Sacred Mushroom of Visions

by Ralph Metzner

  After a long day’s ride we arrived at the town at Tehuacan, where a broken down public carrier, loaded with vegetables and chickens as well as people, took us to the village of Teotitlan in the foothills. In Teotitlan there was no one who spoke English, and I speak no Spanish. I located a room at an inn and the following morning I began the frustrating ordeal of arranging transportation into the mountains. Finally, the postmaster agreed to drive me in his jeep. The next morning we rode off in a cloud of dust with two other Mexicans and extra cans of gas in the back.

  The paths were narrow and forever winding upward, around, and over mountains, with hairpin turns and thousand foot drops over the side of the road. No one had penetrated the mountains for twenty-five days because twenty landslides had blocked the route due to the rains. We worked hard, digging through the smaller landslides with shovels or waiting for crews of local Indians to dig through for us. The larger slides we skirted by building logs and stones over the cliff, then gingerly inching the jeep around with only inches to spare. On the map, the route to Huautla de Jimenez looked less than fifty miles, but due to the winding roads, it was over a hundred. We arrived late at night, caked with mud and dead tired.

  The following day I walked through the village, which was near the highest peak in the Sierra Mazatec. It seemed like the top of the world, the side of the mountain, with valleys below and the mountain peak above. As far as the eye could see there was nothing but mountains with the cloud-covered sky as a backdrop. The air was clean and cool from the rain and altitude. I loved it.

  The Mazatecs guessed that I had come for the mushroom. Why else would a gringo come to Huautla? It struck them as humorous and whenever they saw me they would shape their hands in the form of a mushroom and pretend they were eating it. Then they would laugh and slap their knees and throw their arms hilariously around each other. I was the joke of the town. Other enterprising Mazatecs did their best to separate me from my money, but I held my own. Most of the Mazatecs didn’t speak Spanish, only Mazateca, which is not related to any other language. However, I found a little girl who spoke broken English that she had learned in school.

  With her help I learned the name of the curandera who performs the mushroom rituals: Santa Maria Sabina. She lived at the top of a peak overlooking the village. I decided to find my own way to her and started walking up the mountain, following the trails, asking directions, calling out the curandera’s name. Women would run inside and shut the door, while men would stare and sometimes point the way. Finally, after a heart-pounding climb, I reached a point near the top where some Mazatecs came out to greet me. They announced that here was the home of Santa Maria Sabina.

  Her hut was one room with a dirt floor, thatched roof, and mud walls. The household consisted of Santa Maria, her three sons, three women, and numerous children, all living in the same room. There was a wood fire in the center with no chimney. The smoke escaped through the walls, which had many holes and gaps where mud had fallen away. The damp, chilly wind came up the side of the mountain, over the ridge, and through the walls of the hut.

  I approached the family with warmhearted friendliness. At first they were suspicious, but other Americans had been there before and gradually they became quite friendly.

  I drew from my pocket a picture of the mushroom, which the Mazatecs call teonanácatl, meaning “God’s flesh.” Santa Maria’s eyes brightened when she spoke of the mushroom. After watching me closely for a few minutes, she indicated she would have a mushroom ritual that night for my benefit. Since nothing more could be said, I went outside and lay under a tree to rest and wait for the night, as white fog rolled up from below and surrounded me.

  When night came I reentered the hut and sat close to the fire while the household ate their dinner, which they offered to share. When we finished, straw mats were unrolled and the children were put to bed. The women went to bed also, leaving only Santa Maria, her three sons, and me.

  In one corner an altar had been set up with two long candles and a glass vigil in the center, surrounded by bouquets of flowers. A straw mat was spread before the altar and Santa Maria sat on it cross-legged, motioning for me to sit beside her. The three men sat behind us. The candles were lit and she pulled a large bowl of fresh mushrooms from under the altar.

  The heads of the mushrooms were brown and about an inch in diameter. The stems were long and white. She carefully examined each one, then deposited six in each of three cups, which she gave to the men behind us. She then gave me a cup with ten mushrooms. She took ten for herself. The mushrooms still had dirt on them and had been handled a great deal. I tried to ask that they be washed, but no one understood me. What could I do? I ate them, dirt and all.

  No sooner had we eaten them than the three men began vomiting and spitting. I was surprised to learn this is what one is supposed to do, and there was a large pan placed by each of us for this purpose. They indicated that I, too, should throw up, but I felt no nausea, so I declined. This surprised them and they discussed the matter among themselves. I noticed Santa Maria did not throw up, either.

  I asked for more mushrooms, feeling that if I should not have more, Santa Maria would not give them to me. She looked me in the eye a moment, then put eight more mushrooms in my cup. I had eaten five when one of the men excitedly tapped me on the shoulder asking how many I had eaten. I showed him fifteen on my fingers and he slapped the side of his head and the three began saying, “No! No! No!” No one other than Santa Maria ever eats fifteen of this particular mushroom. They were really afraid for me, but Santa Maria remained undisturbed and said nothing. This was comforting. She sat quietly facing the altar and began chanting something like canticles, with rich, vibrant, tender tones.

