile suicides. The people who promote reaching out and talking mean well, but it all feels like quite empty rhetoric. The trips brutally taught me that having good people around you is essential, but ultimately you’re on your own in this world. You need to help yourself as much as you can. Ayahuasca manages to extract the raw ingredients from a cake that’s already been baked, but it’s up to you to follow a new recipe.

I have wondered what is even the point of writing this. I might as well be shouting advice into an empty car park. I’m still nihilistic, but I’ve discovered creativity can be a form of therapy in itself. Indeed, this new drive led me to cleaning out an actual bucket and setting up an LED light to try and capture an interesting image to fit my witty title. The end result looks like I’m screaming at a lamp, but perhaps it’s just my delight at finally replacing that light bulb.