A Nation of Mystics_Book II_The Tribe

by Pamela Johnson

  “I’ll go this afternoon. I’m in no mood to spend another night.”

  “Pull the van into the barn, and I’ll load you up.”

  By four o’clock, Kathy was on the road to Phoenix. Nearly spring in the desert, the days were getting warmer. She took off her sweater and rolled down a window, wondering again whether she should have left with things so unsettled between her and Larry. If she’d spent just one night with him, surely they could have reconciled.

  God, but I miss touching his spirit, being filled by it, feeling warm. All I feel now is empty and sick at heart.

  A few miles from Tucson, she pulled off the road for gas at a truck stop, filled up, then began to pull back onto the highway. On the shoulder, a hitchhiker waited, thumb pointing north, toward Phoenix. In the last rays of the sun, she could see the tired, anxious face of a young kid. The evening winds were already picking up, blowing swirls of desert sand around his boots and Levi’s, finally lifting his cowboy hat. He chased it a few feet, jammed it back on his head, then turned a disconsolate face back to the highway of cars. Temperatures would be dropping rapidly. Kathy never picked up hitchhikers when she was carrying, but today, something in the boy’s face reminded her of her own mood. She pulled the van over.

  “Hi,” he said, running up to her window, his brown eyes sparkling at the thought of a ride. “Where you going?”

  Kathy studied him, looking for a few signs. She found them. His sandy brown hair was long and growing. Around his neck, he wore a peace symbol roach clip. “Where you going?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “Hop in. You got any luggage with you? Any money?”

  “Nope and none,” he grinned.

  Kathy started the drive west again. “What’s your name?”

  “Danny,” he answered.

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “C’mon, be straight with me. How old?”

  “Sixteen. I’ll be seventeen next month.”

  “Running away from home?”

  “Yeah, you can’t imagine what living with my old man is like.”

  “Maybe I can.” She smiled with him.

  They rode for fifty miles together, Danny telling her jokes and stories, until Kathy couldn’t stop laughing.

  “Want a smoke?” she finally asked, lighting up a long roach from the ashtray.

  She watched as he toked expertly, putting a little spittle on one side that was burning too fast. “How long you been smoking?” she asked.

  “About a year and a half. And I have to tell you … the smell in this van is a bust.”

  Kathy laughed aloud again, shaking her head. “How long have you known that?”

  “Since I stepped in. I didn’t want to make you nervous by mentioning it sooner. I used to move stuff around from a warehouse. People didn’t suspect a kid my age.”

  “You want to know what I was doing at sixteen?”

  “Leading dudes around by the nose?”

  Kathy giggled. “Listen Danny, when we get to Berkeley, I’m going to rent a house. I’m tired of living out of this van. How’d you like to live there and work for me?”

  “You serious? Honey, I’m yours.”

  JERRY PUTNAM AND DR. BENJAMIN MILLER

  UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA BERKELEY RESEARCH TEAM, OAXACA, MEXICO

  SPRING BREAK 1968

  Jerry Putnam, botany student at UC Berkeley, peered from the small plane’s window to see the mountains of the Sierra Madre Oriental range of Oaxaca stretching away into the distance. As he watched the changing scenery, he thought the mountain colors illusive. The shapes of the slopes changed from bright green to misty gray then to violet. In the far distance, deep valleys breathed a rising mist that caused the higher peaks to appear as if floating on a sea of white clouds.

  At least we’re not backpacking in this time, he thought, remembering the heat, sweat, and insects of the Amazon jungle.

  In a narrow valley ahead, he finally spied the quiet village they sought. His eyes searched anxiously for the runway. Nauseous from the bounce of the plane on the long flight, he was ready to land. The plane began its slow, steady descent, then abruptly lifted off again, turned, and made another pass, frightening cows off the field. A third pass and the plane touched and bounced through potholes, finally coming to a slow, gliding stop near a dirt road. Only the sound of the men’s breathing could be heard once the motor was stilled. Sun streamed through the sealed windows, and the small compartment quickly became unbearably hot.

