Spirit of the Medicine, beautiful stories, some of the most beautiful there are. Through the site they are shared, the stories as I have heard them.
It is important to note that there are no spirits in any medicine, no medicine is a man, none is a woman. There is no mother, father, grandparent, child, best friend or anything else in the medicine or the journey itself. These are beautiful stories forged from belief, they are guesses at what drives the experience, guesses from a time that there was not the evidence or the evolution of thinking to understand concepts of science.
MRI technology clearly shows each different psychedelic medicine works on a different part of the brain. This is the simplicity of the psychedelic experience, it does not need to be more, more only makes shit confusing. The similiarities in experiences from one participant to the next using the same medicine show this from a subjective perspective. There are commonalities in spirits, beings, entities, textures, worlds, feelings with every story.
When one can look at this rationally and practically they can start to understand that the story, the perception, the experience is coming from this heightened state of brain activity. Everything is coming from your brain, dominated by this spot, showing you your world in a way which is not available to you ordinarily. You pay attention to these experiences, remember the journey, research it and it will just make sense.
From here you start to learn the most important part about the psychedelic journey, it is you showing you You.
Remember this and we can move forward together with these beautiful stories of fiction, attempt to make them anything else, like truth, and our path gets blocked.
IBOGA Origins
I had never heard the Iboga origin story, Patrick knows that William has, that he knows it really well, he asks him to recite it. William tells his son, Tres (William junior junior, so number three, Spanish), it as a bedtime story every night at home, Tres knows it off by heart. He is asked not to repeat at childcare, he is only three or so.
Sitting around a fire in a village on the edges of the Congo jungle about a three hour drive from the capital of Libreville in Gabon. Sitting next to my mate William and about 10 brothers and sisters from the Bwiti, our shaman Patrick is there too. William and I are waiting anxiously for our first Iboga session in Gabon, for William this time around, has been once before. We are both in Gabon for a facilitator course, a story for another heading.
William starts, I didn’t want him to stop;
Generations ago the descendants of the Bwitit were asking questions. Questions about the giver of abundance in the world around us, what was responsible for everything they had, why did it not ask for anything in return.
The decision was made to send out parties in all directions. The people of the early Bwiti ventured north, south, east, west, up, down, to the seas and through the skies. They found nothing, no answers, they returned to their village.
Time went on and the questions went unanswered, they started to fade, the Bwitit did their best to always do their best by the forest and the forest continued to give. Trust had been built, the jungle was ready to reveal her secrets.
A trapper went out checking his traps one evening. There were many traps, every one was without a catch, unlikely to meat tonight. The hunter came on the last trap and it was not empty, witihin was held a porcupine. The hunter was ecstatic, he took the porcupine home, threw it to his wife and asked her to cook it while he has a break.
While the wife is cooking the porcupine the hunter has one too many drinks and nods off to sleep. When dinner is ready the wife tries to wake him, she fails, he is out like a light. The wife is hungry, serves herself a bowl and finishes every last drop, delicious.
Full content belly she lies down to rest. 45 minutes later she starts to feel strange, there is a weird warmth in her body, nausea brews in the belly.
She vomits uncontrollably and painfully across the room, to an audience anyway. To her it is dragon fire coming from her mouth, she is frightened, confused, excited, interested.
A big screen appears in front of her, it takes her on a journey. The woman is taken to a scene of the village, she sees her brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. She sees them all, the ones living, those of all times past, some that have yet to arrive.
The tribeslady sees her village, the mechanics of it, how the people flow together, a flow started at the beginning and will continue to the end.
She falls asleep after a while. Wakes up the next morning and tells her husband, ‘what crap have you beein smoking? Leave me alone I’m hungover.‘
The wife needs to tell someone, this is important so she goes and sees the chief, she dictates the events of the previous night.
Like this husband the Chief does not want to entertain this story, asks the same questions, ‘what you smoking woman? what you drinking?’ ‘Nothing, I swear’, replies the wife.
All though the chief is not interested in pursuing the fairy tale he has an obligation to his tribe so they decide to investigate the source of the cooked porcupine.
The husband is a bit annoyed by this, it was a porcupine like any other porcupine and it was in the very last trap, as far away as can be. The chief insisted they inspect so off they went.
On arriving at the final trap the tribe noticed some digging around the plants nearby, one in particular, the Iboga Tabernathe shrub. There wasn’t only digging but it looked as though the animal had been eating away the bark from the root of the plant. The Chief collected a sample and took it back to the village.
In a pot goes some water and the bark, it cooks for a few hours and they wait. Similar cooking process to the porcupine, just minus the porcupine.
In time, the brew seems to be ready, the Chief measures out a cup and hands it, without a word, straight to his wife. ‘Ummm, no thank you, I’m not your test rat’. ‘You’re a woman dear, possibly it only works on women?’, respnds the Chief. The wife sighs and swigs it down.
Everyone sits back and watches, it is very excirting. 45 minutes later the woman starts to feel strange, a weirdn warmth through her body, nausea. DRAGONFIRE.
Next she is transported on top of a big hill on which stands a single tree, a single iboga tabernathe shrub. ‘I am Iboga, I have watched you and your people for many years. I have watched as you ask questions, solve problems, work together for your tribe and the world around you. I love you.’
‘Today I give you a gift, the gift is me, come to me when you need help, support, have questions that need to be answered and I will tell you the truth, I will guide you on your journey.’
The Problem with the Iboga Teachings
The problem with Iboga, and psychedelic medicine lies in the story above, it is clear. It is the Bwiti teaching and it is getting in the way, Iboga is truth. This is not correct, it does not give you the correct answer, it gives you the answer you need now that assists in exploring the true answer, the answer to all, the truth behind your existence.
Bwiti do not have the ability to think for themselves, it is culturally ingrained through generations of medicine work and vbery limited outside influence. They have come stuck in this theory of truth because they have no alternative conversations to open the topic up, now when they invite outsiders in they think they are better than them. Well, Patrick does, and therefore do not have the ability to listen, to hear.
The Bwiti’s primary teaching is that only the physical is real, what we experience, that we are restricted to the six senses (per the Bwitit); sight, touch, taste, smell, hearing and third eye. I had to question the sixth, the third eye, I was like cool, makes sense, that’s your belief.
We do not believe here Fred, only truth, no belief. But that’s a belief? ‘No, it’s the truth, Iboga tells us so’, replies Patrick. But, Patrick, you just banged on about another spiritual path’s process including a non-physical human aspect and you dismiss it because you cannot see it, the third eye is the same thing, but you include it, isn’t this hypocrisy and ignorance, this is not truth. ‘No, the third is the sixth sense, it’s truth, Iboga says so.’ Okay,mate.
The Bwiti, Patrick, will tell you in one breath we are God but in the next we are restricted to our six senses, clearly this is hypocrisy. Again, this is a belief system, belief that is dictating the Bwiti way, belief they are palming off as truth when it is poles apart.
The important aspect to being a human is to be the animal we are first, this is level one of the human experience. We fail at level one because we want to go straight to the boss level, being God/Enlightened, without first having experience or gaining the necessary tools to defeat it.
Ever seen Free Guy? When Guy is level one and tries to take on a level 100 character? He fails, he keeps failing until he upskills himself, goes through each level. By the time he can defeat a level 100 character he is somewhere in the 80s, or further advanced. Same as this, the skills pay the bills, the bills cannot buy skills.
