A place for a


Ayahuasca: The devil called me to Peru – Part 6: Dawn

The terror transcends into a milder, still disturbing anxiety. The dark air around me seems to be alive, thick and filled with danger. The geometry of my hut warps and the shadows swallow any idea of safety.

To me, it is no hallucination; it is a mere world I have not known – or forgotten. It feels nothing more or less real than the world I have known before. In a way, this world is not different. It surely follows laws, but no laws I understand. It is an unstable reality, peeling off of the original one like turbulent steam to disintegrate into black nothing. Memories, fantasies, fears are as material here as my flashlight.

I look at my clock and tighten the grip on my flashlight; halfway through the night. Steps outside, steps and giggle. This fucking mad giggle, not human, not an animal, not classifiable; just some horrifying truth deeper down the rabbit hole – a truth I can’t accept. The steps lurk outside, hoping I will dismiss them as imagination, but I am prepared and kill the real illusions with my flashlight, every single time terrified they may not disappear. Ten monsters later I look at my clock again – mere minutes have passed.

I see through the devil

As I had lain in the reed earlier this night, cowering on the ground, hiding inside my head, I tested the devil. Physically helpless, unable to stand, move, think or remember, I had tested the devil by daring him. I had dared the devil to harm me in my helplessness, but he wouldn’t.

He could have hurt me, killed me, massacred me, but that had not been in his power. I had likewise known that he was impossible to beat through force, because he was not an even enemy. He was a god. Despite him being a god, he did not hurt me and his pawns did not touch me without my permission.

The weapon the devil used was not force, the danger not real harm. He used words, rhythm, hypnotization. He confused the mind until nothing made sense and all structure in one’s world was diluted and one’s existence reduced to feeling and passive perception of chaos. His weapon was to make himself look like a dear friend, trying to help, his presence a salvation from the horridness he took no responsibility for.

But as I had lain there and shut off my mind from all influence, fingers literally in my ears to avoid hearing the smothering and oppressing chant, I had been safe.

The devil deceives, but he doesn’t hurt. He merely lures you in so that you may hurt yourself.

The long seconds in the jungle

The paranoia hardly wears off. In a way, this is the worst nightmare I have ever experienced. In another, I am proud of fighting this, of being here. It is a paradox, maybe one that is killing me.

However much I focus, I can not tell whether somebody is outside my hut. Was that a real light there? Were those voices real? How can I tell when everything seems alive, infused with a spirit, when my senses intermingle perceptions of nature with interpretations of animalistic behavior?

The ether carries further mad giggle from the other side of the pond over it’s surface towards me. It is all a test. Pleasure goes hand in hand with madness that consumes man; asceticism feels like a great idea right now.

Soon the giggle transforms into laughter and screams of lust. I reckon the assholes are having an orgy. With whom is the question. The black chick? My stomach tightens. Fuck her, I am no slave of carnal pleasure. The devil is still testing me.

After some time – a long time indeed – the orgy finds an end. A flashlight accompanies two people walking along the pond shortly after. I use my own Fenix one to shine over to them. To make myself known – I see you people. They do not notice – are they real? They seem real. I wouldn’t know, I wouldn’t care. She tells him to add her on Facebook.


After about two hours, I can hardly take the loneliness anymore. I crave the comfort of company. The assholes seem like the right people to go to. Confident and positive people they are, a joy to be around. Of course they are no daddies; they will ridicule weakness just the same – that’s what men do. But they had told me they were afraid of the ceremony while I wasn’t. They know what this is about.

I focus on the uplifting strength in my chest once more. There was a moment in my unholy journey today when I had a vivid vision of a bloodstained shield and wooden door; the blood was like fresh. It had felt like a memory of a past life as a Viking, engaging in pointless war in the name of the devil. I do in fact feel like a warrior now, one with a mission yet unknown. I will have to fight one day and I will need to prepare for that fight, whatever it may be.

For now, I want to find kindred souls on the other side of the pond. Fellow warriors, possibly. I barefootedly wade through the jungle mud and over the wood planks meant to stabilize the earth and form a path. I changed into dry clothes, but I am still thoroughly dirty.

I arrive on the other side of the pond, but reality is still warped. Warped and darker than the last time I was here. Things seem clear, yet hazy, weird to describe. As if my eyes were wide open and my senses sharpened, but the world itself was losing it’s composition. Is reality only in our minds? Can we tell how much is real and how much we imagine?

The first path I follow leads to a hut I imagine to remember. It’s empty. Only moments ago, there was a lot of partying – what had happened? Maybe they are in another hut. I try to find it and even leave the path. Spider webs lash into my face and almost scare me to death. Animal voices murmur from the pond. The hut is nowhere to be found and I lack bravery to search further.

Also, despite the fact that this seemed like a good idea moments ago, I start to feel guilty for wanting to intrude on the peace of others who may already be sleeping. I decide to head back.

A good morning, dears

Further hours pass and the sun rises beyond the pond, casting it’s rays and reflections from the water surface right through the mosquito net that forms the window of my hut.

It rains. Rain forest, remember? Warm, wet rain.