  When Jerry had first looked at the map and saw where the village of Santa María de Mazatlán was located, he had marveled at its isolation. At the end of a long, narrow highway that looped through rugged mountains, the village lay in a valley near a wild river. Perhaps Santa María’s very isolation was the reason Nicolás García, professor of anthropology at the National Autonomous University of Mexico, had chosen to spend more than twenty years here studying tradition and shamanic practices among the Mazatecs.

  “I’ll get this door opened,” Professor Miller told them. “Then we’ll see just how good our communication has been.”

  Dr. Benjamin Miller had led more than one expedition under the auspices of the University of California at Berkeley. Originally from the University of Chicago, he had been lured to California by the prospect of a faculty open to new ways of looking at the natural world, and, in particular, by Dean Putnam, Jerry’s father, a fellow botanist who had encouraged his work. Even Jerry, who hung on Dr. Miller’s every word, would be the first to admit that Benjamin Miller’s teaching style was somewhat controversial. Rather than having students reiterate old canons, Dr. Miller asked questions and pushed both undergraduate and graduate students to find the answers. His unique approach in allowing the creative theories of his students to flourish had indeed paid off. Not only was he the most popular professor in the biology department, but the possibilities of the unstructured visions that he’d encouraged had also created exciting new theories.

  Young, in his early thirties, with curly brown hair considered a bit too long among more conservative members of the department, he was often seen in jeans, a blue work shirt, and hiking boots, rather than a suit and tie—a new phenomenon even in Berkeley’s growing radical distinctions.

  But there was a more immediate reason Jerry would support Benjamin Miller to his last breath. Dr. Miller had given him a second chance to pursue his career.

  From the time he’d been a small boy, all Jerry had ever wanted was to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a university professor. But in the early part of 1967, his father had unexpectedly died, a sudden heart attack, leaving both Jerry and his mother bereft. Shortly afterward, Dr. Miller had proposed a trip to Gabon in West Africa, inviting not only Jerry, but also his best friend and childhood science partner, Myles Corbet, to be members of the team. Myles’s father, Dr. Philip Corbet, was head of the biology department, and the Putnam and Corbet families had been close. As children, the two boys had camped together, attended the same school, played on the same baseball team, and followed their parents on international expeditions. Looking back, Jerry now knew that the African trip had been Dr. Miller’s way to refocus him after the devastating loss of his father.

  A few weeks after their return from Gabon, Myles had called one evening asking whether Jerry could get him a kilo of pot for a friend who wanted to make lids, ounces, to sell. Myles had explained that the student wanted to make rent while going to school. Jerry wasn’t a dealer, but even as busy as he was, he’d gone out of his way to try to help. Because it was Myles who had asked.

  Instead of Myles appearing at his door at the appointed time, he’d opened it to six gun-wielding agents bent on his arrest. Sentenced quickly to three months in jail, he’d believed his career prospects over.

  Upon his return to the university for October classes, Dr. Miller had insisted that he get back to work. To ensure that he did, Dr. Miller had persuaded Jerry to accompany him on a university expedition
to the Amazon between quarters last December. The published paper that had been produced from that expedition had included Jerry’s name in the list of authors. He was indeed back on track in his professional life, and although he had come to accept the betrayal of a friend—one he’d known and loved and competed with academically from the third grade—he still smarted from the deceit.

  A cloud of dust appeared down the road, and within minutes, an open jeep and a pickup truck pulled up to the plane. Nicolás García jumped from the jeep and held out his hand to Benjamin Miller. In his fifties, with graying hair at his temples and impressively dark, full eyebrows, he wore khaki pants, a white shirt, heavy boots, and a battered but comfortable-looking straw hat.

  “Dr. Miller!” he called, laughing. “Excuse this dust! There is no way to avoid it!”

  After reading a paper of Dr. García’s in an international journal, Benjamin had written for assistance in collecting species of Psilocybe. Perhaps the villagers would be willing to share their experiences with the mushroom?

