Welcome to the Jungle

When I was little I was obsessed with the jungle. I grew up in Norton Canon. A tiny hamlet in Herefordshire which is quite wild by English standards but not wild enough for 8 year old me. I remember a distinct feeling of wanting out of the ‘normal, boring’ world.  I desperately wanted proof that there was more to life. I was on the hunt for excitement, mystery and the occult. I convinced myself there was a ghost living in my bedroom. I’d spend my afternoons drawing pictures of a black shape and show my parents. ’This is what I saw!’. They told me ghosts don’t exist and the noises I could hear were the old beams creaking. ‘When you die you body decomposes, and that’s it I’m afraid.’ I scrunched up my face. That couldn’t be it.

My brother wasn’t buying this. He gave up sleeping upstairs where the ghosts lived and and made a little nest under the stairs but I stayed. The truth was I never saw the ghost. Little by little my belief in magic faded. Maybe this was it. This was life. There was me. There were my parents and my brother. There was school. There were other kids who as much as I tried I never really understood. There was the village. There were the familiar English trees, the oaks and the beech, the sycamore and the conkers. There was a lot of rain and even more mud. There were slugs and snails, wrens and thrushes and lots of other small brown birds. It all seemed very peaceful, quiet and increasingly boring as hell. The jungle on the other hand was free. I spent hours pouring over pictures of exotic rainbow birds, butterflies the size of my head, piranhas and tapers with long snouts. I found pictures of beaches with white sands and blue seas and palm trees. I stuck them up above my bed. ‘That’s where I’m going’, I’d say. It’s too tame here. Everything is brown.

I thought I’d learn about the jungle at school, but Geography lessons consisted of copying from textbooks for hours at a time. The only thing I remember is stalagmites grow up (they push with all their might), stalactites grown down (they hold on tight). When we did talk about the Amazon it was only in reference to the weather systems. A mass of diagrams and arrows that meant nothing to me. There was no mention of what it would feel like to be down there on the forest floor.

A couple of years later I watched a documentary on tribes in the Amazon. I watched the presenter drinking some strange brew and night vision cameras showing the ceremony. People were wailing and vomiting and singing strange songs. I stood transfixed. I want to do that I whispered. terrified and excited at the same time, just like with the ghost I so desperately wanted to see and not see, all at the same time.

20 years and 12,000 miles later I was sitting on the floor of a yoga studio in Sydney. It was my last visit to the city for a while. I’d made the decision to leave behind everything. I’d bought a van for $3000, sold all my things, moved out of my shared apartment and now called this metal box home. My friend Lucy was sitting next to me. ‘I’m going to Peru’ she said. ‘I found a teacher who I really trust. I’m going to sit with Ayahuasca in the jungle.’

I almost jumped into her lap.

‘Can I come with you?’

It was a stretch. I had no regular income and the trip cost $8000, much more money than I had. I was about to run a teacher training up North so knew I could just about cover it. And since I’d just quit all my jobs I was free. Illogical as it seemed when I’d just declared a life of #vanlife I couldn’t not go.

She laughed. ‘Well….. We’ve been in preparation with Jorge for a while. I’m not sure if he’ll take someone new at such short notice. But it’s a small group, I can ask.’ I nodded, but I knew I was getting on that plane.

Three weeks later I arrived at Lima airport. Where’s your luggage? Jorge asked. ‘This is it’. I had a tiny bag on my back with a head-torch, a journal and not much else.’ He raised half an eyebrow and smiled. ‘Ok, let’s go.’

We spent a few days in Lima and then flew to Iquitos. The only way to get to Iquitos is by boat or by plane. It’s a loud, humid, colourful town nestled on the banks of the Amazon river.

The first time I saw the great river I gasped. It was just like those story books all those years ago. Muddy, vast, mystical, full of secrets. Ready to  transport me to another realm. We climbed on the boat and set off. All I could see for miles was dense rainforest, the odd pink dolphin, warm, fat raindrops in ever cloudy skies.

