By some bastard who’s seen too much, 2025
I’m sitting in a Colombian sweatbox, 8 strangers sprawled on mattresses like roadkill, waiting for the shaman to pour us a cup of jungle sludge called ayahuasca. It smells like death’s armpit, tastes like motor oil spiked with regret. They say it’s medicine, a sacred brew from the Amazon, been around longer than Jesus or your grandma’s grudges. I say it’s a fist to the face of your ego, and I’m here to take the punch.
Four nights, a dozen cups of this molasses hell, and I’m not the same guy who flew in chasing a high or some half-baked spiritual fix. This ain’t no yoga retreat with cucumber water and positive vibes. This is war—against the lies you tell yourself, the masks you wear, the bullshit you’ve piled up over years of pretending you’ve got it all figured out. Ayahuasca doesn’t just show you the mirror; it shoves your face through the glass.
Here’s the deal: I’m gonna lay it all bare—what this plant did to me, what it’s done to others, what the science says, what the shamans whisper, and how to not fuck it up if you’re dumb enough to try it. This ain’t just my story; it’s the whole damn circus—history, chemistry, risks, and the kind of truth that makes you wanna puke and laugh at the same time. If you’re looking for a shortcut to nirvana, go jerk off to a self-help book. This is for the ones who want the real shit.
Night One: The Fear Tastes Worse Than the Brew
The room’s a furnace, dim as a dive bar at 3 a.m. Mattresses line the walls, each with a bucket for puking and a roll of toilet paper for whatever else comes up. I’m on one near the door, close to the john, ‘cause I’m a coward who wants an escape hatch. The shaman, some wiry Colombian with eyes like he’s seen God’s rap sheet, hands me a cup. “Drink,” he says. I do. It’s like swallowing a swamp.
I sit there, waiting for the universe to crack open. Nothing. Just dizziness, like I drank too much plastic bottle whiskey. I take a second cup—drink, don’t think, they say. Outside, the stars spin like they’re mocking me. I yell at the moon, “Show me who I am, you bastard!” Silence. Back inside, I see geometric shapes crawling on the walls, but no revelations, no cosmic middle finger. Just me, sweating, wondering why I paid to feel like a schmuck.
I didn’t know it then, but I was fighting it. You can’t arm-wrestle ayahuasca. It’s not your ex-wife or your boss; it waits till you’re soft, then it guts you.
Night Two: Snakes and the Selfish Prick I Am
Day two, I’m bruised but stubborn. The facilitator, Carlos, a tanned dude who looks like he bench-presses his demons, says, “Don’t fight the medicine. Let go.” Easy for him to say—he’s not the one about to drown in his own head.
First cup hits like a freight train. The room folds like a bad poker hand, walls bending like Einstein’s wet dreams. I drink a second cup, and then it’s on. I roll over, see a woman named Andrea, puking her guts out. Suddenly, yellow snakes—dozens of ‘em—pour from her mouth into mine. I gag, crawl to my bucket, but nothing comes. My stomach’s a riot, my head’s screaming: It’s not about you, asshole.
For hours, I’m stuck on that. I’m a selfish prick. Always have been. Worried about my job, my hairline, my stupid little life. Andrea’s pain slithered into me, and I took it, not ‘cause I’m noble, but ‘cause the medicine made me. She sleeps easy later; I don’t. I’m crying, laughing, thinking about every time I chose “me” over “us.” The snakes weren’t real, but the truth was. I’m a small man in a big world, and I’ve been pretending otherwise.
Night Three: Love, Loss, and the Primordial Soup
Night three’s led by Abby, a Cincinnati gal with a voice like a lullaby and the grit of a bar brawler. She says it’s about the “feminine spirit,” creation, renewal. I’m skeptical but too tired to argue.
The brew’s thicker, like wax and vinegar. It hits fast. I’m floating in my mother’s womb, a speck of nothing in a sea of flesh. I see her at 20, scared shitless, pregnant with me. My dad’s there, young, clueless, in a shitty college apartment. I feel their fear, their love, their fight. I never thought about it before—how they clawed through life to give me mine. Resentments I didn’t know I had melt like cheap candles.
Then I’m a particle, vibrating in some cosmic soup. String theory makes sense, but I can’t explain it ‘cause I flunked math. Abby sings icaros, Amazonian chants, and I’m gone. I see my wife, the first time we fucked by a lake in college. No ego, just bodies and breath, pure as whiskey before it’s bottled. Then the dark shit comes: every time she reached for me—meditation classes, hikes, dances—and I brushed her off, stuck in my head. I see her face, disappointed, and it rips me open. I relive those moments, but this time I say yes, and her joy burns brighter than the sun. I’m sobbing, smiling, my jaw aching from it.
Night Four: The Mirror That Doesn’t Lie
Last night, the brew’s a 5,000-year-old recipe, thick as tar. The shaman, Mitra, looks like he could dunk on LeBron and decode the stars. He hands me the cup, says, “This one’s deep.” No shit.
It’s a lucid dream, a movie of my life, but only the ugly parts. Every lie I told, every pose I struck, every time I groveled for approval. Me as a kid, whining for a Nautica shirt ‘cause the cool kids had one. Me in high school, faking who I was to fit in. Me in college, dodging eye contact ‘cause I’m scared of judgment. Me now, pretending my thinning hair ain’t thinning, chasing likes, status, bullshit.
