Getting Discomfortable with Ayahuasca
A psychedelic trip through my own stomach taught me to embrace my biggest fears, and myself.
“Try not to vomit for at least an hour.”
Those are the words running through my head as I huddle under a blanket in a large ceremonial tent in Peru. It’s the early evening. A foreboding thunderstorm is rumbling above us, clambering through the Sacred Valley like a warning sign to turn back. But it’s already too late. A short while ago I downed a cup full of what is known as Ayahuasca. It tasted sort of like Kombucha gone bad.
Sacred to the ancient tribes of the Amazon, Ayahuasca is a hallucinogenic brew of roots and plants foraged from the jungle. This isn’t a recreational party drug, devotees call it “the work”. I’ve been forewarned that vomiting is a fundamental part of the process. It’s not a question of if I will vomit so much as when. The soft-spoken Peruvian shaman leading the ceremony, P’aqo, instructed me to keep the “medicine” down for at least an hour and a half, for best results. But suddenly it didn’t feel like I was going to make it passed the gate. I’m not good with nausea at the best of times. As the rain and thunder pummelled the tent, I could feel a wave of queasiness growing inside of me like my own private tsunami.
As a precaution, my digestive system had already been thoroughly and violently cleansed the night before with the help of a natural Amazonian laxative. Since I had been fasting more or less all day, I could now literally feel the Ayahuasca creeping around inside of me like a snake curling its way through my intestines. I could tell that the “medicine” was starting to take effect. My heart was racing, my skin tingling in the surprisingly crisp Peruvian night air. My fingers felt like they were melting into one another and I began to wonder if I could really handle where this was heading. I looked around, suddenly remembering there were a handful of other travellers in the tent for the ceremony as well. No one else had yet “purged”, as they call it, and I definitely didn’t want to be the first.
When you do Ayahuasca, or at least when I did, nausea takes on a kind of epic, primal quality. It feels like one of the fundamental forces of nature, like gravity. It’s as if nausea has always been there, haunting you. Your sworn enemy and tormentor who, it turns out, you just need to learn to accept and embrace. Or so I was told. I don’t think I ever quite learned to accept or embrace it fully. P’aqo kept urging me to “surrender, surrender, surrender”. But I wasn’t sure how exactly. Earlier in the day, he had said that my body would “know” when the time was right to let go, so not to fight it. But at the same time, he said I should try not to purge for basically as long as I could. It seemed like a contradiction. Do I fight it or surrender?
As instructed, I was taking slow, deep breaths, attempting to delay the inevitable. It was almost like I was in labour. And in a weird way, I guess I was. And then suddenly, it was coming!
The notion that I could possibly fight back seemed ridiculously naïve now. It’s happening, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. A frenzy of primordial intensity was surging up from inside me. I quickly leaned over my bucket — yes, you get your very own bucket — and before I knew it I was puking my guts out.
In the weeks leading up to the retreat, my hosts sent me strict instructions to eat only clean, chemical-free vegetarian food. I was to avoid any drugs (prescription or otherwise), as well as alcohol, and believe it or not, sex. Even masturbation was forbidden in the week before and after the ceremony. I tried my best to keep up with these provisions, so by the time I arrived I was hangry, horny, and highly hesitant.
I reached the Sacred Valley after a treacherous van ride along cliff-edge switchbacks descending from the tourist mecca Cusco. The valley is a spectacular shark jaw — row after row of mountains, many hiding Incan ruins. If it’s not the perfect place to experiment with psychedelics I don’t know what is. We reached the shaman’s modest compound in the evening the night before the ceremony. His pregnant American wife promptly blew a strange blend of tobacco up my nose with a special wooden tool. They called it Rapé (which, incidentally, was a pretty accurate way to describe what it did to my nostrils). It burned and made my eyes water profusely, creating an intense head rush. As snot poured down my face, I wondered, what have I gotten myself into this time?
The lodgings were tiny and dingy. The other inhabitants were a mix of hippies from Europe and a hairless Peruvian dog who looked not unlike one of the Gremlins from the ’80s holiday-family-horror film of the same name. I waved at one of the other guests draped in a blanket outside. No reaction. He was staring off into space like a catatonic. “He had a bit of a rough trip”, I learned from the jovial Brit with the long blonde hair and beard to match. As is my nature, I immediately felt uncomfortable. Who are these strange people? Who exactly is in charge around here? And how much was I paying for all this again?