So, before you can get to level two, you first have to defeat the level one boss, You, the animal you are. Defeat in this scenario means accept and be this animal, know it is your purpose on this earth, you know no other purpose matters. To achieve this one must live in their own skin first, their own body, start there, be that and then think about God.
At this point, the end of level one, nothing you want now or think is important matters, you realise along the way every thought/desire/need currently in your head is attachment, socialising, conditioning, ignorance. You learn, above all, the perfection of life, heaven, lives in this machine you are, you start again with a different approach.
The Bwiti Shaman, Patrick
I do not call Patrick his Bwitit name, the one he received during his rite of passage, he does not deserve it. The man is a sell out and lies and lies and lies, he does not even know he is lying, his ego has become so strong that he cannot be questioned, he does not have ears to hear.
He owes me $30,000 AUD, money that would be very handy, it is what it cost for the facilitator course. Money he said he would refund to anybody who did not want to be there for the teachings, I did not. My four emails in the two years and four or so months since have gone without response, when prior to as they were receiving money the responses always came within hours.
Liars, and cowards, Bwitit are you sure you know what you’re talking about?
Patrick tells you he hears everything, misses nothing, but when I correct him, his ego bursts and he reacts. WIlliam and Pamela, sitting there next to me during this exchange, how did you not notice this? He was trying to compare my upbringing with my Dad to hium running into the jungle when he was told not to, coming back and getting told off for cutting up his feet. It was stupid. I said ‘Patrick, you have no idea what you are talking about, this is all ego. People are telling you stories of real trauma, trauma you have no personal experience of and you are putting yourself in front of them for hurting yourself when you are told not to do something. Are you an idiot?’
I DIDN’T SAY THAT, reacts Patrick. ‘I didn’t say that is what you said, I said that is what you did, it is what you did, continue to do with every story. You are all ego, I don’t want to be here for the teachings. I’d love to stay, learn the medicine, work around the village, enjoy the experience.’
We don’t do that here, psychedelic tourism. ‘No, you don’t?’, ‘besides, I’m here to learn, just not from you, you have nothing to teach.’ No, we don’t do that. ‘Okay, I’ll leave tomorrow.’
That night William, Pamela, myself and I cannot remember the new guy’s name talked about it. We had talked about it plenty of times previously, psychedelic tourism was a massive part of the Bwiti space, they were in the process of building a horrific building that completely took away the village environment to house more, to make more money.
Both William and Pamela had been before but not for facilitation course, other parts, the groups were heavily made up of psychedelic tourists. Patrcik simply lied because he was afraid, scared, of this man who would ask simple questions that Patrick did not have the answers for, simple answers that just required a little shelve of ego, a little capacity to think your own thoughts.
Leadership
There are some clear ways to tell when a person lacks leadership, not being able to take responsibility for your part in an activity or exchange is one, the ultimate surefire way to tell.
Patrick again, this pathetic man.
He was heading to Libreville for a day or two and left instructions with his staff about the days activities, five or six of them. They were to teach us the soul retrieval technique, more on this later and another subject, the name of it makes it sound important, and, well, the decription moreso.
Basically, you get too lost in the medicine there is a theory your sould can go wandering and not return unless it is called back. Again, more on this later but it could be pretty important as a facilitator.
Nobody had any idea was going on, the coupld of days were a mess, unorganised but mostly things were just confusing and nobody was on the same page. The instructors were reading from different books to one another.
Patrick returned, nothing was done right. The next words out his mouth were directed to the staff, all of them, ‘none of these guys listened to me.’ I laughed, I’m not sure if he knew why I was laughing but the look in his eye showed beyond doubt that he knew I was laughing at how pathetic he is.
Five, six, people are to blame for not listening and hearing one man. One man is not to blame for not being able to effectively communicate to five or six others, five or six others who all did not understand him. Yes, this a big clear tool in understanding, knowing, when a person in a position of leadership has no leadership aptitude.
Harvard does not make you smart
I know this for a fact, I know it from Gabon.
Two of the most beautiful people in the world were sitting next to me during the facilitation course, William and Pamela. Remembering Iboga is a medicine of truth, a course of truth which William and Pamela both voluntarily attended. Voluntarily attended to learn to live in integrity.
Integrity and truth, the two words mean the same thing.
Pamela, what a beautiful beautiful being, soul, woman. Harvard educated, as smart as anything, one of the dumbest mother fuckers I have ever met. William, significant responsibility in his community, the black community, both through his church and his advocacy work, does great stuff but sadly does nothing because it means nothing. It means nothing in both scenarios because these two beautiful people do not live in integrity.
You must live in integrity to facilitate medicine, to do healing work, it is the number one criteria. You live in integrity, you tell the truth, you do not lie, and the space you create is already safe, no bells and whistles are required. You do not live in integrity bells and whistles are all you have, these courses are just bells and whistles, bells and whistles are satan to healing. Bells and whistles are just fucking lies.
Pamela, from the Dominican Republic, has been a part of the medicine space her whole life, it comes with her family legacy, they are medicine people. What this shows me is generations have held people back, however generations past the evidence wasn’t available to see the results of many actions to the world, they are now. A damn Harvard graduate should be able to understand this.
We were speaking one night, at this course of truth, about William and his wife.
William had a medicine experience once where he saw himself as a little boy next to his grown wife. He talks about her in this way, she is the rock, she is so much more advanced than me, I’m chasing my tail because I am scared I am not good enough for her. His self-confidence is nowhere, it is stopping him from opening and growing to be equal in all things with this love of his life. This is his smallness, he trusts not a thing about himself.
William has one child with his wife, they would like another, they would love a daughter. The previous night during the Iboga experience William saw a vision where he was watching his wife holding a newborn baby girl, he could feel nothing but love in his being. It was a beautiful experience.
William tells his wife everything, I hear them on the phone, we are sleeping two metres away from one another in the same room. For some reason however he highlights in this conversation that he is not going to tell his wife this part of the experience. I questioned it.
Both William and Pamela argued that some things should not be shared because you don’t want to build hope and then possibly break the other person down. I questioned them, pursued their logic, pursued it from a position of being in attendance at a course on truth but choosing to hide details, choosing to lie to the people we say we love the most, that are more advanced than us on our path?
What is the purpose of not telling her? ‘I don’t want to get her expectations up, then if it doesn’t happen she won’t be hurt’, says Will. ‘Yeah Fred, some things you just shouldn’t tell people’, added Pamela.
This continued for about 10 minutes before I laughed, as I do, and changed the subject.
What William here is showing the world is how small he is still, Pamela too, he is showing his wife how little he respects her, that he thinks she is incapable of participating in an adult conversation about a scenario that presented while tripping on fucking drugs for god sake. William, you small man, and Pamela, you small women. Small people have no business in vulnerable spaces.
How men, and women, can treat your partners like they are not worthy of being treated like human beings and then somehow say you love them is beyond the scope of my understanding. If you gave a shit about the people in your life, about yourself, you would tell the fucking truth and let the other person decide what they do with it.
This truth anyway is not the truth, it is an hallucination in a high-dose trip on a substance nobody knows just about anything about, not even the traditional custodians of the medicine themselves. To think this is truth in anyway is the dumbest of dumb shit thinking the world knows.
And, this, is how I know that Harvard does not make you smart.
There could be many truths in this trip at the same time. William’s continued smallness could lead to another truth, a very very likely truth for people who have signed a contract to maintain a relationship, the contract is called a marriage certificate. When his wife realises how little he actually respects her, she sees his smallness there is every chance that he will be booted out the door.