  Professor García had answered promptly. He would be pleased to hike the mountains in search of the mushrooms, but Professor Miller would have to make his request for interviews to the villagers in person.

  “Call me Benjamin. Please. Ben, if you prefer. Thank you for meeting us.”

  Benjamin took the firm handshake with gratitude, recognizing humor in a relaxed face, unlike the quiet desperation he saw in so many university professors. Nodding to each of the men standing near the plane, Ben made the introductions. “My students and coresearchers. Jerry Putnam, botany. Barry Hume, anthropology. Our pilot, Señor Barrio.”

  “Let us get you unloaded, and we can have lunch,” Dr. García suggested.

  From underneath the plane came the equipment—supplies for three weeks, flasks, Petri dishes, slides, a microscope, sketch pads, a camera, film, a tape recorder—everything needed to set up a small laboratory for collecting and for making ethnographic field notes.

  The village home of Nicolás García was a three-room stucco building covered by a tin roof. The floors were of red terracotta tile. A bedroom, a dining room with a table, chairs, and bureau, and a small, warm kitchen made up the house.

  Built beside it was a workshop, a rather large room with plenty of table space. Benjamin was gratified to see a wood stove occupying one corner and split firewood stacked against the wall. At this altitude, the nights would be cold.

  “I hope this workshop will be adequate,” Dr. García told them. He pointed with his hat to three cots set up at the far end of the room. “Back there are bunks. These two tables can serve as desks. I usually store my collection of artifacts and contemporary art here, but the room is yours to use for as long as you need it. I’ve boxed much of my collection for the time being. You might like to have a look at it before you leave. Toilets and a shower are outside. I am afraid the shower will be quick if you want hot water. The water heater is small. Please make yourself at home.”

  “It’s very comfortable,” Dr. Miller answered. “We’ll do just fine.”

  “When you are ready, come to the house. Our cook, María Guadalupe, has prepared lunch. Here is a key for the door’s padlock.”

  At the dining table, the men rested after the long flight. The cook, María Guadalupe, was introduced, and without a word, the older woman shuffled around the table serving stewed chicken with onions and peppers, beans and cheese and tortillas, and strong coffee.

  “Tell me, Benjamin, why have you come to Santa María de Mazatlán?” Dr. García asked, speaking to him in Spanish.

  “I mentioned to you in my letter that I was interested in shamanism. And in the collection of as many species as possible of the Psilocybe.”

  Dr. García gave him a questioning glance. “I would have thought that most scholars would be frightened by this line of research—considering the political climate of the times.”

  “I see remarkable possibilities in this line of study,” Benjamin answered. “I’ve read your papers. You see those possibilities, too. I believe that’s why you’ve given many years of your life to the Mazatecs and this village.”

  Dr. García leaned back in his chair, thinking. “How did you first become interested in psychotropic substances?”

  Benjamin smiled. “I have always seen a relationship between plants and man. That’s why I first became a botanist. Jerry’s father,” and here he nodded toward Jerry, “Dean Putnam, also held those same interests. When I was a young graduate student, Dean encouraged the research for my dissertation.”

  Distracted by his thoughts, eyes looking into the distance, Benjamin set his fork on the table, his food momentarily forgotten.

  “Not long ago,” he finally said, returning his eyes to Dr. García, “I was greatly excited by the discovery that there was more than one species of Cannabis. When we returned from Africa with local samples, I began to map the distribution of the sativa. To be honest, I was not surprised to discover that there were ceremonies attached to Cannabis use. In Cuernavaca last year, we saw that locals pinched the leaves of the Cannabis plant until the bushes became urn shaped.”

  “Yes,” Dr. García nodded. “I have seen these bushes. The resin becomes dark red, resembling the sacred copal of early Mesoamerican rites.”

  “From there, it was easy to see that in those parts of the world where psychotropic plants are used, ceremony is always attached. Each rite, each culture, suggests recognition of a level of reality other than ordinary consciousness.”

