The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge

by Carlos Castaneda

  As he pounded he sang an unintelligible chant, very softly and monotonously. When he had mashed the root into a soft pulp inside the bag, he placed it in the wooden basin. He again placed the slab mortar and the pestle into the basin, filled it with water, and then carried it to a sort of rectangular pig's trough set against the back fence.

  He said the root had to soak all night, and had to be left outside the house so it would catch the night air (el sereno). 'If tomorrow is a sunny, hot day, it will be an excellent omen,' he said.

  Sunday, 10 September 1961

  Thursday, 7 September was a very clear and hot day. Don Juan seemed very pleased with the good omen and repeated several tunes that the devil's weed had probably liked me. The root had soaked all night, and about 10:00 a.m. we walked to the back of the house. He took the basin out of the trough, placed it on the ground, and sat next to it. He took the bag and rubbed it on the bottom of the basin. He held it a few inches above the water and squeezed its contents, then dropped the bag into the water. He repeated the same sequence three more times, then discarded the bag, tossing it into the trough, and left the basin in the hot sun.

  We came back to it two hours later. He brought with him a medium-size kettle with boiling, yellowish water. He tipped the basin very carefully and emptied the top water, preserving the thick silt that had accumulated on the bottom. He poured the boiling water on the silt and left the basin in the sun again.

  This sequence was repeated three times at intervals of more than an hour. Finally he poured out most of the water from the basin, tipped it to an angle to catch the late afternoon sun, and left it.

  When we returned hours later, it was dark. On the bottom of the basin there was a layer of gummy substance. It resembled a batch of half-cooked starch, whitish or light grey. There was perhaps a full teaspoon of it. He took the basin inside the house, and while he put some water on to boil. I picked out pieces of dirt the wind had blown into the silt. He laughed at me.

  'That little dirt won't hurt anybody.'

  When the water was boiling he poured about a cup of it into the basin. It was the same yellowish water he had used before. It dissolved the silt, making a sort of milky substance.

  'What kind of water is that, don Juan?'

  'Water of fruits and flowers from the canyon.'

  He emptied the contents of the basin into an old clay mug that looked like a flowerpot. It was still very hot, so he blew on to it to cool it. He took a sip and handed me the mug.

  'Drink now!' he said.

  I took it automatically, and without deliberation drank all the water. It tasted somewhat bitter, although the bitterness was hardly noticeable. What was very outstanding was the pungent odour of the water. It smelled like cockroaches.

  Almost immediately I began to sweat. I got very warm, and blood rushed to my ears. I saw a red spot in front of my eyes, and the muscles of my stomach began to contract in painful cramps. After a while, even though I felt no more pain, I began to get cold and perspiration literally soaked me.

  Don Juan asked me if I saw blackness or black spots in front of my eyes. I told him I was seeing everything in red.

  My teeth were chattering because of an uncontrollable nervousness that came to me in waves, as if radiating out from the middle of my chest.

  Then he asked me if I was afraid. His questions seemed meaningless to me. I told him that I was obviously afraid, but he asked me again if I was afraid of her. I did not understand what he meant and I said yes. He laughed and said that I was not really afraid. He asked if I still saw red. All I was seeing was a huge red spot in front of my eyes.

  I felt better after a while. Gradually the nervous spasms disappeared, leaving only an aching, pleasant tiredness and an intense desire to sleep. I couldn't keep my eyes open, although I could still hear don Juan's voice. I fell asleep. But the sensation of my being submerged in a deep red persisted all night. I even had dreams in red.

  I woke up on Saturday about 3:00 p.m. I had slept almost two days. I had a mild headache and an upset stomach, and very sharp, intermittent pains in my intestines. Except for that, everything else was like an ordinary waking. I found don Juan sitting in front of his house dozing. He smiled at me.

  'Everything went fine the other night,' he said. 'You saw red and that's all that is important.'

  'What would have happened if I had not seen red?'