  Within half an hour I saw vivid, flashing colors. Then a clammy chill came over me and I began shaking. My joints began to stiffen a little, but within fifteen minutes these toxic effects subsided and I felt wonderful. All the fatigue of the day left me and I felt strong and light of body. My back straightened and I began to meditate on the colors.

  Her chanting was fascinating, a rising and falling crescendo. The notes had a crisp freshness that carried authority. Intricate art motifs appeared in vivid colors, with a predominance of light blue, but also greens and reds in various shades. The motifs unfolded in a long panoramic view. They formed a spiral and I traveled down the spiral. My sense of sound was heightened and I heard distant music.

  Of course, I cannot be certain, but it seemed to me that all five of us were having the same experience. Our consciousness changed many times during that night. It seemed we all changed together, which I attribute to the control Santa Maria exerted over us. The states of consciousness seemed to vary with the rhythm of her chants.

  The motifs subsided and our surroundings transformed into a light, warm glow that engulfed us. Dancing celestial eagle gods appeared. Their lines and colors were so sharply focused that they seemed much more real than anything I normally see with my eyes. The dancers were accompanied by sensitive, ethereal music with a background of drums. The timing was fast but soft and the eagle gods were exceedingly graceful, fully absorbed in their dancing. They became ecstatic and we became absorbed with them. It was wonderful.

  But where was the hut, the altar, the damp ground, and the sleeping people? The candles had been extinguished, so I took a match from my pocket and lit it. Everything seemed to be in order. As I put my mind on the hut, it came into focus, but the vision of the dancers also remained. Somehow the two worlds intermingled. If I concentrated on the hut, it was predominate. But if I concentrated on the vision, the hut receded. I had control of my will and intellect. I was able to point my mind in any direction, though I felt I was in turn influenced by the emotional content of the visions, much as emotions influence the mind in normal circumstances.

  I turned my match to Santa Maria. What a surprise! She seemed transfigured. Her eyes shone with a glow that seemed to light up her head. She looked thirty years younger. There was not a wrinkle on her fac
e. Her skin was light, clear, almost translucent. Here, she was master of the world of the mushroom. She was regal, absorbed in ecstasy. During the day she was a humble, poor Mazatec, but at night she was queen in her strange, mythological realm. I blew out my match and returned to the vision with enthusiasm.

  The dancing soon came to an end, the music stopped, and the eagle gods vanished. A new scene quickly took shape, in which all five of us sat a few yards apart from each other in a semicircle at the center of a vast, endless desert. We were merely sitting in silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts.

  I grappled with the nature of reality. I felt I was on the verge of a discovery, a new realization that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was an eerie feeling. Time stood still. Gradually the feeling came that we had been sitting there for an extremely long time. It seemed that we had always been sitting there. Then a name came to me, as though I had always known it: The Land of Eternal Waiting. We were waiting there, eternally, though what we were waiting for, I didn’t know. But we were definitely waiting.

  The memory of my past life began to dim. When had I lived my life on Earth? Many years ago, if I had lived there at all. I began to worry. Would this never end? I certainly didn’t want to remain here forever. I was losing my identity. I tried to arouse my memory by recalling the names of my father and close friends. At first the names were dim, as if out of some distant past, but with a little effort they returned quite clearly. Still, I felt I had lost contact with life on Earth. I was really worried that I had died from mushroom poisoning without realizing it, long ago. Perhaps I really was in the Land of Eternal Waiting.

  Silence had become a part of me. It seemed years since I had spoken, but I forced myself to speak. To my surprise, the Mazatecs responded in English. I swear it. There was some kind of telepathic communication between us. I was later told it sounded to them like I was speaking Mazateca.

  They said, Yes, we really are in the Land of Eternal Waiting. This is reality, your true abode. Your life on Earth never happened, it was only a dream. You have been sitting with us all along, dreaming a very long time. Now you are awakening from your dream, coming back to reality. We belong here together. This alone is real.

  It seemed strangely true, more real than anything I had ever experienced. I was awakening from a dream, a veil had been lifted. The past was shattered. Wow!

  We talked a long time on the subtle nature of reality, which they explained with patience and kindness. Usually the Mazatec are a simple, childlike people, absorbed in their struggle to survive. But here in the night with the mushroom, they were highly articulate and presented their views with wisdom and insight. Finally, we returned to silence.

  But something still disturbed me: if I were dead to the world, I might as well make the best of it. If I had really died many years ago, my family and friends were probably also dead by now. Though I was in rapport with these people and I really seemed to belong with them, I was damned if I would continue sitting here throughout eternity. Is that all there is to do? This might be reality, but it was senseless, purposeless. I felt like a fool. I began to get mad, really hot.

  I turned to them and shouted, You’re all crazy and so am I. We’re all mad, stark raving mad. We can’t sit here like this forever! We’re absolutely crazy! They politely nodded their heads in agreement. Yes! We’re all crazy. However, this is reality nonetheless. There is reality even in madness.

  They had an irrefutable answer for everything. I was finding out too much of the truth. They tried to soothe me, but I would not be soothed.

