Soy Ahora

  “Sam, I love you,” Isam gushed with an embrace.  I was taken aback.  Our two-day acquaintance had been stark with his straight-laced German mannerisms: the first greeting a brusque nod; our first conversation about his regimented jump roping and beet-garlic smoothie routine.  He’d skipped while I had scrolled on the far corner of our hostel rooftop on my first night in Mexico.  I never would have fathomed hugging him at a jungle rave.  

It came to be by way of a very different first impression: Capri from Belgium, fresh out of university on her first backpacking trip.  “Do you want to come to dinner with us?” she’d asked before I'd even put a name to her lithe frame and oversized glasses.  I was just returning from my own, lone meal, but we spent the following afternoon along with Isam at the beach.  She had a knack for uniting, acknowledging each new backpacker and gleaning their story as they shyly entered the hostel kitchen.  

Inspired by her welcoming energy, I greeted my Spaniard bunkmate, learning that he was staying only one night.  “Tomorrow I will go to a secret full moon party at a cenote,” he said.  My ears gobbled the trigger words. When I showed Capri the flyer, later that night dancing salsa, her mouth dropped before shouting, “We have to go!”  Nearly a decade her senior, I felt my aching back and exhausted eyes.  The third margarita the bartender gifted me, however, stoked my fiery nature to agree.  

I spent the next day resting while she diverted her endless energy into snorkeling with Victoria from France, quiet in her non-native English.  By afternoon, I was finally emerge from my pajamas and the hostel.  Isam wanted to see a (non-rave) cenote and I agreed, eager to bathe in the cool water.  To my surprise, the girls, even after their excursion, did too. 

We went; we cliff jumped into the Mayan’s sacred portals; we helped a frantic Isam look for his lost (perhaps stolen?) watch, dangling innocently in the changing room.  We then waited for a colectivo (public microbus), but all that passed were full.  

“Let’s hitchhike!” Capri suggested, extending her thumb to the passing hatchbacks, unable to cram our foursome.  A Navigator rounded the bend, and my hope rose then fell at the flat tire beneath a rusted frame.  

“Need a lift?” a Cockney voice croaked before ripping a toke and passing it to his tie-dyed bandana compadre. 

“Yeah,” I said, “But what’s good with your tire?”

The hippie hopped out, followed by the shirtless Brit who chortled, “Didn’t even notice!” He opened the back seat, releasing two dogs and two near-empty cans of Fix-a-Flat.  

Between their futile attempts, they mentioned hosting a rave.

“At the secret cenote?” Capri asked.

We stood, shocked at the coincidence.  

“Wouldnae even known bout the flat if it weren’t for you lot hitchhiking,” cackled the Brit.  

“Can we get in for free?” tried Capri.

“Where exactly is it?” asked Isam.

Victoria said nothing, and I marveled at the divine timing, the sign of serendipity.  

A few hours later, after a successful hitch-hike to the hostel, dinner, and a discussion about drug usage, we were being ferried back into the jungle, along narrow, mud paths nearly swallowed by creeping vegetation.  

The party, in my estimation, fell short of its hype.  Perhaps because we were among the first to arrive.  Or that the 12 DJs scheduled until noon the following day, did not deviate from the 170 beats per minute psytrance.  Imagine blending an anxiety and heart attack into a musical subgenre, adored by degenerate hippies.  It's completely devoid of melody, and too speedy for dancing (at least, for my preferred, natural substances of choice).  Sadistic to the soul, to say the least.  And we’d just entered an all-night, deep-jungle rager, without cell service. 

Within an hour I’d used my drink tokens and set up an impromptu tarot tapestry in the back, far away from the ear-bleeding noise.  Victoria and Isam ate plates of grilled chicken, intended for much, much later in the morning comedowns.  We drew a crowd, including the hosts, miffed that my court's clout outweighed their hellish dance floor.  

Realizing that the party wasn’t going to improve, even with alcohol’s numbing effects, I reached for Randi.  “Here,” I said, dumping a speck of paper onto Victoria’s plate.  “Your dessert.”  I’d briefed the first-timers on LSD’s effects earlier, though the experience is really ineffable, as they’d soon learn.

A short while later, my adoration of the palm trunk's rainbow lights clashed with the frenetic rhythm.  I contemplated approaching the DJ and begging her to play Odesza, my ears desperate for harmony.  I knew we needed to flee, but that there was also no escape.

We explored the tree house and cenote cave, marveling at the textures, our tongues tripping over English, Spanish, French, and Flemish.  But communicate we could, our altered brain chemistry activating intuition.  

“Sam? I’m in my own trip,” Victoria revealed, worry creasing her visage.  

For me, that’s the beauty of the psychedelic experience.  That I can observe my own thoughts and judgements (like Why is my churlish country so gung ho on pressing its culture onto others?  We’ve squashed the wisdom of the natives), while still cackling at our strangeness.  

“Victoria tu e Gemini!" I began in my sudden French fluency, mimicking a phone call.  “You call the other twin. ‘Bonjour! ça va?  Très bien! Je suis à la plage avec une baguette et un camembert.  Et vous?  Je suis très horrible! Je suis à la gare.”  Her plaguing thoughts dissolved in laughter at my slapstick parody.

“When will it end?” Capri asked near dawn.  “Will it always be like this?”

I assured her NO.  “It’s always darkest before dawn.  The sun will rise soon and you’ll feel better.  Let’s go find the moon,” I encouraged in distraction.

“Sam, I love you,” Isam said with a hug.  “I love this. Thank you for bringing us to the party.  Thank you for bringing the LSD.”  

“It was nothing,” I swore.  My role was mandated by the Universe.  Despite their first time fear of the unknown, their skewed conceptions based on propagated, outdated myths, they trusted me to hold space for their exploration.  A position of equal honor and humility.

We were a group of strangers, sharing a moment apart from our egos, faces slipping into easy smiles, laughter quaking our bellies.  I realized that everyone I encounter is but a few micrograms away from embracing him as brother.  

It’s difficult to write this, not only because the wisdom garnered from psychedelics is so pure that words seem only to soil, but also because of the demonization of these substances.  LSD is classified as a Schedule 1 drug in the U.S., meaning that it is highly addictive and offers no therapeutic benefit.  Meanwhile toxic, addictive alcohol and cigarettes flood supermarket shelves and billboards. Tobacco directly contributes to four hundred thousand deaths a year in the U.S. alone. When Portugal decriminalized drugs in 2001, they saw less addiction, less social disruption, less overall crime, less actual use, more treatment facilities, and huge saving in law enforcement. My aim is to open the conversation, disseminate the current research, and share my own stories.

I think of the countless alcohol hangovers, the hazy memories of nights riddled with fights, tears, destruction.  And then there are these sacred adventures, forever bonding us. A temporary logging-off of our ego-driven, default mode networks.  And what does our identity become?  

“Soy ahora,” Capri sagely said during our trip.  I am now.  And that is all there really is.