“Organic…wheatgrass…smoothie stand…” I muttered to myself, my breath hitching as I trotted along the uneven dirt path. I had been walking for maybe 20, max 25 minutes. The journey wasn’t long, but I didn’t exactly know where I was going, and after twenty-some minutes alone with my own thoughts, I began to wonder if I had already passed my destination. I peered over my shoulder and saw the same stretch of road I had just walked. No smoothie stand. It must be further ahead, then, I thought, and kept walking.
“Smoothies…organic smoothies…”
I wasn’t craving a smoothie. No, I wasn’t really looking for the smoothie stand at all. Rather, I was seeking what lay behind the smoothie stand; an elusive treasure promised to me by a stranger…
I had arrived in Tulum the night before, with only my yoga mat and a small backpack in tow. For the three weeks prior, I had been living with a Mexican host family in Merida.
The bus ride between the two Yucatecan cities was a few short hours, but transportation delays and my own neglect to consider time differences caused me to nearly miss the check-in window at my hostel. Luckily, the staff at “Mama’s Home” took pity on me.
After a good night’s rest in my shared dormitory, I woke early, intent on making the most of my weekend in Tulum. Mama’s Home Hostel served delicious homemade breakfasts every morning!
Mama’s Home was in the heart of town, but the locals insisted that I check out the beach. So, on my first visit to Mexico’s East coast, I boarded a local bus. The beach in Tulum is lined with resorts, boutiques, cafes, and art installations; I took my time meandering along the street and observing the city’s unique aesthetic.
It was during this wander that I first encountered the work of Daniel Popper, a 3D-multimedia artist who specializes in larger-than-life feminine statues. After this trip, I sought out Daniel Popper’s astonishing works at music festivals, a conservatory in Vegas, and a pop-up exhibit in a Chicago arboretum.
This installation served as my gateway to the white sand beaches of Tulum, and I stepped through the statue’s heart space towards my first glimpse of the Caribbean Sea. Almost immediately, I was greeted by a spritely vendor with a massive load of fresh coconuts.
“Veinte pesos!” he offered, and I couldn’t resist. I watched with glee as he picked out my coconut and hacked off the top with his machete. He plopped a straw into the hole, handed it to me, and quickly took off down the coast, his coconuts clanging cacophonously as his feet plodded against the sand. I settled into a resort chair—though I wasn’t a paying guest, no one seemed to mind my presence—and sipped the sweet coconut water.
After my refreshment break, I set off down the beach in search of a yoga studio. Tulum is notorious among Western yogis for its selection of top-tier yoga classes and instructors, so I was eager to check out the scene for myself. Indeed, I found several options within a half-mile stretch, ranging from sound baths to Yoga Nidra to Kundalini. I eventually opted for a familiar offering: slow vinyasa flow. The studio was breathtaking: a free-standing room on the beach with floor to ceiling glass windows and a pristine view of the ocean. I was the first to arrive, and I enjoyed the ambience for several minutes in blissful solace.
When the class time rolled around, the instructor appeared to let me know that I was the only one enrolled! We chatted for a bit before beginning my inadvertent private lesson. I was surprised to learn that my yoga teacher was not from the Yucatan Peninsula, nor would she be showcasing a unique Tulum style of yoga—rather, she had grown up and completed her yoga training in California. Nonetheless, her class provided exactly what I had been craving: a dynamic yet gentle sequence of postures and transitions, enhanced by the sound of waves lapping against the shore.
After savasana, I thanked the instructor, and we shared tidbits from our respective teacher trainings. I learned that she, like me, had traveled to Tulum in her early 20’s and fallen in love with the slow-paced, ethereal atmosphere. When her husband received an offer to relocate for work, she was all too happy to leave her life in the States and open her own studio in Quintana Roo. Our conversation eventually lulled, and I prepared to bid her farewell. As I rolled up my mat, though, I hesitated. I had an inquiry for her, though I did not know whether she would have an answer for me. Worse: I did not know whether my inquiry might be seen as tacky or even offensive. I chewed my lip for a moment, contemplating. Finally:
“Do you know where I might find a plant medicine ceremony?”
I expected a grimace, an eyeroll, or a gasp, but I received no such response. Instead, the instructor paused for a moment, deep in thought, and then said,
“Try the organic wheatgrass smoothie stand.”
So, that’s how I ended up on the roadside, clinging desperately to a blind faith in my yoga instructor’s vague directions. This was a new experience for me, and I had known coming in that I wouldn’t find a clear list of options on Tripadvisor. Even still, I was a bit unsettled by the prospect of approaching a random smoothie vendor and asking them for mind-altering drugs. Would they scorn me? Would they laugh? Would they turn me into the local authorities? I truly had no idea what to expect.
At the ripe age of twenty-one, I was no stranger to the world of psychoactive substances. I grew up in Colorado, where recreational cannabis was legalized just after my 14th birthday. By the time I went to study abroad in Mexico, I was a certified psychonaut, but I had never undergone a psychedelic experience with a guide, save for the rare occasions when my roommate happened to be home and offered, jokingly, to be my “trip sitter.” I was, as drug users go, quite responsible; I was careful to always assess the risks of each substance, measure my dose meticulously, and prepare a safe setting in the event of a bad trip. I had never seen a need for a guide. However, I had journeyed to Tulum seeking a spiritual release, and I knew that this city would be the perfect place to dip my toes into the waters of sacramental drug use.
