Today was my second ceremony with
wachuma (the indigenous name for the San Pedro cactus) in the garden belonging to Lesley (the self-styled 'Gringa' of Cusco). It's interesting to note that, as with ayahuasca, subsequent ceremonies with wachuma seem to pick up where they left off. If there was an issue that was being addressed during the previous encounter it is likely to arise again if it wasn't fully worked through. One of the major barriers the mind projects into the experience is fear. Having experienced the plant medicines a few times, any fear (or apprehension) that was there has been transformed into trust. Trust in the plant medicines and trust in the people I've encountered respectfully working with them... you know who you are. x
The ceremony was overseen by Danny, a Peruvian of native descent. As we drove from Cusco into the hills this unassuming man warned us that we would 'get tired of his words' during the day. Whilst he spoke a great deal his warning was far from accurate. His words were spoken from the heart, a personal account of his work with San Pedro framed in a personal, simple world view. The more I listened, the more I wanted to hear. As he unfolded his
mesa (collection of sacred, personal objects) in the newly-built circular ceremonial building, he told us of his five years as an apprentice. He stressed that he was no shaman but simply lived his truth as he saw it. In order to follow his chosen path in helping others, he has sacrificed family life choosing instead to dedicate himself to his work. It is people like this, those that walk the walk, that really inspire me.
The brew was thicker than the previous occasion, more potent - moving ever closer to the consistency of mucus. At last a benefit from the teenage training in downing pints of beer in the local. For me wachuma has been a slightly deceptive experience on both occasions. It seems like nothing is happening for a long time, just a gentle, relaxed feeling. When Danny made one of his frequent checks he asked if I'd like some more, he could see my 'eyes weren't completely open yet'. I gladly accepted and necked some more of the viscous liquid. For a while nothing changed, I lay in the space listening to the devotional chanting whilst nature performed her many processes around me; sunlight, plants swaying in the breeze, the sounds of animals.
After a while the Dutch girl I was with asked how I was doing. "Nothing much, very mild really," was the reply. She playfully suggested that all I needed to do was ask - Why? I smiled at her suggestion which followed on from conversations about the most difficult question one could ask in life, the one you could expect no answers to. How? - maybe, but Why? - no chance. Yet once again I underestimate the power of plant medicines to deliver wisdom, profound yet practical wisdom which is a real help in learning how to live well. To those who have taken San Pedro, ayahuasca or mushrooms the following account may sound familiar. To those who have yet to work with the plants I will try to put into words as best as I can what is often more of a feeling, a knowing.
The question 'Why?' lengthened into 'Why is it necessary to feel pain in this life?' What is the purpose of suffering? Why does everyone, at some point, experience rejection of some kind? What is it for? Is it thrust upon us or, by some mysterious mechanism, do we draw it into our lives ourselves for some unknown reason? If the latter is true why on Earth would anyone choose suffering? This pain, both individual and collective, is often self-inflicted in the choices we make. Addictions to harmful substances, self-harm, low self-esteem, poor diet, quarreling, selfish individualism and war are all examples of suffering that could be avoided with a change of mind... or maybe a change of heart.
At this point, with my eyes closed, I saw a green light. Emerald in colour growing stronger until it filled my entire field of vision. Along with the colour I had the sense (not thought but a feeling) of being amongst trees. The one place I go to recover and recharge; nature, woodland, the dappled light filtering through the canopy. Then came the answer. During our lives we so often search for our own happiness through other people and time and again we find ourselves let down, disappointed, dejected. This trick of the mind leaves us endlessly looking for something where it doesn't exist. True, we can find love, solace and comfort in others but for true sustenance and succour we need to look to a source greater than human beings. Call it what you will but here I'll label it 'Source', 'Mother Nature', 'Pachamama'. A connection to this higer energy is essential to maintain one's own happiness. It is the only way we can begin to transcend the misery of anatta, anicca, and dukkha as described by the Buddha.
So why the suffering? It is only when we are at our lowest, when all hope is gone, when other people seem powerless to assist that we throw ourselves at the feet of something greater than all of us combined. Crying, in pain, angry, confused we ask for help. This is one positive outcome of suffering. A recognition that we are not in control, that we are children of the Earth, made of the same elements, connected to the same energy. Only when we reach our most vulnerable can our egos be shattered, suurender ensues and a connection to real power is established. A connection which pales into insignificance the worldly comforts of possessions, distractions and other people.
Revelation over, I lay musing over the wisdom that had been given to me by a simple cactus until Danny came to ask if we'd like a walk to the Temple of the Moon. We were to be joined another Brit who had left the UK in '86 aged only sixteen never to return. He was the kind of guy you only meet when travelling, 36 years old, ex-military, lived in many countries in many ways, worked in Afghanistan as a security guard where he was involved in an explosion, Reiki Master, meditation teacher, etc. He was fearless, having faced death on several occasions and lived and he now seemed to live to the full, scared of no-one and nothing.