  'You would have seen black, and that is a bad sign.'

  'Why is it bad?'

  'When a man sees black it means he is not made for the devil's weed, and he vomits his entrails out, all green and black.'

  'Would he die?'

  'I don't think anyone would die, but he would be sick for a long time.'

  'What happens to those who see red?'

  'They do not vomit, and the root gives them an effect of pleasure, which means they are strong and of violent nature — something that the weed likes. That is the way she entices. The only bad point is that men end up as slaves to the devil's weed in return for the power she gives them. But those are matters over which we have no control. Man lives only to learn. And if he learns it is because that is the nature of his lot, for good or bad.'

  'What shall I do next, don Juan?'

  'Next you must plant a shoot [brote] that I have cut from the other half of the first portion of root. You took half of it the other night, and now the other half must be put into the ground. It has to grow and seed before you can undertake the real task of taming the plant.'

  'How will I tame her?'

  'The devil's weed is tamed through the root. Step by step, you must learn the secrets of each portion of the root. You must intake them in order to learn the secrets and conquer the power.'

  'Are the different portions prepared in the same way you did the first one?'

  'No, each portion is different.'

  'What are the specific effects of each portion?'

  'I already said, each teaches a different form of power. What you took the other night is nothing yet. Anyone can do that. But only the brujo can take the deeper portions. I can't tell you what they do because I don't know yet whether she will take you. We must wait.'

  'When will you tell me, then?'

  'Whenever your plant has grown and seeded.'

  'If the first portion can be taken by anyone, what is it used for?'

  'In a diluted form it is good for all the matters of manhood, old people who have lost their vigour, or young men who are seeking adventures, or even women who want passion.'

  'You said the root is used for power only, but I see it's used for other matters besides power. Am I correct?'

  He looked at me for a very long time, with a steadfast gaze that embarrassed me. I felt my question had made him angry, but I couldn't understand why.

  'The weed is used only for power,' he finally said in a dry, stern tone. 'The man who wants his vigour back, the young people who seek to endure fatigue and hunger, the man who wants to kill another man, a woman who wants to be in heat — they all desire power. And the weed will give it to them! Do you feel you like her?' he asked after a pause.

  'I feel a strange vigour,' I said, and it was true. I had noticed it on awakening and I felt it then. It was a very peculiar sensation of discomfort, or frustration; my whole body moved and stretched with unusual lightness and strength. My arms and legs itched. My shoulders seemed to swell; the muscles of my back and neck made me feel like pushing, or rubbing, against trees. I felt I could demolish a wall by ramming it.

  We did not speak any more. We sat on the porch for a while,

  I noticed that don Juan was falling asleep; he nodded a couple of times, then he simply stretched his legs, lay on the door with his hands behind his head, and went to sleep. I got up and went to the back of the house where I burned up my extra physical energy by clearing away the debris; I remembered his mentioning that he would like me to help him clean up at the back of his house.

  Later, when he woke up and came to the back, I was more relax
ed.

  We sat down to eat, and in the course of the meal he asked me three times how I felt. Since this was a rarity I finally asked, 'Why do you worry about how I feel, don Juan? Do you expect me to have a bad reaction from drinking the juice?'

  He laughed. I thought he was acting like a mischievous boy who has set up a prank and checks from time to time for the results. Still laughing, he said:

  'You don't look sick. A while ago you even talked rough to me.'

  'I did not, don Juan,' I protested. 'I don't ever recall talking to you like that.' I was very serious on that point because I did not remember that I had ever felt annoyed with him.

  'You came out in her defence,' he said.

  'In whose defence?'

  'You were defending the devil's weed. You sounded like a lover already.'

  I was going to protest even more vigorously about it, but I stopped myself.

  'I really did not realize I was defending her.'

  'Of course you did not. You don't even remember what you said, do you?'

  'No, I don't. I must admit it.'