To soothe my growing anxiety, I started pounding back the coca leaf tea they ply you with in Peru to deal with the inevitable altitude sickness (which was giving me a throbbing headache on top of everything else). But my hosts had other plans. They substituted the coca with a special Amazonian herb instead, casually mentioning that it would “take effect” later that night. They also warned me to keep my shoes and a flashlight close to my bed. And by “bed”, they meant an uncomfortable wooden cot. I had to steal a pillow off a chair in the “dining room”.
At 3 am, I discovered why having shoes and a flashlight by my bed was so essential. I awoke with intense stomach cramps. I dashed outside and across the lawn to the outhouse as the laxative tea took effect. I spent the next 30 minutes wishing the outhouse was a lot more soundproof.
The next day was a waiting game. A weird mix of boredom and nerves. The ceremony would be at night. Until then I was on my own. They said I could hike up a nearby mountain to some Inca ruins, but the scorching Peruvian heat combined with my altitude sickness and delicate stomach didn’t make traversing a cliff sound all that appealing. Instead, I passed the time reading, drinking coca tea, and probing the other guests about what to expect that night. They charmed me with stories of imagined near-death experiences, illusory out of body experiences, and literal shitting their pants experiences. Did I really have to vomit? I asked hopefully. Well, it turns out you don’t have to, per se. But remember the catatonic guy from the night before? That’s what happens when you don’t purge.
As the hours crept by, my anxiety grew and grew. I felt a bit like a prisoner awaiting execution. What would my last meal be? Oh right, nothing. We were still fasting.
When the sun went down, I retreated to my stiff cot to brood. I would describe my attitude as “grim”. Aside from all of my actual worries, the fact that I was worried at all worried me even more. I had heard from others that your mindset has a big impact on your Ayahuasca trip. In fact, I had been instructed to go into the ceremony with a series of “intentions”, things to explore under the effects of the “medicine”. Instead, here I was carrying nothing but a boatload of negativity, judgment, and anxiety. I realized that this was going to be a very bad idea. I either had to change my attitude or I had to bow out. Given the time, effort, and expense I had already invested at this point — not to mention shitting my brains out all night — I decided to attempt the former.
I started by taking notes on my phone. What was really at the core of my bad attitude? As I journaled, I realized that I felt extremely disconnected. I felt a million miles away from all my friends and family and loved ones back home (both literally and figuratively). Not only that, I was about to take some powerful drug I’d never tried at the mercy of a complete stranger in a foreign country. Sure, I’d done my research, checked references, even talked to friends of friends about this specific shaman. But still, I couldn’t help but worry, what am I doing? The whole endeavour suddenly seemed dubious at best.
I think what I craved most of all was some sense of approval from someone I trusted. I needed some validation that this adventure I was embarking on, while unknown, was okay. That this wasn’t a completely stupid or dangerous thing to do. I felt like a scared child who just needs a hug from a parent that says, “it’s alright”. But I wasn’t going to call my folks long distance and beg for approval. I needed connection here and now.
Then it hit me — a realization that would come to symbolize my entire experience that weekend. What if I just connected with the people who are already here? Sure, they were different and maybe a little kooky. But actually, as I reflected on it, I realized that they had been nothing but welcoming, friendly, supportive, and even excited for me. There was nothing wrong with these people. The problem was me! I was being judgmental. As soon as I let that judgment drop away, I discovered that not only did I already feel connected to these new people, but I already felt that sense of validation and approval I was craving from them. My change in attitude actually seemed to work retroactively. They went from “weirdoes” to friends at the flip of a mental switch. And I went from alienated and anxious to accepted and excited. In fact, now I was really excited. For some reason, I started playing Christmas music on my phone. I felt giddy all of a sudden. It was like Christmas morning.
And then it was time.
We entered a large tent draped with Peruvian textiles. Everyone got their own mat, pillow, blanket, water bottle, and of course bucket. It was cosy but spacious enough that you didn’t feel like you were going to vomit onto someone (hopefully). After some ceremonial chanting, P’aqo made the rounds with small cups of what looked in the dim light like brownish puddle water. It had a tangy, almost fermented taste that overpowered my senses but didn’t make me gag (yet). Then we all lay down and waited.