There is the possibility of the truth in this scenario being his wife is holding that beautiful little girl in the years to come, there is nothing but love and light in her life, her existence is phenomenal in every way. The love William feels in his trip is simply what she is exuding, it is her love that she lives in and not his, William is not the father of the child.
In this scenario her life is nothing but love, there is no smallness in her life, other than the fact that William is the father of Tres he is not there anymore.
His ex-wife could not be happier.
The truth in the original tale
The truth behind the Bwiti breaking down in their teaching is the identity with a word, in this case truth. An identity that stops them seeing what is being asked, the truth behind the title.
No truth can be given, everybody knows this from every example. Take something practical, nailing, you have to hit the nail with the hammer to get it to sink into the wood. Any fool can tell you how to do this but once you start doing it you realise it is a whole different kettle of fish.
It takes an hour to get the first nail in, which is actually the 73rd. 71 of the first 72 went off on all angles and every single one of them managed to fall into little cracks never to be seen again, the other well it was way too short for any human to be able to hit with a hammer so I threw it in the bin and sent a complaint in to management about it, bitched and moaned with my friends about it for eight weeks before finally realising I probably over-reacted.
The truth of nailing is it takes a lot of hammering before you understand how to hit one nail, know the truth of the experience.
This is what the Bwiti are being asked, yeah the answer is truth, of course buds, simple. But, buddies, dumb fucks who I Iboga Tabernathe loves so much you have to understand that truth, how many hundreds of years have you been stuck on this teaching now? The true teaching of Iboga is this, exactly this, you have to experience truth to know it, it cannot be given. Even Iboga cannot give it to you, you are the only one who can.
But, again, everybody, through every single one of all their experiences knows this, again the simplicity in psychedelic teachings. Through all the fanfare and theatrics, these things are teaching you the beauty in the simplicity. Know yourself, experience yourself for yourself, be the truth you bang on about.
So Iboga is giving them, the five/six senses, this firm teaching, not because it is all there is but it is all you need to be. Get to this stage, this very stage, and you understand the beauty in the being you are.
You understand beyond doubt God/the creator/whatever your term for how you came into reality/existence is in the being that you are, it has to be, there is no other way, it is in all things, it is all things. But, now with the truth, that you don’t need anything other than this animal you know you can do anything with it, there is no limitation to your limitations, there is no fence, there is absolutely no boudary in the potential of a human being.
You understand the being of your being is the being of everybody’s being, the being behind every being there has ever been.
But come on Bwiti, Patrick, you know all this already you’re just too chickenshit to think for yourself, be real pioneers for the world, be anything other than psychedelic tourist junkies really.
Reality
Let us come back to the word reality, I am sure I used this or meant too. What is reality you ask, I reply what do you mean? I do not understand the question.
You then go on and on about the matrix, the mechanics of this and that, quantum physics, beings, entities.
I still do not understand, moreso, I am plain confused by this time. You will tell me about all this shit but not the one thing thatb matters, what you are experiencing right now.
This is reality, the rest of the shit, the machine driving the machine, who gives a shit. Your reality is the one you experience, that is what it is, when you are finished experiencing it will be gone, done, you will never wonder where you came from again.
In the meantime however, you are missing the experience completely, reality completely, simply by not living in the skin you have. Belief is not reality, this is a story stuck in your head. When you look with your eyes, hear with your ears, smell with your nose, fuck with a roaring hard cock, religion it is not there, nor are any of your other stories.
Especially the last one, hard cocks and religion is an oxymoron. Everybody knows that religous folk and soft cocks always hold hands, but not sexually of course, just to piss, never shake more than twice.
Reality, my conception through my eyes, ears, nose, touch, taste is what reality is. My experience is my reality, the only one I will ever know, I don’t bother questioning it, just live it instead, so much much much much more fun.
Going back to the Bwiti teaching, this is the key they are being asked to learn, it opens the door to a new room, the god room. They are ready to go in there, most are anyway. I would highly recommend sending Patrick well away from the medicine first, maybe somewhere like Alaska, I hear it is nice.
I’m harping on here, I do that, when I am trying to get you to understand for yourself what I am saying before I have to say it for you. Alternatively, I am almost saying right now to stop reading, to go away and think about it, why am I emphasising religion so much in a medicine teaching, an African Tribal teaching far removed from my concept of religion. Why is this still having words written, and me still reading them.
Enough chances, this is a more difficult one anyway. The Bwiti teaching right now and religous doctrine are the same thing, exactly the same thing, not a single difference. A theory/teaching is being held without it being questioned, not only not being questioned but people rejected from its space for asking questions, simple questions.
Iboga, the easiest of all medicines from a learning perspective, hands down. When you learn to sit with Iboga you will do miraculous things with your world, your progress will outstrip mine and in absolute record time, provided, of course, fences are not being put around you in the process.
The truth teaching, what Patrick is projecting, is simply the Bible but this time the author is the Bwiti. Any bible, any doctrine, any path that is not yours is not yours. Iboga teaches this beautifully and simply, kind of like I am trying to too, so let’s not make it something all the evidence suggests only leads to worse place for everybody.
An example
Medicine, psychedelic medicine, again does not give you the truth, it provides the circumstances for you to learn it for yourself, build your tools along the way. Many sessions, when they are done right will have very few psychedelic outcomes but you will laugh harder than anything afterwards, and during, anyway.
My very first Iboga experience. Sitting at my mate’s property alone overlooking the Oxley Wild Rivers National Park or whatever it is called. The intention of the experience was to learn how to express my truth more clearly. At the time the topic was everything is nothing, nothing is everything, to be continued, clearly, but not now.
An hour or so in I am waiting anxiously for the medicine to kick in, I go for a walk, my general anxiousness solution. Not a solution at all, still have to be with the feelings but I get to flop my body around in the process, ideal.
15 minutes into my walk there is a car coming up the dirt road, it stops, Fred? ‘Merlin?’
Haha, six hours later Merlin leaves as high as a kite and we have done nothing but talk about this concept.
Medicine experience 101, you’ll get what you asked for but there is no telling how it will present. Brace yourself, remember to breathe and be ready for the ride of all rides, You, buddy.
Ibogaine, breaking the myth
I love mythbusting, it’s cool, my way doesn’t require experiments mostly, but sometimes it does, in this case it does!
Sadly, however I was away when the experiments took place, only got to be updated along the way.
I have mentioned Dominic once or twice. Absolute genius with plants. We met in Peru and became great mates instantly, very very close to eachother’s progress on our own individual paths, we could talk completely and openely. Nothing, with the exception of faith, got in the way.
But plants and Dominic, pure genius. The Ayahuasca and DMT I get from him and the space he trained up is second to none of all the variations I have tried. Kilometres and kilometres of daylight in between them. The next best, another place in Peru, also being a ridiculously beautiful medicine.
Some people were put on this earth for a specific reason, sometimes we are lucky enough to meet one of these people who know that purpose in themselves (because we are all, most of us just are not aware), this is pure beauty. Watching Dominic work with plants, watching his face as he spoke about them, being in that presence. Beautiful!
Dominic has a huge interest in Iboga, I have none left by now, left the last of what I took from Gabon in Mexico with another beautiful mate, Love.
Yeah, buddies, I took a good amount of illegal drugs into Mexico with me completely understanding the risks. Being 100% willing to accept the outcome of that risk without having an intention of begging and pleading my country to get involved because I didn’t know I had them, they were planted, I swear.
