A flat grid of burnt reds, lit by a falling sun. Grassy mountains cradle the town, as it melts into amorous clouds. On the outskirts, I sit in a simple temple with twenty other travellers. We are waiting for nightfall.
Here in Pisac, we are guests. As I take my place in the circle, fragmented talk reaches my ears.
"Healing."
"Cosmos."
"The Medicine."
We have come for many reasons. Some seek enlightenment, spiritual healing, or mind-shattering psychedelia. I seek something different: to breathe the experience of indigenous Peruvian culture. This is what draws me to ayahuasca.
The lights dim as the temple roof opens to a surge of stars. Our shaman prepares a drink that will shatter our perceptions. We watch as he pours this spiritual teacher, decisions dancing before us.
Am I ready?
"I'm shaking." My neighbour, a seasoned psychonaut since the seventies, confesses. I meet his gaze.
"Me too."
Primal with fear, I grasp my cup. As my lips edge over the brown, viscous liquid, I silently ask to understand.
Drink. A heady pressure stuns me into absent focus. Lights off.
For a moment, there is only breathing. Then, a surge of sound. Icaros, the shamanic songs, tear colours out of my brain into a synaesthetic whirlwind. Our temple speeds into monochrome as every incongruity is polarised, from the blackened travellers to the exploding white windows. The universe arrives, shooting red, green, and blue towards me in a cacophony of sound.
As the music swells, this coloured disorder takes shape. I see the Nazca lines, although I have never seen them. I see architectural blueprints for ancient sites, and for sites to come. I see life, across realm and time, lapse into geometric pattern.
An era crawls by.
The visions fade, and colours are free to find their owners. A final note soars through the air, and I join hands with my fellow travellers. Mere hours have passed since we first met, but we have walked the same history.
Here in Pisac, we are kindred.