Rain began to patter on the tent, gradually building in intensity almost in tandem with the growing unease in my stomach. As I started to feel sick I sat up. Lying down didn’t seem like the smartest pose for taking quick action. Before long, the rain was battering the tent from all directions. I couldn’t see the lightning but I could hear the thunder crackling above us. I felt like I was in a movie. You couldn’t have designed a more dramatic build-up. I took deep breaths, rocking gently back and forth, anything to distract from the Trojan horse of nausea inside of me. I’d lost all sense of time. Had it been an hour already? Or just a few minutes? It was dark in the tent but no one else betrayed any signs of the impending purge. I could feel the Ayahuasca beginning to take hold physically. My body parts felt like they were fusing together. Electricity rippled through my skin. Forgetting the nausea for a moment, I was starting to worry that I might not be able to handle the effects of the drug itself.
Having vomited my fair share during university due to alcohol consumption, I knew the sweet relief that came from just getting it out of your system. I was torn between braving the waves of discomfort and actively hastening the purge. Should I just get it over with? Ultimately, it’s hard to say if I invited it or simply lost control, but suddenly that unmistakable, uncontrollable feeling was bubbling up from my gut. I assumed the position over my bucket. I heard the faint urgings of the shaman to fight it, but I was already beyond the point of no return. It was happening. And it wasn’t one of those miraculous one-and-done heaves either. It was a loud, messy, torrential, multi-stage affair involving what felt like every orifice in my face (but thankfully not every orifice in my body). The tangy Kombucha flavour was back and riper than ever.
The shaman’s wife arrived with a roll of toilet paper and I did the best I could to salvage my dignity and nasal cavity. I heard P’aqo say, “Everything is perfect”, as he often did, but I felt like I had wasted my chance. I curled up in my blanket once again, now feeling dead sober. Well, that was that, I guess. I was resigned to the fact that I had blown it. I would try to get some sleep until the ceremony was over…
But as the rain continued to fall, something strange began to happen. The sound of the raindrops bled into a sort of fantasy. In my mind’s eye, I found myself curled up in a muddy, primordial puddle — naked — being lashed by the storm. What at first seemed like a perfectly normal daydream began to take on a kind of hyper-reality. I could feel the water against my skin. The silvery moonlight, the mud beneath me, the pebbles surrounding me — it all seemed more real than what I saw when I actually opened my eyes (which continued to be a blandly sober reality). I realized that I hadn’t vomited too early. I hadn’t missed my chance. There was still some medicine inside of me!
And then P’aqo started playing music and it all went crazy. It was like hitting the nitro button. I’m not even sure what he was playing exactly. I recall a pan flute for sure, and maybe a guitar. Whatever it was, the music felt all-encompassing and otherworldly. It sounded like he was playing right inside my head. In fact, though the world around me looked totally normal whenever I opened my eyes, the sounds around me were all heightened.
As the music built, my daydream blossomed into a full-fledged lucid dream. I was tiny, surrounded by grass, mushrooms, and plants nestled amongst a lush, dewy meadow. From the shadows emerged an army of insects. They were mantis-like, some wearing elaborate metal armour. They stared at me, not threatening, but not necessarily welcoming. They went about their business as if tolerating my presence. To my child-like amazement, I discovered that amongst the grass was a kind of tinker toy metropolis. Flickering fairy lights, miniature steam-punk gears and cranks, an endless secret world that reminded me of Guillermo Del Toro meets Tim Burton. It was almost like stop-motion except that everything felt more real than “real”. It was the most vibrant, detailed, and tangible dream I’ve ever had. And I was completely awake.
I knew that Ayahuasca contained DMT, a naturally occurring chemical produced by the brain while we dream. I guess this extra hit of DMT created a kind of waking dream state. It was lucid in that it felt like I had agency within the dream world, but I couldn’t really control the dream itself. I had autonomy — I could go where I wanted — but I wasn’t the God of this realm. I suppose this is why they personify the drug as “Mama Ayahuasca”, a female deity with a mind of her own who decides what it is exactly that you need to see.