I’m not a coward, let’s make sure we all know this. I take responsibility for all my shit, I recommend you try it.
I did get a little nervous when Mexican customs started searching through my bag. Books though, these always sway people, swayed customs in Europe too. Funny, as soon as customs see a bunch of books in a bag it’s like the next thought is nerd and they pass you through. Funny funny.
Europe, the campervan, two officers, business time, all very serious. Please step back from the vehicle and allow us to conduct a thorough customs inspection, sir. I step back, light a cigarette, I’m setting myself to be waiting for a while. Customs open the door, open the first cupboard, it is full of books, they close it, close the van, thank you sir.
Ha, no shit.
I don’t recommend this as a reliable way to fool customs but it sure does seem to be effective.
So Dominic tells me that he reckons he knows of an Amazonian plant that is chock full of ibogaine. I say, that’s funny Dominic, Patrick tells me that the only plant in the world that contains this substance is the Iboga Tabernathe tree. You and I have already talked about Patrick, so you know, this must be true.
Dominic laughs, beautiful laugh, beautiful sombre Irish voice too, slow without being boring. It is a voice that is easy to listen to. ‘We’ll see then I suppose.’
And see he did, found the plant, extracted the ibogaine and tripped balls on it.
Patrick, buddy, this is how we both know you are full of shit, that your tradition is not solely based on truth. In fact, my ignorant friend, I’m tending to lean that it is all belief and no truth.
Would love to discuss further.
These plants, all of them, we live in such a huge world with so much we do not know. We haven’t even scratched the surface of what may be availble to us in nature, particularly these phenomenal tools which are the absolute solution to all health issues in this world, all social issues, every everything.
Belief, holding to ownership over plants and over healing is pure satan, pure evil, to this movement. Patrick, and others like him, please get out of the way and allow it to be open to all humans on this earth. Work together, I fucking beg you.
What Dominic has found is absolutely revolutionary for Iboga, especially being able to extract it so simply. To take this stuff, the root bark by itself is horrendous, nothing is more disgusting, even comparatively. Getting this shit in your belly is really really difficult, literally eating bark from a tree. You need heaps and heaps, tablespoons upon tablespoons.
Convert it to pills, big pills, and you are still taking 15 of these things, they get extremely difficult to swallow too. Accurate dosing is near impossible.
To extract Ibogaine, the active ingredient, allows this to come down to one small pill, big pill maximum, but one only. The difficulty in getting the medicine inside is taken away. I’ve mentioned it already, Ibogaine is important in the healing space because of how simple the messaging is. The easier to access and administer we can make it the quicker the world gets to heal, move forward together.
Ibogaine versue Iboga Tabernathe. Exactly the same experience, no different. Only the ibogaine in the Iboga Tabernathe is giving the experience, nothing else. The spirit if Iboga itself is not exclusive to this one version of the plant, Ibogaine itself is Iboga.
Maria Sabina
I love Maria Sabina, absolutely adore this woman, never met her. Not possible now, she is dead.
Maria is the queen, the absolute dominant force in the mushroom space from a cultural perspective. A Mexican lady who speaks on behalf of all mushrooms, of all medicine, phenomenally beautiful woman.
She speaks out of experience, her ego and attachment towards the exclusivity of what she is providing does not get in the way.
Maria consented to scientists removing magic mushrooms from her area with the intention to extract the psilocybin for use without having to consume the full plant. On successfully completing the extraction the crew asked Maria if she could try it, see if there was a difference between the natural form, did the experience lose anything.
Emphatic, clear, concise answer stating no difference, the two are one and the same, it is the psilocybin that is the magic rather than the mushroom.
Same with Iboga and Ibogaina, Patrick however, without trying the extracted form I am pretty sure will tell you they are completely different. The difference being the spirits are not in the extract, Iboga has left the building. But, again, bullshit, belief, ego, trying to hold onto something for their own so they can monopolise and abuse it.
This is the meaning in Patrick’s answer, but then again Maria has more healing capacity in her pubes than he does his entire projection.
Moreon Patrick
See what I did there, I have more to say about Patrick and wanted to call him a moron too, just chucked the two words together and wollah, gets the sentiment across perfectly.
Now Patrick, haha, will tell you that Iboga is the master medicine, it is the only one that does all three healings. Spiritual, physical and mental.
We are going to open all of these healings up in time but first we need to understand Partick before you consider listening to his dribble.
Patrick will tell you this, that only Iboga does all three healings and no other medicine, it is the BOSS. He’ll tell you Iboga tells him so, he’ll tell you that you cannot know something unless you experience it, he will tell you he has not tried any of the other medicines.
Patrick, commmmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeee oooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnn Buddddddddddd-Y. How do you know? How can you possibnly know when none of them have gone into your belly, GOD, what a MORON.
Deep breath.
Bob Marley
There are two posts I love for a different reason than others, this one and the Solomon Islands discussion. Both posts have a commonality in their uniqueness, they appear and bring people in from Google searches. The Bwiti and Mount Popomanaseu are unique somewhat, they gain attention, here is the primary place I intend to get attention. Mt P from previous writings makes this clear.
Patrick is a complete tool, his Bwiti name is Moughendo, spelling something like that, Moo-ghen-doe.
Really wanted to write Moo-ghen-doh. Doh, like Homer Simpson, a big ol’ Doh, simply because this man is almost as smart as Homer, not quite though. Patrick is so dumb.
Three of us are sitting in a medicine facilitator learning space, Patrick teaching us how to facilitate. We have visted to know the medicine, open a space in truth and healing, make sure we are removing the unneccesary rubbish from the environment, the theatrics for example.
When I say theatrics do you understand what I mean? Simply, it means all of the crazy things that come with the psychedelic experience which we do not generally have access to without the substance. The hallucinations and whatever, even really different thought patterns, are the theatrics.
Pamela, William and myself are sitting with Patrick while he teaches us about iBoga. The fourth or fifth day maybe and Patrick continues to repeat that iboga is truth this, iboga is truth that, iboga is only truth. The iboga is truth message is continually being drummed into us, repetition designed to make sure his words stick and nothing but them. Sadly, for many they do.
Repetition is a simple learning tool for study, boring as hell and you learn nothing but it keeps the necessary information active in the head for as long as it is needed. Repetition was Patrick’s tool to teach rather than actually teaching anybody anything.
Patrick cannot be questioned, at all. William jumped down my throat when I first said it to him. I acknowledged Will’s objection to my statement, took a step back with Patrick and started again, asked a couple more questions. Nope, still no answer.
William can question Patrick because he is stupid just like Patrick, there is not a word that comes out of his mouth that is original, it is all what Patrick said, or his wife said, or this other person said, or they said, and therefore it is what William says. William’s questions aren’t questions at all, they are stupidity. Stupidity the only aptitude Patrick owns, therefore he can be questioned by William.
Like Patrick, William has no intelligence or integrity, none. Hence he chooses to lie to his wife thinking keeping secrets somehow protects her, makes their relationship stronger, it is how pathetic he is. I’ve never met her but from what William told me would absolutely love to be a fly on the wall when she finds out how much and consistently William has withheld information, it will be hard for her to trust he has ever said an honest word to her. When he lies about the meaningless stuff mentioned here what else does he lie about will be the dominant topic to discuss.
