Читать книгу Reality Is Just an Illusion - Chuck Sr. Coburn - Страница 12

There was a pronounced uneasiness in the group as we neared the moment of commitment required to consume the shaman's hallucinatory potion of choice. We had been sufficiently warned of the perils of this course of action, since we would be ingesting what was said to be a poison.

By way of explanation, John Perkins told us, "The Shuar consider ayahuasca sacred. Its name literally means 'vine of death.' You are under no obligation to try it. In fact, if you ask my advice, I will discourage you. If you do decide to accept the shaman's invitation, you must understand the risks.''

"Risks?" I muttered, pretending to clear my throat as eyes turned my way. Even learning to program my VCR was more appealing than what I was being asked to consider.

"The Shuar say it is their most powerful teacher,' he went on. "It is dangerous, but according to them, all true learning involves taking risks." He paused, then reiterated, "This is your decision. Please remember that ayahuasca should only be consumed with the purest of intentions and an understanding of all that its name implies."

Then—as if we needed to hear more—he told us that it would cause us to become violently ill. This while we were sitting in darkness deep in the undergrowth of the third world, knowing full well that we were considered to be a meal by a large contingent of the regional reptilian species. Not exactly on my list of top ten things to do in this lifetime!

Following an animated group discussion and serious individual consideration, seven of our group of sixteen decided to take part in the ceremony. Now you have to understand, I'd never used hard or recreational drugs of any sort. My experience was limited to alcohol and an experimental puff of the funny stuff that Clinton never inhaled. I graduated from college in the very early sixties and had bypassed the loose-living hippie lifestyle—having a phony ID as a youth to buy beer for college fraternity parties was the extent of my prior lawlessness (a truth I am just now divulging to my mom).

Much to my surprise, I decided to join the minority who planned to participate.

[Note: I strongly advise readers to abstain from any form of drug use. I participated in this ceremony as a person of broad experience, far along on my spiritual journey. It was presented in a healing ceremony, and administered by an authentic shaman whose culture believes in the spiritual healing qualities of ayahuasca. It was prepared by the shaman, who then accompanied the participants on their journeys and provided guidance.]

Shirl had (of course) volunteered, along with five others—one of whom had a previous negative experience with ayahuasca but wished to try it again. Interestingly, many of those who were willing to risk the unknown peril of an arduous eight-hour trek into the rain forest earlier that day were unwilling to take this journey into the depths of the spiritual world.

We were advised to team up with a buddy who was to remain reality-grounded and was willing to experience the journey vicariously through our actions, words, and anticipated bodily purging. My partner turned out to be Lynne, a soft-spoken woman to whom I had given a psychic reading earlier in the trip and to whose conservative life philosophy I could relate. Lynne expressed a true willingness to stand by me regardless of what happened—a reassuring promise if you are depending on someone to watch over your life while you step out-of-body for awhile.

Three of the eight had committed to an additional specific healing. For some reason I still don't understand, this necessitated the shaman to spit into our individual mixtures in order that he might connect with our consciousness during the healing.

Spitting seemed to play a significant role in this culture. When one is invited into an indigenous native's home, it is customary to consume the aforementioned chincha. The drink is made the day before an expected visit by the women of the village, who chew and then spit jungle-grown manioc root into an unappetizing mixture.

Most Ecuadorian shamans also spray-spit or camay a powerful corn liquor called trago on most everything from their huacas (healing stones) to the bodies of those who come to them for healing. Camaying is a process used by healers to connect or bring unity to someone or something. It is used by Native American shamans for soul retrieval: a method used to retrieve a wandering spirit or power animal and convey the spirit back to the one being healed by blowing into the top of their head. In the case of the Ecuadorian shamans, it is done with a mouthful of liquor, but an Otavalo medicine man whom we later met in the Andes camayed fire during his ceremony.

So there we were, being informed that the unseen high priest who was lurking behind a single lit candle in the jungle darkness was busily spitting in our drinks.

This healing thing sometimes requires a real stretch of belief.