The other fascinating difference between this waking dream and a regular dream was that my ego was still active. Hyperactive even. In this altered state, my ego felt like a completely separate entity from the primary “me”. And that entity was constantly worrying and chattering. “Are we safe?” my ego chirped every few minutes. Yeah, I think we’re safe. “But what if the rain bursts through the tent?” Then we’ll get a bit wet. “What if a snake slithers inside?” The tent is closed. “But what if… what if… what if…” My ego went on like this throughout the entire experience more or less, a worried child who needed constant coddling. Though annoying, it was actually kind of cute in a way. Like C3PO, my ego was this humourously anxious but ultimately reliable sidekick along for the ride. It was suddenly so clear that my ego was just trying to keep me safe. Sometimes his idea of “safe” was entirely too safe, conservative, even judgmental or narrow-minded, but fortunately, he wasn’t in control. Mama Ayahuasca had relegated my ego to a mere backseat driver. One who easily could be, and often needed to be, overruled. Which is good, because at some points even the primary “me” wasn’t so sure I could handle what was happening.
As the music reached a crescendo, the imperious insects surrounding me did something completely unexpected. They started dancing! There were tiny campfires, delicate insect instruments, flashes of shimmering wings and jaunty mandibles. It was a magical mantis minstrel. And it was fucking hilarious! I started giggling out loud under my blanket. And then I heard another laugh, a very familiar one. I looked up to the starry night sky (in my mind, that is) and saw an old friend floating above me laughing his head off. His name was Pat. He had passed away from complications related to leukemia two years before but I could never forget his laugh. In that moment I remember thinking, “Of course!” Of course Pat would be here, floating among the fairies and insects at their magical midnight jamboree. Pat was a musician after all. It felt so right. And yet so totally unexpected.
I heard after the fact that it’s actually fairly common to see dead people during an Ayahuasca vision, but I had no idea at the time. Pat hadn’t even been on my mind recently, so it was a completely delightful surprise that my unconscious so vividly incarnated him for me in that joyous moment. Though he didn’t speak to me, I got the clear sense that he was laughing with shared excitement and vicarious joy. Like, “A.J. I knew you were going to love this place! I’m so glad you’re finally here. Isn’t it amazing?”
After some time Pat faded away and with him went my sense of joy. The nausea was back. Building again. Another wave. And with it came a pack of wild dogs. They looked feral and vicious. Black, rabid Dobermans snapping their jaws at me like a cascade of mousetraps. Oh God — this is exactly not what I wanted to see. Not now. Not while on a powerful drug with a bunch of strangers in the middle of Peru. I tried to look away (which is impossible when your eyes are already closed). I tried to think of other things, but Mama Ayahuasca didn’t budge. As a last-ditch attempt to gain control I opened my eyes. The world looked completely, mercifully normal. But the nausea remained. I was afraid to close my eyes again until I remembered the one word the shaman had repeated over and over again in our preparation meeting, “surrender”. Whatever happens, whatever you see, whatever you feel, you’re not supposed to run from it — you’re supposed to surrender to it.
Ok, I thought. I can do this.
I closed my eyes. The dogs were now biting each other, tearing off each other’s flesh. Nausea flooded the pit of my stomach. The skin around the dogs’ muzzles began to splay apart, curling off their faces like fleshy flowers blossoming around stems of teeth and bone. It was truly horrifying. A visceral, putrescent waking nightmare. Surrender. I remember crying out in my mind, “I want to see Pat again. Show me Pat!” but Mama Ayahuasca wasn’t moved. It was clear that I had no choice in the matter. So I did the one thing I didn’t want to do. I started walking towards the dogs. Surrender. The nausea kept on coming. I felt like I was walking against the current of a powerful swell. At any moment I might get sucked away by the riptide of queasiness. I wasn’t sure I could handle it. Surrender. The best way I can describe what I was seeing is to reference John Carpenter’s classic body horror film The Thing (or pretty much any film by the master of flesh, David Cronenberg). Writhing skin, chattering bones, animated veins, pyrotechnics of blood. It was a living, bleeding embodiment of the nausea that was threatening to overtake me once again. But I kept approaching. Surrender. Surrender. Surrender. And as I got closer I discovered, to my amazement, that though they were hideous, these inverted dogs were actually completely docile and friendly. I petted their wet faces and they licked my hand affectionately. I realized there was nothing to fear. And the nausea drained away.