Guarantee, when this conversation opens up William will grovel and beg for forgiveness, please please please I won’t lie again, I promise. Yeah, he is a weak man, he will try to appease with something as pathetic as a promise, he has nothing else of value to offer. Should his wife have the integrity he says she does none of his coward pleading will keep him in her life. Good riddance too in my opinion, weak men have no place in raising children.
When I question Pat, simple questions, some examples already stated, the only answer Patrick has is to tell me I am wrong and wrong because iboga tells him so. This guy is a moron.
We’ll get into some more of these examples but first I want to bring your attention to the absolute and utter snot hanging from Patty’s nose whenever he speaks, it drools out of his mouth too.
‘Patrick, iboga is not truth. The truth cannot be given, has to be learnt and experienced.’
Fred, iboga tells the truth, we only need to listen to it. Iboga can take you to a person and have a real conversation with them, it’s how true it is, you are hearing from the source directly.
‘No, you’re not Patrick. Iboga is no different to the other medicines, helps to understand the truth, it is not and cannot be given. You are meeting your own projection of that person, nobody else.’
Did you know Bob Marley was murdered.
‘Nope, don’t care to be honest, not sure what it has to do with a healing space, and from what I understand there is no confirmation surrounding his death.’
He was murdered, assassinated, absolutely. I asked iboga to take me to him, to have a chat and Bob said directly to me that he was killed by them.
‘Them, who is them?’
Just them, the authorities covering it up. Bob Marley assassinated, it is the truth of it.
Fucked I laughed friends, it was the moment I knew beyond doubt this bloke is a fraud.
Second example.
Human beings have never been to the moon. The moon landing and all other moon activities are a conspiracy, people cannot go to the moon. Iboga showed me this.’
I laughed again, what a tool.
Let’s address this shit using a brain that has the capacity to think, rather than Patrick’s absolutely docile and mentally retarded capacity. Because, friends, Patrick is a few beers short of a six-pack.
The first one Bob Marley, nobody bloody knows, unless they absolutely know but nobody does, so many mixed messages make this clear. What Patrick is presented with in his trip is what he wants to see, what iboga wants him to learn knowing he won’t, that identification and ego are dominating his space.
The man on the moon, visiting the moon, far out brussel sprout.
Years ago, in the gym, a bloke I was trying to avoid suddenly became unavoidable when the gym we were at closed and both went to the same new one. He took it on himself to decide this made us mates.
Talking one day and he starts banging on about man cannot visit the moon because the atmosphere will not allow us to pass through it. I said nothing at the time, nodded my head, seemed plausible but I did not know. After all too, I wasn’t there for any of the moon stuff so I cannot really know either.
But, I can use my brain. Can study, look up basic information. Deciding on this occasion I knew nothing about the atmosphere of the moon, time to educate myself. It was so simple to debunk the above conspiracy, both of them. The earth’s atmosphere extends well beyond the earth, it actually extends to the moon and then another moon distance again, thereabouts. The moon itself is within the earth’s atmosphere, old matie above debunked, Patrick, well he had no argument other than iboga says so, clearly debunked.
Of course man can go to the moon, many other places soon enough, fucking hell. Only the pinnacle of morons and ignorance believe it is not possible when it is simply a purely practical exercise based on science, the right technology and wasting a shit load of beautiful resources, allowing children to starve, being okay with whole communities going without clean water in the process.
Patrick is telling everyone in his teaching to forget every piece of information they have ever learned and only take for truth what comes from a drug that produces hallucinations, he is teaching everybody to be full ignorance, zero truth. It is sad and disgusting, this man needs to be removed from the medicine space, ignorance is the only world he exists in, he will drag you there too.
Sometimes, often, I want to keep writing and writing the same thing, like now but I am hoping your brain is starting to see through your attachment to the subject and see it clearly. Really, I should not need to expand further.
Clearly the teachings are dangerous. Again, no different to christianity.
The next Shaman
Passing over the head Shaman in the Bwiti culture I find interesting. Intersting in many ways, but how it works and adds up to a meaningful outcome is really interesting. Manima, the answer to the Bwiti solution.
Manima, no idea on the spelling, could be the most beautiful human being from an integrity perspective in any world. He is the next Shaman, should be the now Shaman, has the tools and then some to move the Bwiti onto and then through stage 2, What is we?
The Bwiti still do not understand what is me? Level one in the path to whatever word you want to use for it, pure experience, enlightenment, heaven, oneness, unity, love, global consciousness, etcetera, all the same thing. Manima can guide them there in moments, can get them to level three in his lifetime, I cannot imagine there is a better Shaman in any world.
Patrick said, don’t come here thinking you are the World Shaman, you are not, we’ll smash that out of you. If you were, I would already know.’
Let me say something before we move on. Patrick talks a hell of a lot, when he finally stops and I get to start I also say a lot, therefore every conversation here is minimised to its meaning only. Yes, I have changed the words, the new words say the exact same thing as the old.
The problem clearly is Patrick does not already know when he should, the succession plan is meant for Manima and none other. The blind can see it, the deaf can hear it.
Not Patty, his deafness is beyond the normal reaches of this world, I call it his third eye, the thing is malfunctioning heavily.
Pat is waiting to make a statement, his succession plan is about being remembered, solely focused on being the first leader to nominate a female heir. Clearly wants it to be his own, none other. Everybody knows this because he has no eyes to see, no ears to hear, solely a non-existant sense being dominated by the attention it receives. Ego is Patrick’s third eye, his sixth sense, nothing else.
Manima, man oh man oh man, what a ridiculously diculously beautiful man. You should absolutely visit the tribe just to meet him, watch him, listen to every single thing that comes from his mouth.
He doesn’t say shit, almost nothing, barely participates in the teasing and play-bullying. Laughs with everybody and has a great time, may say one or two things, everyone listens and then everyone laughs their tits off.
It’s serious, tears are in in all the young men’s eyes sitting around probably talking about their 24-year-old brother who recently died of Malaria. I cannot understand, French is the national language of Gabon, Manima speaks and every eye turns to him, like all of them. Whatever he says is exactly what needed to be said, every time. Beautiful love and compassion in every word, the tone, the changes to his face.
Everything he does is patience, care, love and compassion, understanding.
The Bwiti, in particular Manima, and how they respect the jungle and their world is beyond words perfection. Only take what they need, always ask for permission, say thank you.
Manima walks up to a tree, he started whispering to it the moment it came into view. The tree has some marks on it, a few places with bark removed, it is a medicinal plant needed for tonight’s ceremony. The closer he gets the more clear his words become, when he is next to it he is speaking to it as a mate, his brothers and sisters, me and WIlliam. Same tone, same volume, same love and care.
Knocks on it with the machete a few times, grabs onto the tree, rocks back and forward, telling the tree we need you tonight please provide.
Cuts a small piece of bark off with the machete, it lands bark-side up, no, you cannot take me right now.
Repeats the process, urges the tree provide it, he makes sure it understands that we know why we are taking it, will only take what we require, no more.
Still no.
Manima stops. Looks at me, Pamela and William and says in a basic, good basic, English, ‘she does this, she teaches, asking is not enough, we need this, we need it, we have to demand the resource and she will provide. It is not a question we are asking, like I have two times, we need it, the world needs it, we demand it.’
Demands it.
Bark down, she says yes.
Manima cuts a 20cm square piece off, it is all we were after. A 1.5 hour walk, ants stinging, some that are best to be completely avoided, stinking hot and humid, the demanding and pleading, swallowing this disgusting medicine beforehand, all for a tiny piece of bark. The thank you that followed, pure love.