  I announced I was leaving, though I didn’t know where to go. Only the endless desert lay before me. I stood to walk away, but my legs were like rubber. I was so wobbly I couldn’t take a step. This made me even more furious. I felt I was being tricked.

  Under the influence of the mushroom, one’s power of concentration is far more pronounced than normally. You become deeply absorbed in whatever you may be thinking. There is no external distraction. Whatever you do is emotionally intense.

  My situation called for drastic action. I really had to get away. I threw my head back and willed myself out of that place. It was as though a charge inside me ignited. I exploded upward like a rocket, instantaneously, straight up through the sky. The others followed me, sucked up by the vacuum of my ascent.

  I emerged in a delicate ethereal upper region of space standing calm, collected, and free. I was immediately master of myself and my surroundings. I realized that everything is a state of mind. I am free and master of myself. I am whatever I believe myself to be, if my belief is strong enough. My mind was released from its struggle and I felt the strength of a giant, like a god. Yes, this was It, the real moment of truth.

  The Mazatecs sat cross legged beside each other while I remained standing, deeply absorbed in my realizations. They looked at me and chanted, “Santos, Santos, Santos,” in unison.

  This distracted me from my thoughts and I said, What? What is that? Santos? Who is Santos? Am I Santos?

  They answered, Yes, you are Santos. Now you are coming to know your true self.

  They waited a moment for this to sink in. Well, I really began to feel like Santos, whoever he is. I became identified with a mental image of Santos that took shape in my mind, accompanied by a feeling of ecstasy. I seemed to move automatically, not guided by my will, but by my emotions. My emotions overflowed. I felt a diving rhythm in the core of my heart. I rose on one foot, light as a feather, and turned slowly on my toes. I had perfect physical control and began to do the eagle dance. I danced with my arms and torso more than my feet. Then I began to chant in Mazateca and moved and swayed to the rhythm of my chanting. It all came as naturally as breathing the air.

  The dance did not take place only in my mind. I really did do the eagle dance with my physical body. At one point I became vaguely aware I was dancing in the mud hut. I could sense and even see many people crowding into the hut. Other Mazatecs in the area were apparently pushing in to watch me. I could see them if I wished, or I could be lost from them in my dance of ecstasy. Their presence didn’t disturb me as it normally would. I was absorbed in my dancing and my identity as Santos, oblivious to all else.

  I don’t know how long I danced. Somewhere my chanting changed into a song in Mazateca. Normally my voice is quite ordinary, but in that state of consciousness, tones came from my throat that are unimaginable to me, long sweet, beautiful exotic tones flowed out with strength and power, without effort. The following day I was told my voice carried through the valley below and was heard all over Huautla de Jimenez. Everyone in the surrounding area heard me. Those in the immediate vicinity came crowding into the hut to watch. It must have been quite a performance. As I write this account, I drift off and relive the whole thing.

  When my wonderful lovely songs came to an end, I began to lose my feeling of godhood. I changed completely. I became a child. I lay on the floor like a child crying for its mother. Not its earthly mother, but some kind of divine, godly mother.

  After lying on the floor for some time, I began to return to my normal state of consciousness. The effects of the mushroom wore off rather quickly. The visions ceased. My surroundings lost the vivid colors. Everything looked disgustingly normal. The transition took about twenty minutes. The only thing that remained was the emotional impact of the experience.

  I stood up rather sheepishly and lit a cigarette. It was four o’clock in the morning. I had been under the influence of the mushroom for seven hours, about two hours longer than the Mazatecs, due to the larger quantity I had eaten. Perhaps my experience was more intense than theirs, for the same reason. I was not the least tired. Physically, I felt in excellent condition. I could not detect any ill effect or any form of hangover from the mushroom.

  At daybreak, Santa Maria initiated me as a Mazatec. She rubbed a green, earthy substance into my arms, chanted, and proclaimed me her son. But we could no longer communicate with one another by words, only sign language.

  When I
descended into the village that day, I found the attitude of the people toward me very different from the day before. No one made fun of me. Everyone came to me and I tried to talk. They would talk among themselves, point at me, put their arms around me. Even prices came down. Cigarettes were cheaper, beer and food were all less than the day before. Yes, indeed, these were my people.

  After a few days I had to leave Huautla, though I wanted to stay on. I was running out of money and the food and lack of good water was beginning to tell on my health. I wasn’t much use to their workaday world. All I was good for was eating mushrooms, so I left them, with reluctance.

  I don’t recommend the mushroom to anyone. Even though they are physically harmless, each person responds differently, according to temperament and psychological makeup. For those who seek the hidden depths of the unconscious mind, the possibilities of exploration are unlimited. The variations are endless. One can enter mythological realms and mental worlds undreamed of. If one gives spiritual meaning to these experiences, as the Indians do, the results are far more significant.

  Sometimes, even now, I think perhaps Santa Maria was right when we were sitting in the Land of Eternal Waiting. Maybe I am still sitting there, dreaming. Perhaps I have only resumed my dream of living in this world. Perhaps my being here is only the product of my imagination. How can I really know? Can we ever be really sure of anything? But if all is a dream, I must say the dream I like best is the one where I shoot up through the sky and become Santos. Man, that’s really living!