What followed was 20-minutes of absolute, unadulterated bliss. I had confronted my fear and won. I had conquered the nausea. In fact, maybe they were one and the same.
This pattern would repeat itself over and over again throughout the night. Tidal waves of nausea and mortal terror would crash over me, followed by interludes of pure joy. It was like a parade of ghastly visions, monsters, and viscera, all of which, when confronted, turned out to be nothing to fear at all. A killer clown (no really) turned out to be a stuffed doll. A snake biting my face turned out to be… well, actually that one was pretty scary but eventually faded away. I even spotted cannibal serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer at one point. Time and time again, I learned to move toward the fear. Move toward the discomfort, toward the pain. And by moving through the fear, I saw that it was never as bad as it looked. This act of courage was always rewarded with an extended period of incredible relief and bliss. It almost felt like two sides of the same coin. Joy/fear. Pleasure/pain. Positive/negative. Light/dark.
When later recounting this experience to my sister, she noted that these alternating waves of pain and peace were eerily reminiscent of her experience giving birth to my niece and nephews (all five of them). We agreed that this was probably a good life philosophy in general: to always move toward fear and pain instead of running away from it. To move through it. “Did you pass through the ‘ring of fire’ at the end?”, my sister asked, using a birthing term that apparently means pretty much exactly what it sounds like. “I don’t think so,” I admitted. “Maybe I vomited too soon.”
At one point I remember seeing vivid technicolour patterns shifting and spinning around me, like fractals spiralling through the infinite blackness of space. It was not unlike the infamous “trip” sequence from the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Even more beguiling, these neon patterns looked remarkably similar to the art you see all over Peru, on textiles, traditional clothing, in paintings and carvings. This was their sacred geometry. But why was I seeing it? Was it just because I was in Peru, like a kind of subconscious suggestion? Or was I seeing this classic vision because that’s what the chemicals in Ayahuasca naturally produce in the human brain? Like a shared vision that spans people and generations. In short: which came first, the visions or the art? Either way, I was fascinated. This was the moment when the word “trippy” finally made sense to me.
Eventually, P’aqo reappeared by my side and asked if I wanted more medicine. Given that I had purged so quickly the first time, I nervously agreed.
The second batch hit me fast and hard. Whereas the first round I had envisioned myself miniature among insects, like a regular Alice in Wonderland I was now gigantic! I found myself surrounded by monolithic Incan structures and stylized gods and goddesses (and more mantises, but giant ones). Everything took on a massive, epic quality now. Even the nausea. It was all too much to handle and once again I threw up way too quickly.
As if inspired by the vomiting, I eventually found myself in a vision inside my own stomach. I was wading through a layer of excrement and bile, up to my knees (so much of what I saw on Ayahuasca was viscerally organic in nature). By now I knew exactly what I had to do. Somehow “surrender” in this case meant diving in headfirst. I implicitly understood that I would need to find the sphincter in the “floor” of my stomach and swim out through my own intestine. I held my breath and dove into the foul pond. Surrender. I pulled myself headfirst into the claustrophobic intestinal tract. Surrender. I struggled, completely submerged in my own shit, unable to breathe. I was trapped. Surrender. Surrender. Surrender. Perhaps this was the “ring of fire” after all.
But then, as if on a waterslide, I glided out into open space.
Bliss.
I remember coming to later in the night as the effects of the medicine were finally beginning to wane. I was still in the tent. It felt like days had passed, but in reality, less than 3 hours had elapsed.
In my limited experience, Ayahuasca leaves you with an incredible afterglow. A kind of love-in with everyone and everything. At this late stage in the ceremony, I finally felt like I had complete control over my thoughts again. It was a strange relief to be reunited with my ego, even after all his annoying behaviour. Now my ego felt like that close friend who’s always jumpy and a bit of a buzzkill, but who soberly springs to action in a crisis and saves the day. He’s good to have around. And in the loving headspace of Ayahuasca, I was so grateful for him.