At about 6 a.m., I decide to walk to the convention house. Only natives around right now, so I walk back to my hut.

Some time later, I try again. Lo and behold, the German guy is there, together with one somewhat rigid character whom I probably dislike for his familiarity to myself.

But the German guy, how I love to see him. He always looks happy. I am still in a slight panic mode, but my smile is honest this time. Terrible stress has a way of making your heart open up – how futile the fear of being rejected compared to the fear of the devil. That may very well be the appeal behind a lot of these cults and rituals – the hope that the open-heartedness and euphoria may stay forever.

I take place beside him. His ceremony was once more great. We get to talk about mine and I tell him about it. About the sounds of sex over the pond. I don’t even feel like bragging – the story really is too good in and of itself to necessitate any kind of amplification.

My body is still mory and I feel like the proud warrior himself, no matter my deficits.

This episode was more than enough to convince me that this place in the jungle is a place of evil and I don’t hesitate to tell the others so. No need to try and convince them – I am confident in this belief and can not be shattered.

The rigid guy also tells his story. Superlatives never come too short in this place. Still, I’ve seen the devil, I have a right to be the proudest. I ran into the jungle and pissed myself while they made it – it can’t have been that hard for them.

The black hottie comes around. She says she was worried about me and that she sensed something evil that night, that something wasn’t right. However esoteric that sounds, it confirms me. Not that it is necessary.

She says she saw a vision. A man frozen in the air while jumping into the pond. Who else but me. She awakens my curiosity there for a second, implying to have been in touch with some clairvoyant spirit. She says she sent prayers out to protect me, claims she found out her purpose in life: a protector of others.

I just blankly stare at her while thinking about what a stupid controlling bitch she is, coming here to find out about herself, yet getting no greater insight than that she is so far above everybody else as to start protecting them. One self-indulgent altruist slut you are, madam. Go fool somebody else with your charade.

She reciprocates my stare, as if expecting some kind of gratitude or worship of her trite feminine spirituality. As if she was used to it. She surely is, but I’m too stressed to feel guilty for denying her this validation.

Eventually, she turns to the German guy and hands him a piece of paper with her contact details. She uses her femspeak to tell him that she is really sensitive to him, as is another girl. He asks what she means. She reverentially announces to tell him later. Man. Nothing mystical about being horny, girl; you are really selling yourself way above your spiritual market value. The German guy doesn’t seem to react with anything but mild confusion – oh well, I really may be a tad too aggressive.

This is god

The Viking and the shaman come over. The shaman doesn’t speak English, so the Viking offers to translate. The shaman wants to talk, but I do not. I have seen the truth and I am not in need of words that will confuse or dilute it. No.

I have decided to leave this place. The sensation of danger is fading, but I am no fool to ignore the experience I have had. But where to live? After announcing my wish, another member of the group says that he is willing to lend me money, which I happily accept. He is also leaving, and so is the black chick.

Wondering how the whole evening went for the assholes, I go visit them to the hut they share. They seem to be fairly empathetic towards my story – I really like the guys. Of course, somewhere in the back of their heads, they think I am nuts – but so what. Stop poking into people’s minds.

Two of the assholes are not quite comfortable there anymore, either. Some bad spirit was there yesterday. Well, me screaming all over the place does spread a certain mood – or spirit. They say they know nothing about an orgy, though. I say farewell to them and give them the advice to leave.

Back at the place where all convene, the Viking asks me for a private talk. I feel strong, not whiny, and welcome a discussion. The Viking apologizes for letting me have such a strong dose, for not having lived up to his responsibility. It mildly annoys me and I tell him that it was my choice and mine alone. I am sick of people trying to take care of my problems – it makes me feel weak, it feeds the problems and it validates my neediness. I also feel contempt for the apologetic nature of his speech – if you think it is your responsibility, do it right instead of apologizing, brother.

Eventually, we walk to the maloka to philosophize about god. Which I suddenly believe in. I tell him that structure is the proof of god. Without god, there would be chaos – structure is the proof of a free will and a force of life that molds chaos. The maloka is a sign of structure, of god, of building.

And those who fail to live god, who choose for themselves hell, they degrade and become lower animals. Plants, in the worst, condemned to being eaten and consumed without a way to defend themselves. Insects, living a short and harsh life without intellect. Caught in a chaos of pain. The jungle is a place of those tormented organisms, of chaos, out to swallow other souls.

Is this place wrong? Asks the Viking. I say it is. He says that he is not sure, but has also felt some bad spirit around the shaman a few times. But he does not need to agree. I believe I know the truth because I have refused to let the singsong lure me in – the price I have paid for the truth is not to have enjoyed the ceremony as it was meant to be enjoyed. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know either.

I see doubt in the Viking’s face. That’s fine. The fact he doesn’t speak his doubt only looks like weakness to me, a need for agreement that he projects on me. Agreement is not necessary. We all walk our own paths.

How fascinating. Me, a born atheist, claiming with a firm voice that the shaman is the devil. Me feeling stupid, but realizing that this doubt only makes me weak, hinders my thoughts from being challenged.

Glad to have this conversation with you.

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