Recently, I confronted a question I’ve never faced: What do you pack for a trip to the Amazon rainforest—and to the astral plane?
My first ayahuasca retreat is rapidly approaching, and I’m compulsively checking my lists, ensuring I have everything I need to journey not only through the jungle, but into the depths of my being. Preparation is about what goes into your bag: a headlamp with a red-light setting to keep the critters at bay; rain boots for when the skies open intensely and unannounced. But it’s also about what goes into your body (or more importantly, what doesn’t), and this part scared me more than any psychedelic vision.
Ayahuasca is a traditional brew used for centuries by Amazonian peoples for visionary, spiritual, communal, and therapeutic purposes. It’s most commonly made from the Banisteriopsis caapi vine, which contains monoamine oxidase inhibitors (MAOIs), and the leaves of the chacruna plant, whose active ingredient is N-N-dimethyltryptamine, or DMT. Also known as “the God molecule,” DMT is said to be a direct line to the divine. Traditionally, this experiential medicine is administered by shamans who receive guidance from the “plant teacher,” a divine feminine spirit. In Peru, shamans are often called médicos, meaning “doctors,” or onanyas, meaning “one who has knowledge.”
Admittedly, the issue of “ayahuasca tourism” is a thorny one. Some question whether this is an appropriate space for white people, and there are plenty of bad actors who exploit both people and plants; that’s why it’s vital to do your research when choosing a retreat. Others say the medicine wants to be shared and ayahuasca’s future should be co-created. The retreat I’m attending is specifically designed for the queer community, and centers like the Temple of the Way of Light, where I’m going, operate on principles of mutual respect and sacred reciprocity, giving back to local communities and including the crucial element of integration.
I’ve been told how the ceremonies—there will be six—will proceed over the course of 10 days. When the sun sets over the jungle, everyone will gather in a circle to drink the brew while shamans manage the energy, call in other plant spirits, remove negative imprints, and deliver the ikaros: the healing songs given to them by the plants. We will spend the night journeying into the great beyond, meeting spirits, guides, our true selves, our greatest fears, and what many describe as a higher power. The next day, there will be therapy, yoga, and integration work, and the following night, we’ll do it again.
When it’s time to work with her, practitioners say, ayahuasca finds you. She will appear in your life in a series of synchronicities, contextual clues, and chance meetings, whispering in your ear until you heed the call. This happened to me throughout 2019, just before the world shut down. I spent the subsequent years in spiritual practice, working with other plant teachers, until I knew it was time to plan this journey.
I’m told that parts of the experience will be beautiful, reconnecting you with childlike wonder and oneness; healing old wounds; teaching you compassion for yourself and all beings. But like any good mother, sometimes Mama Ayahuasca gives you tough love, and other parts will be challenging, even terrifying: instant recall of long-repressed traumatic memories; astral encounters with serpents and jaguars; confrontation with the vast emptiness they say is a preview of death; the “life review,” where you’re forced to reckon with all the ways in which you’ve wronged people. And then there’s “the purge”: the violent outpouring of black bile that will spew from every orifice.
But first, you must begin the dieta, a detox diet, to prepare your body and soul for this work. It starts with eliminating alcohol, spicy foods, cold things, and all other plant medicines, including cannabinoids. Then you take away dairy, salt, sugar (and anything overly salty or sweet, even things like olives and honey), plus caffeine, chocolate, cooking oil, and everything fermented. In other words, it means eliminating all of the substances that have come to define my work, life, and identity, and this scared me. I realized I no longer knew what I was like at baseline, and I was afraid to find out.
We all rely on little crutches to get through the day, whether it’s a morning cup of coffee, some midday CBD oil, an afternoon joint, or an after-work pint. Our daily lives center around the things we consume. They structure our time, shape our interactions, and create shared meaning; they’re a means of creative expression and cultural transmission. They’re also reward systems, performance-enhancers, and feeling-modulators—our attempts to order the disorder and grab onto some sense of control in a world that moves too fast and demands too much of us.
For some of us, these substances have even greater weight: They are our friends and allies, meaning-makers, and the way we make a living. I’ve met some of my best friends and made some of my most meaningful connections in the worlds of food and drink. But even more than that, they have become part of my identity, my “brand.” I am a food and beverage journalist; who am I without a block of cheese in my bag and a bottle in my hand? Like many creatives, I also frequently call upon my muses: a bite of full-spectrum chocolate; a sprinkling of fungi; or a funky, mixed-fermentation Ale. What if I can’t write without them?
Commonly, people who go on ayahuasca journeys come back and give up various forms of substance use; research has found it to be an effective treatment for addiction, even where other methods haven’t worked. Ayahuasca has also been shown to improve mindfulness, emotional regulation, and quality of life. If I come back and don’t want the things I used to, it will be because I’m happier without them, so I suppose I shouldn’t worry. I’ve been on the healing path for a reason; I seek more balance, greater connection, higher truth, and inner peace. And yet, while I hate to admit it, the classical image of serene enlightenment always sounded pretty damn boring.
When the detox began, the first few days were a gentle easing-in, and as I slowly took things away, I found myself on what certain anonymous support groups call the “pink cloud”: As my senses settled back to their factory settings, I experienced things more fully. It seemed I could taste my food all the way back to the earth, the bitters more biting, the grains more earthy; even a blanched cauliflower suddenly seemed sweet. Like when I quit smoking, I thought there was so much I was giving up, until I realized all I’d been missing.
Then, a few days later, as I continued to subtract, I came down from that pink cloud, and I started experiencing all kinds of symptoms: crankiness, headaches, fatigue, frustration, and other general signs of withdrawal. I developed a thick cough as my body worked to expel all that had once filled me up. Aches and pains from my runs and workouts were much more present. I suddenly started to feel my pushing-40 age. This is how you begin to remember what you’re really made of: the process of subtraction that will ultimately make you whole.
Ultimately, I settled somewhere in the middle. I’ve been calling and Zooming with the most important people in my life—saying goodbye, because whatever happens, the person I am now isn’t the same one who will come out the other side. Yet with each passing day, I realize that this is a process of remembering, of coming back to who I have always been.
Now, as the retreat draws near, I’m feeling less afraid and more open to wonder. On a recent walk in my temporary neighborhood of Piraeus, near Athens, Greece, I was so moved by its evening palette that I nearly cried. I thought it might lose its shine without the forced presence of liquids and plants, but it turns out the world is just as beautiful without them. My conversation flowed more easily; my writing was, perhaps, even better. We think these things we consume make the experience—but in reality, they’re just showing you what’s always been there.
Still, while detaching from transient pleasures is part of the awakening path, it doesn’t mean that these things don’t matter. As I reflect on my life’s most beautiful moments of interconnection, many of them revolve around sensory delights, set against the backdrop of breweries, wineries, restaurants, and farms. We may be more than this earthly experience, but we’re also here now. Part of being a person is to make something ephemeral and share it with each other, all the more meaningful for the fact that it’s limited.
I’m about to find out who I really am, and it’s not defined by the things I put in my body. I’m not sure who will come out the other side, but I’m going to have a block of cheese and a bottle of Stout waiting for them when they arrive, and I’m hoping they’ll still delight in them.