  'You see. The devil's weed is like that. She sneaks up on you like a woman. You are not even aware of it. All you care about is that she makes you feel good and powerful: the muscles swelling with vigour, the fists itching, the soles of the feet burning to run somebody down. When a man knows her he really becomes full of cravings. My benefactor used to say that the devil's weed keeps men who want power, and gets rid of those who can't handle it. But power was more common then; it was sought more avidly. My benefactor was a powerful man, and according to what he told me, his benefactor, in turn, was even more given to the pursuit of power. But in those days there was good reason to be powerful.'

  'Do you think there is no reason for power nowadays?'

  'Power is all right for you now. You are young. You are not an Indian. Perhaps the devil's weed would be in good hands. You seem to have liked it. It made you feel strong. I felt all that myself. And yet I didn't like it.'

  'Can you tell me why, don Juan?'

  'I don't like its power! There is no use for it any more. In other times, like those my benefactor told me about, there was reason to seek power. Men performed phenomenal deeds, were admired for their strength and feared and respected for their knowledge. My benefactor told me stories of truly phenomenal deeds that were performed long, long ago. But now we, the Indians, do not seek that power any more. Nowadays, the Indians use the weed to rub themselves. They use the leaves and flowers for other matters; they even say it cures their boils. But they do not seek its power, a power that acts like a magnet, more potent and more dangerous to handle as the root goes deeper into the ground. When one arrives to a depth of four yards — and they say some people have — one finds the seat of permanent power, power without end. Very few humans have done this in the past, and nobody has done it today. I'm telling you, the power of the devil's weed is no longer needed by us, the Indians. Little by little, I think we have lost interest, and now power does not matter any more. I myself do not seek it, and yet at one time, when I was your age, I too felt its swelling inside me. I felt the way you did today, only five hundred times more strongly. I killed a man with a single blow of my arm. I could toss boulders, huge boulders not even twenty men could budge. Once I jumped so high I chopped the top leaves off the highest trees. But it was all for nothing! All I did was frighten the Indians — only the Indians. The rest who knew nothing about it did not believe it.

  They saw either a crazy Indian, or something moving at the top of the trees.'

  We were silent for a long time. I needed to say something.

  'It was different when there were people in the world,' he proceeded, 'people who knew a man could become a mountain lion, or a bird, or that a man could simply fly. So I don't use the devil's weed any more. For what? To frighten the Indians? [.?Para que??Para asustar a los indios?

  And I saw him sad, and a deep empathy filled me. I wanted to say something to him, even if it was a platitude.

  'Perhaps, don Juan, that is the fate of all men who want to know.'

  'Perhaps,' he said quietly.

  Thursday, 23 November 1961

  I didn't see don Juan sitting on his porch as I drove in. I thought it was strange. I called to him out loud and his daughter-in-law came out of the house.

  'He's inside,' she said.

  I found he had dislocated his ankle several weeks before. He had made his own cast by soaking strips of cloth in a mush made with cactus and powdered bone. The strips, wrapped tightly around his ankle, had dried into a light, streamlined cast. It had the hardness of plaster, but not its bulkiness.

  'How did it happen?' I asked.

  His daughter-in-law, a Mexican woman from Yucatan, who was tending him, answered me.

  'It was an accident! He fell and nearly broke his foot!'

  Don Juan laughed and waited until the woman had left the house before answering.

  'Accident, my eye! I have an enemy nearby. A woman. «La Catalina!» She pushed me during a moment of weakness and I fell.'

  'Why did she do that?'

  'She wanted to kill me, that's why.'

  'Was she here with you?'

  'Yes!' 'Why did you let her in?'

  'I didn't. She flew in.'

  'I beg your pardon!'

  'She is a blackbird [chanate]. And so effective at that. I was caught by surprise. She has been trying to finish me off for a long while. This time she got real close.'

  'Did you say she is a blackbird? I mean, is she a bird?'

