Healing in Pisac

That evening, I cram into a collectivo (shared taxi) heading along the steep mountain road to Pisac. My destination is Paz y Luz (Peace and Light) Healing Centre on the banks of the Rio Urubamba. Pisac is visited mainly for its Incan citadel and Sunday market, both set among magnificent, sacred mountains known as apus: the most powerful Andean nature spirits. Pisac’s other major drawcard is its blossoming healing scene, less commercial than Cusco’s and self-monitored by the fact that everyone here knows everyone. Avoiding a puddle as big as a baby pool, our collectivo veers right and comes close to tumbling us into the river, which is full and moving fast, sinuous in the darkness. It’s a relief to see cheerful Paz y Luz caretaker Julian, from the UK, one of several foreign healers now based in Pisac. Julian wisely advises me to focus on my ayahuasca “intention”; to clarify why I am drinking.

Morning at Paz y Luz is breathtaking. The mist-enshrouded mountains press in intimately, maize sways in the breeze and Pisac’s glorious citadel looms above the property. After breakfast I begin my fast — stomachs must be empty for ayahuasca — and visit the citadel. The Incans travelled around ceremonially “testing” different apus until they found the perfect mountain to build on, my cab drivers says. “So here is full of good spirits and energy,” he concludes proudly.

The panoramic views from the citadel along the Sacred Valley rival the ruins themselves. At a crevice in a rocky overhang I leave an offering to the apu of raisins and coca leaves. In the Andes, offerings to pachamama are not tokenistic; they are part of the principle of ayni, meaning reciprocity or give and take. Andeans are aware that what they take from pachamama, they must return. For myself, I hope the offering will shake my feeling that the mountains are too close, trapping me with my unsettled thoughts about ayahuasca. It doesn’t but that afternoon I meet Paz y Luz’s second resident shaman, Javier, who helps explain my disquiet.

“Pisac is a powerful place. The energies of the Amazon flow to the Sacred Valley through the river. Then the energies of the glaciers come down and they all mingle here.” After finishing his shamanic training in Iquitos, Swiss-born Javier built a house and a diamond-shaped ayahuasca temple and began amassing a year-round clientele. All ayahuasca ceremonies are different, he explains. “Diego lifts you up and what happens from there, happens. Whereas I take you down first.” He pauses, perhaps knowing how ominous this sounds. “Ayahuasca is not entertainment, it’s a place to heal and expand. People come for guidance but ayahuasca is not a crystal ball. Instead of saying ‘What’s my path?’ I suggest people ask ‘How can I release things preventing me from stepping into my future?’”

The ayahuasca spirit

When I arrive at Diego’s property at 7pm he is making final preparations in the temple as his wife Milagros offers us coca tea. There are 30 people participating tonight: young, old, singles, couples, talkative, quiet, newcomers and those returning. At 8.45pm Diego enters. Tall and gaunt with a shaved head and deep-brown eyes, he surveys the group calmly as a hush settles over us. “Welcome,” he says. “A moment ago you were all talking in separate circles. Now we’re together as one family.” As he says it, it feels true and my nervousness melts away.

Diego explains the ceremony. About keeping a “noble silence” — “You’ll all be very sensitive to noises, so it’s not a talking ceremony.” About respecting people’s journey — “If someone is crying or laughing, don’t console them; let them work through it.” About breathing — “Use your breath to invite ayahuasca to work.” About vomiting — “We’ve got childhood memories that vomiting is bad. Let go of those memories now.” Finally, about it ending — “You won’t be caught in the middle. It will end.”

We file into the temple and sit on pillows around the rim, each with our own bucket. Diego kneels at his simple floor altar, lights some palo santo (scented ceremonial wood) and blows it around the circle. The wood glows red and above it his eyes gleam. He asks the apus for their permission and protection and invites the teacher spirits to guide us. The circle drinks, one at a time. I am fifth. I kneel on the cushion, heart pounding. Diego beams as he passes me the soapstone cup. I take it with both hands and my intention comes to me clearly.

Soon the lights are off. My first visions are faint — reptilian hands, purple and scaly, gesturing me towards a dark staircase. I resist them, feeling fearful. Fractal patterns, billowing shapes and colours I can’t describe. I get light-headed and lose track of time and my body. I see religious men at work, a very long time ago. It’s not a hallucination — more like a waking dream. The men are in robes, praying, fixing something, or writing. Their backs are turned, unaware I am there. I am insubstantial, a spirit of pure observation.

Suddenly, a boy running. The scene is drenched in orange, deep yellow, ochre, and red. He has a slim, naked, Aboriginal body and is in the distance with his back to me. He has no face. It’s the beginning of time, or the end of time, I don’t know which. Again, this is not something I am just seeing. I am there. But also I’m not there. In this place, there’s nowhere to be. He runs on the edge of a spinning orb that is the world, or the cosmos, and somehow I know he is the essence of forward movement, of time and of life. It’s the most direct, pure and spiritual thing I have ever experienced. It’s also the most terrifying as the vision is suffused with utter neutrality. There’s no love, hate, fear, nothing. Just time, the colours, the orb and the boy. Then he’s gone.

All around me, people are vomiting. But the songs! Beautiful! Diego and his helpers perform chants, mantras, icaros and folk songs, wistful inhaled rhythms and throat singing. I’m overcome by bliss, a feeling of complete oneness with the circle. Finally, Diego lights a candle and it’s over. It’s 2am. People look dishevelled, exhausted and happy, except for a woman who can’t stop crying. I return to Paz y Luz and through my fatigue I feel lighter. The mountains, the stars and the moon press in around my flesh.

Two days later, I return to Diego’s temple and hear about the transformations he’s seen. “It’s a catharsis in people that goes right to the core. Ayahuasca lets you zoom out from reality and dispel things and, once you empty your glass, new things arrive.” Like Javier, Diego adapts jungle ceremonies to fit the Western mentality. “There can be a lack of philosophy and lots of competition in the jungle. It’s a really wild environment. In the Sacred Valley we transcend that and focus on the process of awakening and transformation.” And many are coming — Diego’s ceremonies are often full, so he’s bought land in Pisac to start a community. “We’re going to build a temple for 120 people in the next five years. It’s growing.”

My feeling of lightness continues, like something has lifted, and I realise my fear of the mountains is gone. I am welcomed by the same apus that before had entrapped me. But was it the mountains I had feared, or myself, laid bare by ayahuasca’s truths? In Keepers of the Ancient Wisdom, Joan Wilcox writes, “To understand the Andean perspective one must first attempt to see through [Andean] eyes and feel with their hearts a nature that is alive and responsive, in which spirit suffuses the physical world, from the highest snow-capped peak to the deepest vine-entangled jungle.” Diego’s words had come true. I had transcended my role as a journalist in the Sacred Valley and, now, like the Andeans, can see spirit reflected in the physical world: ayahuasca’s gift to me.

When to go: Dry season (Jul–Sept) makes hiking and visiting ruins easier but accommodation and ayahuasca ceremonies will be busy.

Wet season (Dec–Mar) means few tourists and bargain rates but check that your shaman is in town and roads are open. Australians don’t need visas.