After another ten minutes of walking aimlessly, I encountered the first marker of my destination: a hand-painted wooden sign with the words “Vegan Organic Wheatgrass Smoothies.” The smoothie stand itself was only a few meters off the road, a quaint wooden hut with a roof of dried palm fronds, nestled within a lush garden of tropical plants. I approached hesitantly, still not knowing what or how to ask for what I desired. Luckily, I didn’t have to—a middle-aged Mexican woman behind the bar flashed me a comforting smile and handed me a menu. Internally, I facepalmed—duh, I should order something, I thought to myself. In feeble Spanish, I informed the woman about my vegetarianism and asked for her recommendation. She pointed to one of the specials, barbecue jackfruit tacos, and I nodded eagerly in agreement.
Within minutes, the woman had served me a stunning plate of plant-based tacos, complete with freshly squeezed orange juice and their house salsa. This meal was a welcome sight, for I had already learned that Mexican cuisine is not the most vegetarian friendly. Back in Merida, I had repeatedly told my host mom “no como carne!” (“I don’t eat meat!”), only for her to serve me ham sandwiches and arroz con pollo. She was such a gracious host that I was happy to eat whatever she offered me, but I was incredibly grateful to finally have some animal-free dietary options.
As I savored my meal, I basked in the beauty of the surrounding garden and worked up the nerve to ask for what I had come for. At last:
“Do you know where I could find a plant medicine ceremony?” I gulped my orange juice nervously, awaiting her response.
“Ah, si,” she replied immediately. “Go talk to the man in there.” Much to my surprise, she pointed to a small building behind me.
I quickly finished my meal, walked over to the modest hotel, and repeated my question to the man behind the desk. He confirmed that I was in the right place. Before I could even process what happened, we agreed that I would come back the following morning at 7 am—“just as the sun is rising,” the man said, “it will be beautiful.”
I went through the rest of that afternoon and evening in a state of slight disbelief and gripping fear. What had I signed up for? Should I even trust this man? Was I putting myself in danger by agreeing to this? In hindsight, my concerns were perfectly valid, and perhaps I should have asked more questions before I paid the man to reserve my ceremony (a measly $100 USD for what I perceived as a once-in-a-lifetime cultural experience). Even still, I am glad that I calmed myself and embraced the unknown. The next morning, I awoke before first light and tiptoed around the hostel to avoid waking my roommates. At 6:30, I set off down the same road I had walked the previous day, this time knowing confidently where I was headed.
Just as the sun’s light began to peek over the horizon, I arrived at the hotel and greeted my facilitator, whose name I learned was Valtteri. He led me through the garden behind the hotel towards a lone tipi nestled within the lush vegetation. He then introduced me to his assistant and invited me to get comfortable amongst the many blankets and pillows laid out on the tipi floor. He began to explain the medicine offering: 5-MEO-DMT, not a plant medicine after all, but in fact the venom of the toad known as Bufo Alvarius, which is native to the Mexican Sonoran Desert. My heart was racing out of my chest, but he spoke slowly and steadily, and I began to feel calm by listening to his voice. I tried to focus on my breath in an attempt at getting my heartrate under control.
Valtteri asked me if I had ever experienced the toad medicine, and I shook my head. He smiled knowingly but did not say anything; I imagine he did not want to create any expectations for me. Instead, he explained the method of ingestion. Though he gave clear and concise instructions, I could feel my stomach twisting into knots. What if I did it wrong? What if I missed a step? What’s the worst thing that can happen?
My facilitator did not give me time to dwell on my anxieties. He immediately launched into a guided meditation focused on the breath. Those ten minutes felt like an eternity. I attempted to clear my mind and listen only to the sensations in my body, which were clouded by the overbearing thump-thump of my heart in my chest. My logical mind fought for dominance against my emotional center, and I tried desperately to suppress my panic without tensing my body or losing the rhythm of my breath. Finally, Valtteri asked me to open my eyes. His assistant handed him a small glass pipe, which he promptly held up to my mouth.
“Breathe in,” he instructed, and began to light the pipe. I did as I was told. Almost immediately, a burning sensation erupted in my lungs. My years of smoking weed could never have prepared me for that moment—I wanted to exhale, to choke, to cry out, but Valtteri said firmly, “keep going.” I did as I was told. I inhaled until my lungs were full of red-hot air, swirling and smoldering and igniting my airways. I inhaled for a thousand years and felt my chest imploding with the shape of smoke, my blistering breath combusting inside me. And then, when I thought I couldn’t possibly inhale anything more, Valtteri said, “hold it in.” I did as I was told.
I must have exhaled at some point. I vaguely remember seeing a cloud of wispy smoke dissipating before me. I believe Valtteri guided me through one more inhale, though my memory of the ingestion disintegrates into conjecture after the first hit. Valtteri’s voice began to sound very distant, as though I was falling down a deep well and he was calling to me from the top. At some point, the blazing fire in my lungs faded away, overtaken by the more pressing concern of my rapidly dissolving consciousness. The edges of my periphery blurred, followed soon after by my entire field of vision. I began to vibrate.