I found that I was feeling grateful for a lot of things. I could call to mind any person, situation, event, or concern and bathe it in Ayahuasca’s warm glow. In this mindset, the solution to everything seemed so obvious: unconditional love was always the answer. I thought of frenemies from the past and forgave them. I brought to mind old grudges and let them go. I remembered people I had wronged and pledged to apologize. I was amazed by this newfound capacity to just love everyone. No matter what had transpired between us, no matter how they had wronged me, no matter what mistakes I had made, it was all good. Everything seemed so clear and joyous and loving.
Even all of my previous complaints about the retreat melted away. The eccentric people now seemed like family. The cramped lodgings now felt cosy. The altitude sickness was just an ache. The diarrhea was just preparation. The vomiting was necessary. The nausea was enlightening. All of it seemed not just “worth it”, but actually completely irrelevant in the light of Mama Ayahuasca’s loving embrace. Now I finally understood why the shaman was always saying, “Everything is perfect.”
But then a worrisome thought crept into my head. A flip back to the dark side of the coin. One last hint of nausea. With all the love I was doling out so freely to everyone else, where was the love for me?
It struck me that I didn’t feel that same sense of love myself. More to the point, I realized that it wasn’t just love that I craved, but unconditional love. I felt a profound sense that what everyone really wanted and needed deep down — but I was somehow lacking — was to feel loved without any conditions. Loved without limits. Loved without rules. To feel loved no matter what. To live without fear that you could ever do something (fail or make some kind of mistake) or be something (have some kind of inner flaw) that could possibly render you entirely unworthy of love.
I puzzled over this lack of love within me. Why did I feel this way? Where was this coming from? As I was losing consciousness that night, I decided that someone must be to blame. I went for the most obvious choice: nurture over nature. It was my parents’ fault! They must not have given me the unconditional love that I so needed and desired…
The next morning, things looked different. As I lay in a hammock under the hot Peruvian sun surrounded by mountains on all sides, I started furiously typing notes on my phone about what had transpired the night before. This turned out to be perhaps the most remarkable part of the whole experience — after I thought it was over. In the light of day, as if out of nowhere, all the crazy visions from the night before seemed to resolve into some kind of deep meaning. I had a flood of new insights and epiphanies about my life. It was as if all of that nonsense about dancing bugs, monsters, fairies, fractals, and swimming through my own shit actually held some profound subconscious significance for me.
I suddenly appreciated Carl Jung’s theories about symbolism in a whole new way. Jung believed that our subconscious speaks to us in symbolic images and feelings — through dreams, not words. With some analysis, he claimed their meanings and wisdom could be made conscious for our own insight and growth. This is exactly how it felt. Though I couldn’t say exactly which insect connected to which epiphany I had that day, there was clearly an underlying connection.
My big take away was this conundrum about unconditional love. Thinking about it more rationally that morning, I immediately recognized that I was wrong about my parents. Hard as I tried, I actually couldn’t imagine anything I could ever do that would cause my parents to stop loving me completely. Even if I murdered people and ate their brains and didn’t recycle, for better or worse my parents would probably still love me. So why then did I feel this deep sense of lack?
Aha, it must be my boyfriend! He didn’t love me unconditionally. But no, that didn’t add up either (mostly because I don’t have a boyfriend). My friends? No, that wasn’t it. My dog? Nope. You can probably guess where this is going but I was legitimately stumped…
As I stared at my phone, I saw my reflection staring back at me in the glass. And then it hit me.
Of course: it’s me!
I didn’t feel unconditional love because I didn’t love myself unconditionally. I knew it was true because I immediately burst into tears.
I realized in that moment that I was carrying around all of these subconscious prerequisites for what would and would not make me “lovable”. I needed to be “successful”, that was a big one. I needed to be “attractive”, that was for sure. I needed to be “good”, whatever that means. I needed to be “special”, “important”, “smart”. And so on. An arbitrary list of qualifications that I thought I required just to be a worthy human being.
Though I realized I had no idea how exactly to start loving myself, especially unconditionally, I was galvanized just to recognize what my real problem was. It put a fire under me. I had a new purpose. I had to know: what would it take to love myself unconditionally just the way I am?
Six months later, I have some ideas. But that’s another story altogether…
Dedicated to Pat Placzek (1980–2015)
Originally published at Discomfortable.net