Two hours later I stepped off the boat and the sound of the jungle filled my ears. The sound is almost deafening but extremely calming at the same time. Its the strangest thing. We stayed there for two weeks in little huts. No electricity. no internet. No communication with the outside world. I picked up a guitar for the first time. We swam every day in a little tributary off the main river that had made a mudslide and mini waterfall to play in. The first time I swam my head filled with visions of piranhas but Jorge laughed. ‘Dont believe the horror movies. They leave you alone for the most part.’

I’d walk through the jungle and swarms of bright coloured butterflies would surround me. The great Blue Morphos, the size of my head would occasionally sail by. ‘They are the wish makers,’ Jorge said. The sweetest pineapples I’ve ever tasted grew everywhere. Our guides would slice them open with machetes and we’d stand in the rain, juice dripping down our chins, grinning in delight at this sweet, simple life. Every night the people who lived in this tiny little settlement would play the instruments they’d made. Skin drums and rattles. We’d sing and dance after dinner, not as a special occasion, but because this is how life is lived here. Everything is an offering of gratitude back to the spirits of the jungle. Reciprocity is always celebrated.

At night amongst the constant jungle hum, the thud of some large animal jumping onto the roof of my hut would wake me from my dreams. I’d imagine the big cats, the Jaguars and Ocelots hunting outside the thin reed door. I was afraid at first, but even that became comforting after a while.

There were monkeys everywhere. Baboons with fierce teeth, long haired growlers and little capuchin monkeys. One monkey Martin had been rescued. His parents were shot by poachers. He only had one eye. He was scared of everyone apart from Lucy and I. He clung on to us and was happiest wrapped around our necks sleeping in our hair. Every day we had to prize him off us to eat, sleep and sit in ceremony.  When we left he screamed and we cried and our hearts broke, but Jorge assured us he’d find new mums and would forget about us by the next day.

At night we sat in the Maloka, bowing at the feet of the master plant, Ayahuasca.

I thought I knew fear but as we gathered for the first ceremony at midnight in the pitch black, the jungle alive with the cacophony of the unknown, my heart was pounding so fast in my chest I thought I might pass out. Even the moon was dark. I put my hand in front of my face and couldn’t see my fingers move. I hadn’t known darkness like this before.

This is what I wanted and now I was so terrified I could barely breath.

All this fear was also held in so much love. I trusted Jorge completely. We’d spent enough time with him since arriving in Peru to realise he was a man of deep integrity, wisdom and compassion. I’ll never know how I got so incredibly lucky to sit with such a master of the plants and I give gratitude for him every day. My trust in him and the jungle was enough to keep me there. We sat in silence for a long time before he started to pour the medicine. I prayed, and shook and prayed some more. I swallowed a cup of dark, bitter liquid and did my best to keep it down. I sank into deep stillness, then terror, then eventually a deep gratitude that has never left.

Through the course of three ceremonies I went through many deaths. I experienced terror and bliss. I saw with brutal clarity every time I’d lied to myself and others. I saw all the pain I’d tried to avoid. I was thrown time and time again into a loop of fear to show me ‘this fear isn’t who you are’.

I wanted to run away but there was nowhere to run to. There was me, my mind, and eternity. I could either keep resisting or finally surrender. As soon as I finally let go and let myself die, the world changed.

It’s impossible to put into words what is beyond language. It’s impossible to use my mind to recount what is beyond mind. But I will say this.

A million layers of self-doubt, judgement of others, mistrust, deceit, revenge and fear were scoured from my psyche that night. I remember a story from The Chronicles of Narnia. A boy is turned into a dragon as a punishment for his constant lying. One night he’s led down to a magic pool under the full moon. As his scales are ripped off one by one he feels great pain. But the scales were keeping him from love. When he stepped into the pool, even though it hurt, the armour melted away and then he was free. To give and receive love.

And that’s what it’s all about.

There are many ways to scrape off these scales. Everyone is drawn to a different way. There’s no one right way. There’s only your way. You dont have to go to the Amazon jungle to do this. All you need to do is be brave in the face of fear. To choose love, again and again. To remember who you are.

How many times do we die? How many selfs have died to make way for this version here and now?