At first, the vibrations were gentle and low, emanating from deep within my gut. Then, the vibrations grew stronger and stronger, crescendoing in a symphony of high-frequency tremors that resonated outwards from my being and caused the earth beneath me to quake and tremble violently. Just as the pulsations arrived at a deafening throb, I heard Valtteri speak to me from someplace far away: “lay back.”
I did as I was told, and I immediately slipped into the warm embrace of the visionary realm.
My blurry, precarious grip on reality exploded into unprecedented clarity. I was suddenly drenched in the full spectrum of color, swimming in a pool of blinding saturation. Every shade of the rainbow splintered into fractals simultaneously. Each hue gave way to a new shape in succession: circles, stars, spirals, supernovas. They blended into one another seamlessly, creating a harmonious cinema of kaleidoscopic beauty.
I was no longer in my body. I was not merely a detached observer; I was not separate from the kaleidoscope at all. Rather, I was careening down its center, being absorbed and resorbed by a boundless pattern of pigmented particles. My limbs, my torso, my head, all these parts of me had ceased to exist, and I rode the current of colors like the high soprano of a violin, ringing amidst its counterparts in a bright orchestral swell. The energy within my prismatic world surged and softened, crested and calmed. I floated above it all.
Magenta rings shattered into lavender mandalas; rust-colored rhombi fragmented into scarlet diamonds; cobalt crosses fractured into dazzling lime angles. Each mosaic ruptured into one more breathtaking than the last, weaving a never-ending polychromatic tapestry. I had never seen such color before. Formless, limitless, I traveled through the tunnel of my fulminating consciousness.
Time did not exist here. I was wholly immersed in my altered consciousness, unaware of my physical surroundings. Eventually, I was ejected from the kaleidoscope into a realm inhabited by prismatic nature spirits. These creatures were equally as colorful as their polygonal predecessors, but they resided within the third, fourth, and fifth dimensions, shifting between planes and challenging my depth perception. At one moment within reach, and the next light years away. Rainbow-colored elephants zoomed in and out of focus with the vibrant contrast of a neatly lined color-by-number painting. Jungle cats folded symmetrically along their mid-lines, their whiskers aligning with perfect precision, only to stretch and elongate, abstracting and deconstructing through countless reflections. Polyhedral parrots, geckos, frogs, and fish stacked themselves on top of one another, forming infinite totems that stretched beyond my comprehension.
The final spirit was that of a lone wolf, crisply defined in all his chromaticity. He dominated my mind’s eye, strong and stationary. Rather than standing opposite the wolf, it seemed as though his face was presented to me: a page in a book from which I could not and did not want to look away. I stared at him; he stared at me.
And then: white. My awareness was subsumed by a blanket of heavenly nothingness. A choir of angelic voices rang out in unison. In this blank space, I had no body, nor thoughts, nor feelings. I simply existed. Unfiltered sunlight poured in from all directions, purifying and crystallizing the emptiness. I remained there for quite a while, basking in a sensation of peace that I had never before experienced.
Upon opening my eyes, I first saw the blue day sky through the open top of the tipi. The sun was fully risen now, indicating that some amount of time must have passed during my ceremony, though I had no conception of how much. The sounds of my surroundings came next: the gentle yet steady percussive thrum of Valtteri’s assistant as he struck his drum and chanted in Spanish; the wind whistling outside the tipi; my own breath. I slowly became aware of my own body on the earth, bolstered comfortably by the pillows and blankets onto which I had collapsed during ingestion. I felt my bones first: my hips, spine, and skull pressing against the firm ground. Then, slowly, I regained sensation in my soft tissues, felt my muscles reawakening, sent subtle movements into my extremities. My vision gradually sharpened, and I began to remember where I was and how I had gotten there. I rocked my head from side to side and swirled my tongue around my mouth. I returned to reality.
I pressed up to a seat and looked to Valtteri, who was smiling softly.
“Lost track of space and time, hm?” he asked with slight amusement. I nodded, bewildered. The details of my journey were already beginning to fade from my memory, but the integration of what I had learned would take many months to follow. I could only begin to process my visions in those first few moments after reemergence.
We took our time exiting the tipi, as my legs had seemingly forgotten how to work. Valtteri wished me luck and sent me deeper into the garden, where another member of the hotel staff was preparing a fresh vegetarian breakfast for me. Having just encountered a multitude of divine beings, eating was the last thing on my mind, but indeed my body was grateful for the nourishment. I ate slowly, chewing each bite a hundred times as I lost myself in recollections of my trip. And then, when I had finished my meal, I simply got up and showed myself out.
I felt as thought I was putting my human suit back on and resuming the mundane act of theatrical imitation. My head reeled with everything I had seen; my perspective on life felt forever changed; and yet, I had emerged in the same physical form, a mere 45 minutes later. I had no choice – I went on living my life, having captured a glimpse of the otherworldly forces that lie beyond the veil.