I needed to talk to Patrick, ego was dominating his space and he would not listen to anybody. With William and Pamela present I basically told him to his face, in a village on the edges of one of the most dangerous jungles in the world that he was a fraud, a piece of shit who needed to be better.
It was Manima who made my decision to approach Pat absolutely clear without even talking to me. He was talking to William and Pamela about the traditions of the Bwiti and iboga, taking iboga as they do for example.
The Bwiti take iboga before anything that has to do with ceremony, the resource gathering, making the fire sticks and things for ceremony, building the fire, grinding up the medicine, everything. The tradition is purely on truth, there are many customs repeated over and over daily that ensure the tradition and message is maintained through generations.
Pamela must have asked something along the lines of ‘which traditions are most important, is the medicine more or equally important?’
Pamela translating, For me, the traditions and medicine are not the priority of the Bwiti, should not be the priority. The priority, how I live, is to be the teachings, live them, act in integrity and honesty in all things, do what is right. Make sure I am the thing I am teaching, nothing else. Tradition and medicine enter after.
What amazing words, I just laughed a gentle laugh, my decision to approach Patrick was made in that heartbeat.
I just cannot believe nobody has spoken within the Bwiti regarding what is happening but it has a point.
The Bwiti need to learn to ask their own questions of themselves, to stop living under authoritarian rule as they currently are. The questions are there that need to be asked of Patrick but tradition is stopping people, including Manima, from doing what is right, correcting their Shaman. Making sure he answers their questions rather than accept him telling them how it is because he is the leader. It is ridiculously harmful what is being allowed, nobody is safe in the Bwiti space currently.
So, this point is being taught, Patrick was intentional, a blip in the road. Necessary for the questions about the traditions and teachings to be made so obvious that culture, tradition and approach to medicine undergoes the change that is needed. Change from iboga is truth, to iboga provides the circumstances to understand the truth. A simple change but it requires the Bwiti accepting there are flaws, big ones, in everything they have shared with the world.
Flaws that need to be undone before they influence it in the way they have the potentional, good or bad.
Manima becoming the next Shaman good, Patrick’s succession plan bad.
When called on
Managed to get it down yesterday, mescaline, right timing. Beautiful trip, I do not need to go through it again.
The getting this rubbish in the body is tough enough. Then the trip starts, very slowly, a couple of hours to come on.
Mescaline and ibogaine, very very similar experiences.
Intention, the primary one, the same intention as I have in everything I do, bring safety to my world.
Secondary intention, San Pedro show me what you offer, show me why we come to you.
The intentions, ridiculously important, understanding intention is the first step. I want this outcome and that outcome, love, finances, marriage, family, a great job, all the rest.
Rubbish, all of that, total junkie approach to drugs.
You do not know what you want. Your life is a mess because you have no idea how to unmess it. Yet, you continually create intentions based on want, attachment, desire, materialistic snot. You get nowhere, never will, somehow you wonder why.
Safety, I do not know what this means in our world, neither do you. None of us have experienced true safety, any form of it simply because humans are humans. The most violent creature there has ever been, the only violent creature there has ever been.
Safety, it means everything, it is what I want but have no idea how to achieve. My primary intention simply means I come today to listen, surrender, learn.
Intention two, there is no better way to open yourself up to learning than to give medicine full permission to fuck with you in hideous ways. Beautifully hideous ways.
Depths of despair breaking out of me through the whole day, releasing the deepest of deepest hurts that come with my life. The last effort to release was in the hammock, the whole body went into it, ridiculously painful. Moreso, ridiculously beautiful.
About six hours in, uncurled from the ball I had made myself into on the bed and absolutely burst out laughing. Show me why we come to you, what you offer.
The difference in mine and Anya’s trips gave me exactly this. I’d take a breath or three in amongst the heartache pouring out of me, smile, look up and Anya, everytime, was beaming a smile of pure love on her beautiful face, pure happiness, every moment. So so beautiful.
Medicine met intention two and then some. My pain, the effort required to pull it out broke up all the tension in the body. Today am releasing it, particularly out of my arse, feel shit when generally people feel great after Cactus.
Crying like this, absolute beautiful purge, every muscle goes into it, every everything of a being is required. Breaks up all the trash, toxins, waste hanging around the stressed muscles, allows one to remove them from the body, feel heaps better in time.
A few hours I’ll feel great, tomorrow at latest. It is what it is, medicine does not finish until it is finished.
This makes sense though, Anya simply needed to feel love in her way, I needed to feel it in mine. We did the same thing in different ways, mine needed to burst, Anya’s didn’t, but it did too.
The love on her face stayed the entire 15 hours, God it was beautiful.
Mescaline, like all the psychedelic drugs teaches simply if you are listening.
Putting two and two together on the bed, was given exactly what I asked for, what I needed to learn so do not have to return to Wachuma.
What it can bring? What you need when you need it, the most painful or the most beautiful. Again, exactly the same as all medicine, none are different, it is what they do, open us to expression and experience.
The moment I worked out meeting intention two started laughing, beautiful simple teaching provided in the way I learn, experience.
As soon as I started to laugh a song I adore by Tool came on the stereo, the first lines, I know the pieces fit ‘cos I watched them fall away. Laughed my tits off.
Perfect explanation of last night’s trip and every other that came before. All medicine works like this, watch all the pieces of yourself break completely then choose how you want to put them back together.
Your choice, your life.
Medicine too, it works before entering the body. The beautiful learnings from yesterday were not possible without Anya, not at all.
Met at a backpacker, started talking and did so for an hour or so. The next day she has decided to come along with me, the place itself, Magia Verde near Puerto Misahualli is pure paradise, stupidly beautiful.
Safety, intention one. Anya showed me this, simply by not changing a thing, barely giving me any attention, not trying to intervene.
I basically watched a female version of myself supporting people even though she wasn’t supporting me. Completely let me go and did not involve herself, as did Scott the beautiful Canadian man operating the facility.
Later, was making a coffee, trying to unshit myself, coffee natural laxative, I need some help.
‘How can I help?’
Ha, no, I mean the coffee, am backed up. But, thank you.
Like, how beautiful, the difficult times where everyone else would have had their arms around me, trying to make me feel better she did nothing, said nothing, did not offer to help.
The moment I asked for help, ‘How can I help?’, no hesitation, still tripping and all, no attempt to provide a solution, simply a listening ear.
Safety in the medicine space, it is what it is, simple simple shit, no ego, no needing to fix other’s crap, simply being there when called on.
Never have kids
Patrick, sadly, has children, or a child. This man, absolute definition of deadbeat ignorant Dad, raising children brings a deep sadness. Those kids are very likely going to be just like him. Pathetic cunts.
Alyssa, newish admin person, please, pretty please, if you don’t already never ever have children, the likelihood they will become as pathetic of an adult as you are is high, the world needs no more of you. If you do, I recommend reading in the definitions about a wet bag of cement in the ocean, consider it for yourself, the best thing you can do for them.
As per the wet paper bags, me and my family, we know the Bwiti are the weakest of weak pathetic people from a couple of simple interactions.
Four emails asking for a refund not responded to. Yesterday, I email without asking for the refund, instead calling them cowards and pointing the Bwiti in the direction of my public writing.