I didn't expect much from the walk as we'd been before but once again Danny surpassed my expectations. Having grown up in the area, he'd spent his childhood years exploring the caves, valleys and forests of the area. In the Temple of the Moon he gave an account of the initiation rites of the Incas, pointing out the many nuances provided by the natural and created rock formations. A double/headed serpent, a condor carrying a human body, a lizard, a powerful puma, a howling wolf and, added to the animals, the features suggesting the temple acted as the womb of the Earth from which you were reborn as a new human. His account was powerful, added to by the dedications offered by our fellow Englishman. As we emerged I could imagine the crowds of cheering Incas celebrating the emergence of the rebirthed human with tales of encounters with magical power animals.
For about two hours we carried on exploring the surrounding hills with their many sacred caves, carved meditation chambers and highly complex, ancient systems of water management. The landscape was staggeringly beautiful; subdued shades of green, brown and red framed against a pale blue sky in which sailed gigantic cloud formations. In every direction the senses were overwhelmed by the rocks and plants but my eyes were always drawn back to the distant peak of Picol mountain, the protector god of Cusco. After some time being still and silent in this vast Andean landscape we returned to the city, me bouncing around in the boot of a taxi, to a much appreciated reward of pizza and wine. A truly extraordinary day.
The second day, we were repeatedly warned, was to be the toughest. In the early morning mist we broke camp, saying goodbye to our hosts and beginning the challenging ascent which was to last the entire day. We began following the river upstream, kept cool by the spray from the churning turquoise water. The going was indeed tough, made worse for some in the group by the lack of oxygen. Headaches and weakness in the muscles began to take their toll as we climbed from Wayllabamba to the halfway point at Llulluchapampa (3680msl). I was grateful for the two weeks of preparation in high-altitude Cusco.
This was the last chance to buy any provisions we might need thanks to the quartet of women selling goods they'd hauled up from their small stalls. Here arose a dilemma - everything you wanted for the rest of the journey had to be carried on your back, beer being the most desirable commodity and the heaviest. Had the shop been at the beginning of the climb I may have bought more but two small cans would have to suffice. Surprisingly, the women were charging prices that were reasonable considering the energy required to get the tinnies to that height. Once again the porters ability and creativity were impressive, with another group fine dining at a full length dinner table in possibly the best dining room I've ever seen.
Having broken away from the rest of the group, Pete and I lingered long enough only to buy provisions and we were off. We were men on a mission and set a cracking pace climbing to the pass at 4,200msl in only an hour knocking over 30 minutes off the suggested time. As we climbed the vegetation thinned and the path steadily diverged from the stream as it rose above the valley head. As it was late morning the sun bore down on us ferociously leaving us panting like dogs. However, our determination was stronger and, on the whole, we kept pace with the porters to the saddle known as Abra dr Huarmihuañusca, or Dead Woman's Pass. 
In only three hours we had climbed 1,200m moving from forested valleys to scorching grassland to an exposed saddle, gateway to the next valley. The notorious Andean weather demonstrated its formidable power shifting from burning sunshine to drenching rain in a matter of minutes. We waited for the next hour becoming increasingly colder whilst our group trudged up the hill in the rain. 
One great encounter was with a woman of 68 years accompanied by her two adult children. It's a small world when you meet someone who's from the same town you work in at the top of the Inca Trail! Her fortitude and tenacity made me deeply proud of Yorkshire folk, I'm not sure I'll be able to do that in my late sixties. That's Ilkey Moor training for you.
Once all the group were together we began the steep, treacherous descent to Pacamayo. It was here that is became apparent that the idea of only one Inca Trail is in part a fallacy. There are many Inca trails crossing these precipitous mountains connecting numerous ruins, many of which date from pre-Inca times. The reason this particular route through the peaks is so popular today is it happened to be the one Hiram Bingham took during his original ingress into these long-forgotten lands. The campsite at Pacamayo is without doubt the most stunning location I've ever slept in - and I've bedded down in some pretty staggering spots. Nestled in a central glacial valley encircled with higher hanging valleys, the site commanded views of the opposing mountains. Like some kind of gigantic stage set, these vertiginous peaks were quintessentially jagged, separated by heavenly tongues of glacial ice. Even the unrelenting rain failed to dampen our spirits as we gazed in awe at the magnificence before us.
To escape the rain I read in my tent for a couple of hours. At least that was the plan. I'd brought with me a single-skin Vango which was untested. A combination of condensation and infiltration meant the interior became increasingly damp as the night went on. This saturation of gear was to last for the rest of the trip, a definite challenge to comfort levels. And this rain wasn't even heavy by Andean standards! An incredibly precious can of Cusqueña helped smooth things over until another incredible dinner was provided by the porters. As well as a fully fitted kitchen and dining room, these Trojans also carried every single morsel for themselves and the ever hungry gringoes. Not only that, the menu was as varied and tasty as many of the restaurants back in Cusco. The gratitude we all felt was palpable and became a frequent topic of conversation. Dave was kind enough to pass round his stash of Pisco which warmed the cockles enough to brave clambering into a damp, cold bed. Trail life quickly forces people to get to know one another and, luckily, I'd landed myself in a group of humourous, generous companions.