  'There you go again with your questions. She is a blackbird! The same way I'm a crow. Am I a man or a bird? I'm a man who knows how to become a bird. But going back to «la Catalina», she is a fiendish witch! Her intent to kill me is so strong that I can hardly fight her off. The blackbird came all the way into my house and I couldn't stop it.'

  'Can you become a bird, don Juan?'

  'Yes! But that's something we'll take up later.'

  'Why does she want to kill you?'

  'Oh, there's an old problem between us. It got out of hand and now it looks as if I will have to finish her off before she finishes me.'

  'Are you going to use witchcraft?' I asked with great expectations.

  'Don't be silly. No witchcraft would ever work on her. I have other plans! I'll tell you about them some day.'

  'Can your ally protect you from her?'

  'No! The little smoke only tells me what to do. Then I must protect myself.'

  'How about Mescalito? Can he protect you from her?'

  'No! Mescalito is a teacher, not a power to be used for personal reasons.'

  'How about the devil's weed?'

  'I've already said that I must protect myself, following the directions of my ally the smoke. And as far as I know, the smoke can do anything. If you want to know about any point in question, the smoke will tell you. And it will give you not only knowledge, but also the means to proceed. It's the most marvellous ally a man could have.'

  'Is the smoke the best possible ally for everybody?'

  'It's not the same for everybody. Many fear it and won't touch it, or even get close to it. The smoke is like everything else; it wasn't made for all of us.'

  'What kind of smoke is it, don Juan?'

  'The smoke of diviners!'

  There was a noticeable reverence in his voice — a mood I had never detected before.

  'I will begin by telling you exactly what my benefactor said to me when he began to teach me about it. Although at that time, like yourself now, I couldn't possibly have understood. «The devil's weed is for those who bid for power. The smoke is for those who want to watch and see.» And in my opinion, the smoke is peerless. Once a man enters into its field, every other power is at his command. It's magnificent! Of course, it takes a lifetime. It takes years alone to become acquainted with its two vital parts: the pipe and the smoke mixture. The pipe was given to me by my benefactor, and after so many years of fondling it, it has become mine.
It has grown into my hands. To turn it over to your hands, for instance, will be a real task for me, and a great accomplishment for you — if we succeed! The pipe will feel the strain of being handled by someone else; and if one of us makes a mistake there won't be any way to prevent the pipe from bursting open by its own force, or escaping from our hands to shatter, even if it falls on a pile of straw. If that ever happens, it would mean the end of us both. Particularly of me. The smoke would turn against me in unbelievable ways.'

  'How could it turn against you if it's your ally?'

  My question seemed to have altered his flow of thoughts. He didn't speak for a long time.

  'The difficulty of the ingredients,' he proceeded suddenly, 'makes the smoke mixture one of the most dangerous substances I know. No one can prepare it without being coached. It is deadly poisonous to anyone except the smoke's protege! Pipe and mixture ought to be treated with intimate care. And the man attempting to learn must prepare himself by leading a hard, quiet life. Its effects are so dreadful that only a very strong man can stand the smallest puff. Everything is terrifying and confusing at the outset, but every new puff makes things more precise. And suddenly the world opens up anew! Unimaginable! When this happens the smoke has become one's ally and will resolve any question by allowing one to enter into inconceivable worlds.

  'This is the smoke's greatest property, its greatest gift. And it performs its function without hurting in the least. I call the smoke a true ally!'

  As usual, we were sitting in front of his house, where the dirt floor is always clean and packed hard; he suddenly got up and went inside the house. After a few moments he returned with a narrow bundle and sat down again.

  'This is my pipe,' he said.

  He leaned over towards me and showed me a pipe he drew out of a sheath made of green canvas. It was perhaps nine or ten inches long. The stem was made of reddish wood; it was plain, without ornamentation. The bowl also seemed to be made of wood; but it was rather bulky in comparison with the thin stem. It had a sleek finish and was dark grey, almost charcoal.