It’s a long reel, and it hurts like a hangover in hell. Most of us live like this—performing, posturing, too scared to look anyone in the eye. We’re all actors in a shitty play, and ayahuasca rips the script apart. I see how I built a life on what others might think, not what’s true. I’m exhausted, but free. When it’s over, Mitra kneels, pats my head, says, “Happy birthday.” I’m reborn, or at least less of a liar.
The Science: What’s in the Sludge?
Ayahuasca ain’t just jungle juice; it’s chemistry with a PhD. The brew’s made from Banisteriopsis caapi (a vine) and Psychotria viridis (a leaf), boiled for hours by shamans who know their shit. The leaf has DMT, a hallucinogen that’d normally get chewed up by your gut. The vine’s got MAO inhibitors—harmine, harmaline—that let the DMT hit your brain like a sledgehammer. It’s like nature hacked your head.
Studies, like ones in Nature (2021) and Frontiers in Psychiatry (2023), say ayahuasca rewires your brain. It boosts serotonin, tweaks your default mode network (the part that makes you obsess over yourself), and sparks neuroplasticity. That’s why it’s being studied for depression, PTSD, and addiction. A 2024 trial at UC San Francisco found 60% of depressed patients improved after one dose, no SSRIs needed. But it’s not all roses—DMT can spike heart rate, fuck with meds like antidepressants, and if you’ve got schizophrenia, it might make you worse.
The History: From Shamans to Sting
Ayahuasca’s older than your oldest grudge. Indigenous tribes in Peru, Colombia, Brazil—Shipibo, Shuar, Tukano—been brewing it for millennia. It’s medicine, not a party drug. They used it to talk to spirits, heal wounds, or find lost shit (like literal lost shit—hunters used it to track game). British botanist Richard Spruce named it in 1908, but it stayed fringe till the Beats—Burroughs, Ginsberg—tripped on it in the ‘60s. Burroughs’ The Yage Letters made it a counterculture whisper.
Now it’s mainstream, kinda. Sting, Lindsay Lohan, Chelsea Handler—they’ve all sipped the tea. Retreats are popping up like dive bars—Costa Rica, Peru, even Brooklyn basements. A 2025 report from Psychedelic Alpha says the global ayahuasca tourism market’s worth $1.2 billion, growing 10% a year. But it’s messy—some retreats are legit, others are cash grabs with fake shamans. Indigenous folks are pissed about white folks turning their sacred brew into Coachella for the soul.
The Risks: Don’t Be a Dumbass
Ayahuasca ain’t for everyone. It can jack your blood pressure, make you puke for hours, or drag you through a psychological meat grinder. If you’re on SSRIs, lithium, or heart meds, it’s a no-go—MAO inhibitors don’t play nice. A 2023 Journal of Psychopharmacology study flagged rare cases of psychosis in folks with latent mental issues. And yeah, people have died—usually from sketchy retreats mixing other drugs or ignoring medical histories.
Then there’s the spiritual scam. Some “shamans” are just grifters in feathers, charging $2,000 for a weekend of bad vibes. A 2024 exposé by Vice found 10% of Costa Rican retreats had untrained facilitators. Do your homework—check reviews, ask about the shaman’s lineage, make sure they screen for health issues. If they’re pushing “enlightenment” like it’s a used car, run.
How to Do It Right: A Drunk’s Guide to Ayahuasca
Wanna try it? Don’t be a fool. Here’s the deal:
- Find a Legit Retreat: Look for places on Best Retreats for literally every option out there. Check their shaman’s training—Peruvian or Colombian lineage is a good bet. Read Reddit threads (r/Ayahuasca) after Best Retreats to cross reference.
- Prep Your Body: Follow the dieta—no booze, drugs, red meat, or sex for 1–2 weeks before. It’s not dogma; it keeps the brew from fucking you up.
- Prep Your Mind: Set an intention. Mine was “Show me who I am.” Sounds corny as shit, but it’s your anchor when the visions get wild.
- Safety First: Tell the facilitators your medical history. No SSRIs, no bullshit. Bring a friend if you’re that scared.
- Aftercare: You’ll be raw. Journal, talk to a therapist, or join an integration circle (online ones on Zoom are solid). Don’t just jump back to your cubicle and expect to be fine.
Why It Matters: The World’s Loneliest Mirror
Ayahuasca showed me I’m a fraud, but not just me—everybody. We’re all posturing, avoiding eye contact, chasing approval. I saw my wife’s face, my mom’s struggles, my own cowardice, and it broke me open. I’m not “fixed”—the ego’s a cockroach, hard to kill. But I listen better now. I look people in the eye. I’m less of an asshole, at least on good days.
Science backs it: a 2025 Nature study says ayahuasca cuts self-obsession, boosts connection. That’s why it’s therapy in a cup—four nights did more than a decade of talking to shrinks. But it’s not a cure-all. You still gotta live in a world of Metro rides and small talk, where nobody looks up from their phone.
If you’re chasing truth, ayahuasca’s the most honest mirror you’ll ever see. It’ll show you your bullshit, your beauty, your everything. But you gotta be ready to look. Most ain’t.
The bastard who’s seen too much – Ricky Quay
Resources for the Curious
- Books: The Ayahuasca Test Pilots Handbook by Chris Kilham; Singing to the Plants by Stephan Beyer.
- Research: Check ICEERS and Best Retreats for the real data. Watch out for the commercial booking and review sites.
- Communities: X hashtags (#Ayahuasca, #Psychedelics), Reddit (r/Psychonaut), or (r/Ayahuasca)
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