Email I say fuck, cunt, cowards, weak woman and a bunch of other equally offensive words. As per everything I express this is all my language, the way I talk, you know this already, and I give example after example with each bad word.
The Bwiti’s responses, absolute integrity lacking coward’s response was, believe it or not, immediate. Defend defend defend defend defend.
Next, put it back on him, say you are angry, that’ll do it. Use emotions rather than any examples.
I am angry because I use words Alyssa does not like. She has no evidence, no examples, simply a discrimination to the words being used. Yes, Alyssa, as already said to you, you are a pathetic weak cunt who has no business being in the same continent (said country) as vulnerable people.
Funny thing, absolutely love getting stuck into pathetic people. Anya, sitting next to me, what’s so funny?
‘The Bwiti mate, God they are pathetic people, am telling them exactly how pathetic, it’s as funny as fuck.’
Anya, mates, she’ll tell you how much anger was in my beaming smile, the same beaming smile on my face every moment of every day. Zero.
Pathetic cunts, Willie, yeah, you’re the same as him. No examples, just emotions, your emotions, your attachment and discrimination to meaningless words that mean the same as every other meaningless word. Isn’t this a Bwiti teaching, words are just words? You ignore that one too Alyssa, along with the 24-hour rule, the integrity one, the truth one? Yep, buddy, you and Patrick were made for one another.
All I asked, over and over, was to send my writing to the Bwiti, all of them, not just Patrick. Give them all a chance to make their minds up rather than Fuckhead dictating what they can and cannot access and see. Let the Bwiti as a community decide what is wrong and right, remove the authoritarian rule.
Forwarding the email never entertained by deadbeat Mum, if she is a Mum, please don’t be, our resources are thin apparently, so thin you cannot even forward an email? Fucking pathetic.
Next, apparently no record of me ever being there, clearly I have been to the tribe, everyone there knows me, send my writing to them.
No again, you’re angry. Only defence she has.
Not much said here, I know, the next heading is more important, we talk about the 24 hour rule, the one mentioned above. It’ll make this, and all the meaningless words before it make sense.
See you there good buddies.
The 24-hour rule
Bit teary this morning, smile has not left my face. Tears, sadness, heartbreak, grief, the feelings that we feel, Jesus Christ people they are beautiful. Hurting like a human being hurts is the pinnacle of beauty, the absolute, right up there with closed eyes, black spaces, nothing but love in my body, my world, my universe.
Today, friends, Bwiti included, I love you people, you know I do. The smile above I know you remember it, know you know the only time it left my face was the hours before approaching Patrick. Knowing later I would need to say goodbye. My heart was breaking before you knew anything was wrong, your heart broke too, we both know this, some of you sat there with tears falling down your cheeks when I told you.
I wanted to tell you about Patrick then too, the timing was not right. Now, it is.
You know that smile, it has been well over two years since we met, still everytime I think about you, talk about you, reflect on my beautiful journey, the phenomenal part you were, it comes back. It comes back wide as fuck, you remember it, hey?
24 hours I am supposed to be over you, have forgotten about you, to stop fighting for what is right, to grieve my broken heart.
To grieve my broken heart, 24 hours is all I am allowed should I be a member under Patrick’s rule. 24 hours to dismiss my mother, the most phenomenal human being I have met, well, maybe one is creeping up close. 24 hours to forget my mate who I shared the most beautiful of times with, the same man who after I encouraged him to live his life accidentally fell into the Mississippi River and drowned. 24 hours to grieve the absence of my three beautiful brothers, four ridiculously amazing sisters, seven young people who have given me, and me them, nothing but joy.
24 fucking hours.
Nothing at all I write on this site is more disgusting than this heading. As soon as I write the words, combined with the introduction, most of you will understand. The rest, I’m sure you won’t be far behind.
The 24-rule means as a member of the Bwiti, which includes you attending for healing, you have 24 hours to get over everything and 24 hours only.
The Bwiti are a family, members from outside the family enter and become part of it all. Some of the support dudes are from different regions of Gabon, the chef at the time, Matthew, from Togo. The young men spend all their time together, the young ladies too, often all together however some tasks, physical labour, are for men, we were designed for this. The women, nurture related activities, caring for everyone, they were made for that.
It does not matter who you are to the young folk in the village, try to fit in, communicate, be chill together and their arms wrap around you in every word, smile, pat on the back. You are there for very short, these people together for very long, the bond between them all is the same as me and Benjamin, the best brother a man could ever have.
They are all the best brother a brother could have to one another. Phenomenally beautiful are not even close to the right words to express the love they share. Does not begin to describe it.
Arrived in Gabon December 23 or so, course starts January 01, it actually started January 08, thereabouts. Not a word from anyone about the delay, was a good thing I sent an email New Year’s Eve and, believe it or not received a response, course delayed Fred, we’ll get back to you, a young man died of malaria in the last week.
Of course I accepted it, could have shown some care and compassion to an English speaking dude in a very tough French only, just about, speaking country. I’ll get over it. No word, no word, no word. Another email, I get stuck into them this time telling them they are already breaking the trust required for a person to feel safe, receive maximum benefit from the experience. Am given a start date.
Friends, cunts (in the most loving way of course, cunts in Aussie speak can be the best and the worst description of someone, fuckin’ great cunt that one, more than happy if a cunt like this fuck whisks my daughter away, yeah, the ultimate compliment), I’m going to comeback and finish this another time, need some space from it. Love you from the being of my being Bwiti.
A letter to Moughenda
G’day Moughenda,
Today mate, I show you the respect which your name comes with. I finish this post by writing directly to you, the human being behind the mask. Mate, I love you, you and me are no different.
No different with a few exceptions, one in particular, I am free and you are not. It breaks my heart.
I see you Patrick as you do not see me. You see my face, but then you ignore it. The lines on my face, the gentle gentle lines full of expression, you see them and then you ignore them. Instead you only see my privilege, the one that allows me to pay a ridiculous amount of money for a course half way across the world.
You did not see that I had to sell my home to be there, how much I loved every moment in that place. I had to give up my career, my universe, my entire world. You did not see, nor did you ask what being there with you cost me.
My beautiful smile, the one that brought out other beautiful smiles is ignored because my island home is full of affluence, opportunity, spaces to walk freely without fear of being dragged into the bush and slaughtered. You ignore who I am underneath this all because you need me to be something I am not. Somebody who needs to be fixed.
Do you remember the trip, the only one I had with you? Remember William next to me in a form of hell that is the commonest of common experience in your space, a man coming to terms with his broken heart.
Me, sitting next to him having the time of my life, no sickness, no errant erratic thoughts, no giving a shit about anything except enjoying the human being I am and the freedom earned from my fight. Iboga didn’t need to fuck with me, I had already done it to myself, I did it alone. She knew nothing she could do would break me, there was no point trying. She knew she needed me now, needed me to talk to you.
My healing and accepting my broken heart had already been done before you ever knew my name. It scared the crap out of you, we both know it did. It’s the reason there is no record of me ever attending your space, not even in my possession, I cannot access my old email. The only proof I have is the visa in my Passport, even it does not say you were my host.
You guys watched me, it was fun. The first moment I closed my eyes, gasped with fear, opened them, took a few moments, a deep breath, closed them again. Smiled my heart a moment later. I heard all of your murmours, the little laughs, the one’s that said we have a man worth having here. A man that will be afraid, accept it without calling for help, walk straight back into the fire. Do it in less than 24 seconds.