  Dr. García’s smile was teasing. “And have you decided which reality is the true way of viewing the world? The more important?”

  “Why, each is equally important,” Benjamin laughed. “In the Amazon, we lived with villagers who believe that ordinary reality is an illusion. Only the altered state is real. Yet, consciousness in the unexpanded state cannot be denied. Both exist for reasons. It’s those reasons I am exploring.”

  “Most of the literature to date suggests that the world of expanded consciousness is a mental illness, a schizophrenia of sorts. Do you believe this to be true?”

  Benjamin considered the question a moment, uncertain how he could explain to Dr. García what he himself did not understand.

  “I have heard my colleagues tell me that once a person experiences the expanded state of mind, that person is no longer capable of objectivity. But I’ve learned exactly the opposite—that only by widening the scope of experience can one have true objectivity.”

  “What if I were to tell you,” Dr. García said quietly, “that there are many levels of awareness. More than two.”

  Benjamin raised his eyebrows. “Then I would be greatly interested.”

  Dr. García carefully placed his fork on the table beside his plate. “Have you encountered the mushroom stones?”

  “Not physically, but I have seen them in your papers.”

  “These stones have been part of Mexico’s history for centuries. The people have long used the mushroom for healing and divination. After the Conquest, and even to the present day, native peoples have had to hide their sacred experience.” Dr. García took a pipe from his pocket, knocked its contents into a saucer, and began to fill it from a tobacco pouch. “Benjamin, do you believe your colleagues understand ethnocentrism? I mean, truly understand their own biases?”

  At this, Benjamin turned to Barry and Jerry. “Are you understanding this?” he asked in English, for the conversation had continued in Spanish.

  “Sí,” Jerry nodded, “estoy siguiendo.” Yes. I’m following.

  “I would say,” Benjamin continued, “that most of the people I work with understand ethnocentrism. But in this instance, what we’re dealing with is not so much an inability to accept the truths and relevance of a different culture. What we’re dealing with is an inability to accept the reality of another level of consciousness. Most people have only experienced altered reality in the dream state. This they accept as natural because they’re accustomed to it. Deliberately altering the mental stat
e is another matter. This lack of altered-state experience, unfortunately, constrains most of my colleagues. Call it cognicentrism, if you will.”

  “Cognicentrism!” Dr. García slapped his leg and laughed heartily. “If you don’t mind, I should like to use that term in my lectures next fall. Tell me, Benjamin, when did you begin to change?”

  “Change?”

  “Yes,” and Dr. García’s eyes twinkled. “From the botanist to the anthropologist … to perhaps something more?”

  “Historian, psychologist, sociologist … perhaps even shaman?” Benjamin grinned, meeting the light in Dr. García’s eyes. “I’m not sure exactly when. I think I’ve always walked that path. But certainly while I did my research in the Amazon.”

  Dr. García paused, then ventured, “You talk of becoming a shaman. Those are serious words.”

  “I caught a glimpse of it,” Benjamin answered slowly, “while experiencing ayahuasca. I could see things normally unseen. Even in the darkness, I could look into my body. Or someone else’s.”

  “You tell this to your colleagues?”

  “Not yet. Not until my data’s complete. I do tell them a shaman is intimately involved with his patient. That the binding of minds affects the cure. The psychotherapeutic value of healing is something that is familiar.”

  “I think, Benjamin, that perhaps your work will grow here.” Nicolás García stood and held out his arm in a gesture of presentation. “I’d like to introduce María Guadalupe to you.”

  “I have met the señora,” Benjamin answered, his look quizzical.

  “Yes, as cook. But not as curandera of the village.”

  The room turned its attention to the small, dark woman with her eyes downcast and arms folded. She stood, half the size of any man in the room, her skin red-brown, graying hair parted in the middle and braided on either side, her feet bare, her embroidered skirt and blouse rumpled and soiled from kitchen work. When she looked up, they saw that her eyes were both penetrating and humble.