92
MOUNTAINLIFE
WINTER /SPRING2016
When I first met Alberto at the airport in
Pucallpa, though, he lookedmore like a moto-
taxi driver than the spiritual equivalent of a
mountain guide. Short and paunchy, Alberto
wore faded board shorts and a stained soccer
jersey, his dark eyes shaded by a threadbare
baseball hat. He apologized with a sheepish
grin for being two hours late. Time, I supposed,
meant little to a shaman.
“I am not a shaman,” Alberto clarified once
we were cruising up the Ucayali in the narrow
skiff that would take us to his home. “I am
a
curandero
,” a medicine man. Before I could
ponder the difference, our propeller hit the sand
bottom and cut out, engulfing the world in thick
jungle silence. Something splashed and I looked
over my shoulder towards a sandbar covered
in white egrets; something big was cavorting
in the water between us. “Is that a
dolphin?
”
I exclaimed. Alberto’s smile indicated this was
not the first time he’d seen a person see a
river dolphin for the first time. Then our driver
got the motor going andAlberto went back to
explaining that a shaman exploits the non-
medicinal powers of ayahuasca—what we might
think of as black magic—whereas a
curandero
is
simply out to heal.
“If you are only here to experience visions,”
Alberto says, “I cannot help you.”
This was disappointing. Visions were what
interestedme most. I admitted that I have as
many issues as the next guy, but I wasn’t here
to cure a chronic illness or beat an addiction or
excavate some childhood trauma. It was hard
enough to explain in English what drewme
to ayahuasca, let alone in Spanish; I stuck to
paraphrasingAldous Huxley and said I’d been
hoping to openmy doors of perception. Just not
quite as wide as the last time.
“What if I do both?” I asked, seeking a middle
ground. “Can I seek healing
and
visions?”
Alberto smiled like I was a child bargaining
for cookies, and nodded his assent. He was
changing already, sitting taller andmore self-
assured, seemingmore like a guide and less
like a
taxista
with every mile we put between
ourselves and the urban world. By the time
we reached his village three hours later, the
transformation was complete, andAlberto’s
scruffy demeanor had been replaced by an air
of dignified authority.
The village was named Ceilon. Alberto toldme
his father hadmoved the community here thirty
years ago because the old one was prone to
flooding. This one occupied what passed for
high ground in these flat lands, which basically
meant the river was out of sight. The jungle had
been pushed back tomake way for thatch huts
and banana trees. They’d cleared a gravel soccer
pitch that doubled as a volleyball court, over
which the sun was setting when we arrived.
Alberto took me to the wooden hut where I
would sleep, and suddenly it was pitch black
except for stars and fireflies.
Next morning, Alberto’s sisters cooked eggs
and fish for breakfast while keeping an eye on
the pot of ayahuasca bubbling on the propane
stove’s second burner. The drug would take
all day to boil down. After breakfast, Alberto
showedme where its two principal ingredients
were growing just outside: The green Chacruna
shrub whose leaves contain the hallucinogen
DMT; and the woody ayahuasca vines whose
bark contains enzyme inhibitors that hold the
doors open, so to speak, for DMT to enter our
bloodstream. “This is the medicine,” Alberto
said. “Focus on your problems and the plant
can help you. It’s between you and the plant. I
can only guide.”
I wondered how exactly the plant could help
me, howAlberto would guide. But as so often
in spiritual matters, precise answers were not
forthcoming. “Focus on your problems,” Alberto
said again, and left me alone for the day.
Alberto had another guest, a Frenchman
who had long braided hair and dreamy eyes
who’d been here two weeks already and done
six ceremonies. He seemed surprised that I
was only here for one. He spoke rapidly and
nervously about the strength ayahuasca was
giving him, but the man exuded anxiety, not
strength. I escaped his fevered gaze and curled
up in a hammock and wondered if my decision
to come all this way to hallucinate amongst
strangers could itself qualify as a problem
worthy of pre-ceremony meditation.
Can I seekhealingandvisions?”Albertosmiled like Iwasa child
bargaining for cookies, andnoddedhisassent.