Iboga, she was my fear, I closed my eyes and her massive green head was all I saw. Took some time, and when I closed my eyes again she was still there waiting, the biggest of biggest grins on her face. I, as you know, grinnned the biggest of biggest grins back to her.
In this moment buddy I knew Iboga was not my brother, or my uncle, or any other male in my life. She was my twin sister but she needed to represent as my twin brother. A brother who’s bond is stronger than that of my little brother, the form I needed for full trust, to trust Iboga completely. A trust that to me comes with prodding and poking, poking and prodding that only comes with the presence of my little brother, a presence that only months before exited my life.
Every medicine has come to me like this, replaced a relationship I would need to forfeit. Replaced a relationship that I needed in my life to learn the beautiful shit I have learnt. To learn it all on my own, can you possibly imagine how hard the journey has been mate? Tell yourself the truth, can you really?
My writing, you and everyone who reads it knows what I do, that once I can see through the words being used and let myself hear the message being presented is beyond beautiful, it is phenomenally perfect for the times we live in. It is teaching, but to learn one has to start seeing their sisters and brothers as their brothers and sisters first. Nobody will speak to another human like I am here, I am treating the whole world like shit to show them love, if someone can love me they can love anyone, our world starts to get better.
What I have put myself through mate. This site is sharing that story, how the hell do you expect me to mend my broken heart? Like, ever? Let alone in 24 hours.
A month ago I had to leave my country, the place of my birth, my whole life, my home, the place I love indescribably. The home of my family, my friends, the thing that has given me everything for 42 years. I had to leave for asylum, safety, to be able to put a roof over my head, food in my stomach and potentially, hopefully, maybe, remove the isolation that dominates my world. Isolation, is the only thing in my world.
I am isolated because of people like you. I told you, for the first time in my life I felt at home in your village, I was 40 years old mate. Also told you the only thing that was not home about it was you, said this to your face, said it with tears in my eyes. I could not understand how I could be rejected from your space, like I continue not being able to understand being rejected from every other space.
Every other space Moughenda. All of them. Every. Single. One. Spaces, spirituality, religion, peers in the mental health space, other fighters against discrimination and violence, friends, family, my country. I have nobody pal, still I fight for what is right, my heart is destroyed, it is what it is, I accept it.
The people in my life, their hearts are broken too, they break for me, for one person, the one they think they have lost. I have lost everyone Patrick, all of them. My family, biological one, extends to about 25 people, they are all gone. 25 absences already I have to grieve, the same grief those people are feeling towards one person. It’s just the start of my loss mate, just the very start, how can I be okay with this in 24 hours?
My heart is broken mate. It is fucking broken. It is shattered to a million million pieces. Healing does not mean I have no right to take medicine and bawl my eyes out for eight hours, to feel every single piece. It is over a week after the trip, after releasing my hurt, and my body still has not recovered, it is exhausted.
My healing pal is that I accept my broken heart and allow myself to grieve when I need to grieve. Acceptance is what your 24-hour rule is asking, even acceptance is difficult. The rule is not demanding anything be fixed. Moughenda, friend, it is not possible to fix my broken heart, not as things are, it is not.
Iboga presented as it did to me because it knew I did not need to go through any rite of passage to be a brother in your village. She invited me, I did not need your permission to be there. I already earned the right, was living your ways well before I ever knew your name, your tribe’s name, the existence of a medicine by the name of ibogaine.
Every step of the trip I respected her, played around and interacted with the lessons she was teaching, asked for permission before potentially defiling the space, even when the defiling was merely pouring water on the ground to play around with the tricks the light was making. It was so beautiful.
But mostly, Patrick, I paid attention to you, to William, to my brothers from the Bwiti around the room.
After the fire talk William and I are setting up inside the temple while you remain with your son’s and daughter’s outside. I cannot understand what you are saying, you are saying it animatedly, lecturing and lecturing these young people, their hearts were breaking and you could not see it, they were not allowed to express it. 24-hours had long passed since their, what, 21-year-old mate, brother, bond of all bonds, had unbonded.
I didn’t know this is what you were banging on about straight away, William filled me in a few minutes later. It was heartbreaking, I was hoping he wasn’t serious, it was not true, it was, you confirmed it yourself. Did you see my head drop when you said these words to me? It was painful bud, painful a leader in a healing space, a pioneer for its medicine could treat his universe this way.
You walked into the temple, sat down, closed your eyes and put your head back with the smuggest look on your face. A look that said, yeah mate, that’s how you do it. Your son’s sat quietly around the room with heads bowed, forcing themselves not to express their tears and grief. I saw it all, you saw none of it.
Luckily for everybody I was there, brought humour to the grief, made everybody smile.
The morning moving from the temple to the beds was both the most beautiful and heartbreaking experience, it was phenomenal bud. My world, god, my world was beautiful in ways unexplainable. Unexplainable but the one part, the part where the boys of the Bwiti were not walking as I was, heads were not up to the sky. These men are hurting, their trail of shadows showed that hurt was only exceeded by Williams.
William, Moughenda, mate, please listen. This man is in a world of pain, an intense world of pain. The rascism and disgusting shit that happens in his community, the fight of his life, a fight dominated by banging his head against the wall and screaming why, how can it be this way. The same scream as I still scream. How the fuck, bud, how the fuck can you expect him to be okay with the shit that happens to his community? The same shit that will happen to his own son if nothing changes now? How can you expect that in 24 hours, just how?
Patrick, I see you bud, the lines on your face are the sharpest I have ever known, with the exception of one. Tracey at Mount Barney lodge, a woman who can kick a good man out onto the street with less than seven hours notice, do it with a smile on her face and somehow think she is not making that man homeless. Somehow think she is a good person.
Your body mate, your disgustingly disgustingly unhealthy body. The skin that is dry and without any glow. Body and skin like this when everybody else in your tribe is the pinnacle of beautiful bodies and skin.
The hypocrisy pal. Getting stuck into me for having 40 books next to my bed, 40 books which I use as a distraction for 40 minutes per day. Even then they are not a distraction, I am learning. Learning that Yoga is not just exercise as you say it is, learning it is unity and oneness. Learning tantra isn’t just about fucking in as many positions as possible, it also is about unity and oneness.
I came to you to learn, nothing else, not a thing did I need from you. Again, it scared the shit out of you, your ego could not be fed like it needed to be. It was a challenge that you failed mate, absolutely failed.
I learned that you are a lost soul, a lost man who cannot be with himself for barely a moment. You were almost never alone, when you were you were alone staring at your phone. There is no alone in the screen of a phone, only distraction Moughenda, distraction from being with yourself. Even in the company of others you stared at it non-stop, your life is not experience mate, it is the disease of excess. In your case, an excessive ego.
We are the same, exactly the same. Victims of an environment of pure pressure. You were abused too mate, forced to be anything but you, never allowed to be a kid like everyone else. That you weren’t frightened all the time does not mean you were not alone and isolated, of course you were, you’re suffering a trauma identical to mine. It’s incredibly painful mate, being isolated and alone, I know it, it’s okay to feel pain, it really is. It’s even more okay to express it.
Buddy, Patrick, Moughenda, please, pretty pretty please listen. Acceptance of a broken heart is all that is required, not the fixing of it. It is not possible, not when one cannot grieve, is forced not to express the emotion behind the acceptace.
I would love to finish this heading here, never come back to it, or if I do in a different way, that would be really nice.
Thanks for your time Moughenda.
Your friend,
Frederick Nortje