Jungle Tripping

Tuesday 16 June, 2009


8.15am: We wake early, to the sounds of various chirrupings and squawkings. The jungle is a noisy place. I am sleeping on the top floor of a wooden cabaña, the walls entirely made of netting and only half-covered by short curtains. Thanks to the jungle canopy though, it's not too bright and is still cool from the heavy rainfall overnight. I am sharing a room with two girls, Canadian and German, and next door are the three boys. The six of us have come on a weekend trip to the Mexican jungle in the southermost state of Chiapas, to visit the Mayan ruins of Palenque. We want to get there early, because we know from our arrival the previous day that the rest of the day is going to be humid as hell and we're not going to want to make any effort to do anything whatsoever. (Cut to us lying prone on our beds staring at the ceiling fan slowly rotating as though in a trance.)

9am: Have an absolutely enormous breakfast of hotcakes and fruit salad. The Canadians have been talking up magic mushrooms and we have all decided to do them together while we're here. Why wouldn't we? Upon our arrival yesterday Mark got roped into a conversation with an old American man who was clearly residing on another planet. Highlight: Him telling Mark that the next person in space will be an acrobat sent out there to solve Earth's water problem. We all agree that we want what he's having.

9.45am: Jeanine organises something mushroom-related with the mysterious firetwirler from the night before, and we set off to the ruins, ready to get some culture in before we party. All of a sudden Mark starts stomping on his own feet. "It's these freaking red ants, man. The crazy guy from last night warned me about them; it's the only thing he said that made sense. They climb up onto you and call their little ant friends, and then when they arrive they bite you all together. It's brutal." Oh. I am so glad I asked, since the only footwear I decided to bring with me was thongs. Spend the next hour studying the ground on high ant alert.

11am: Arrive at the ruins. Totally not early. Jeanine and I opt for a tour, and the others go off to explore on their own. As the tour guide wrangler pointed out with some scorn, we didn't come all the way to Mexico to choose NOT to learn more about Mexican history and culture. Our guide is awesome and shows us a small plant with purple flowers and dark green leaves. If you stroke it it closes itself up and plays dead. Excellent evolutionary tactic. It is called dormilona - the sleeping one.

We also see an enormous tree, with branches growing horizontally. This ceiba tree is the Mayan tree of life, representing the nine stages to heaven and seven stages to the underworld. A lot easier to get to the underworld than heaven, as per usual. This tree is at least fifteen metres tall and only seven years old. That's what you get when you grow in Mexico's rainiest state, tree!

11.30am: Check out the ruins. I was feeling pretty ruined out before I got here, having seen some incredible ruins in Peru and some less incredible ones in other parts of Mex - you stop appreciating them after a while. Palenque, however, is awesome. It is located deep in the jungle and thus gets far fewer visitors than other Mayan sites around the country, which is great for us because it means we can appreciate it without ten thousand other tourists getting in the way. Only fifteen percent of the ruins have been excavated and there is too much to see, really - I can only imagine what the other 85% must be like, deep in the jungle and swathed in vines.

11.45am: It is stinking hot, I am covered in sweat, and feeling dizzy. The guide's gruesome stories of blood sacrifices are not helping. Apparently Mayan women would pierce a hole through their tongue and pull a barbed metal hook through it, along with a metre or so of rope, to produce enough blood to offer the gods, mixed with herbs. This mixture would then be steamed until a figure of a snake rose out of the dish, opening its mouth to reveal the gods so they could commune. How one is supposed to chat with a barbed hook in their tongue is beyond me, and I need to sit down for a bit. Blergh. How am I going to have mushrooms? My head is spinning enough without seeing little green men dancing through the vines.

1pm: We decide to be active and walk the three or four kilometres back to the jungle compound, El Panchán. This is a known hideout of Mexican hippies, artists, archeologists, and travellers. It's an enormous jungle property with cabañas scattered throughout, and a very chilled out restaurant/bar scene with live music every night. After five minutes of walking I give up and jump into a minibus, having tossed up 90 cents for the ride versus an hour of walking in the sweaty shadeless sun. Bye guys! The minute I get into the van the driver turns to me and offers, "mushrooms?"

5pm: We are all showered and rested. The cultural part of our day is complete, and we are keen to get our night started. Champiñones are everywhere around here, and pretty much everyone is on it, including Jeanine's tattoo artist who will be designing her new tattoo for the next day while high, something she felt free to share with her new client. Mark says that the last time he took mushrooms, he was as high as a kite from 9pm to 6am so we want to get going earlier. Not sure how I feel about hallucinating creepy jungle creatures in the dark. I have enough problems going to brush my teeth with the spiders and lizards.

6pm: Problem: Mushroom-selling Firetwirler is nowhere to be found.

7pm: Firetwirler is still nowhere to be found, conveniently, and with all Jeanine's money, too. Decide to take matters into our own hands and not wait for him any longer.

7.10pm: In this hippy commune it is all too easy to find someone to buy mushrooms from, albeit at double the price. While the Canadians are negotiating in broken Spanish, I am distracted by a jewellery seller selling hideous wooden necklaces with mushrooms carved on them. "Mushrooms! See?" he says proudly, having heard us asking around. He tries to convince me to buy one. Sorry buddy, but we want champiñones, hongos, fungi, okay? Not some crappy hippy art. You would HAVE to be high to find these things attractive. On second thought, maybe that's how he's making his money.

7.15pm: Find a Mexican Jack Sparrow with long curly hair, beard and mo, a porkpie hat, and ninja turtle feet boots. Eyes twinkling, he tells us his name is Quetzal, like the sacred bird (and the Guatemalan currency). He tells us that he has mushrooms at his house, and three of us go with him. Passig through the compound, he has a greeting and a wave for everyone. "Hey hombre"... "Hey hermana..." We walk outside to the bus stop on the jungle road and he chats with a pregnant woman ("Hola, mama de la tierra!"). A fat toothless guy with singlet armholes down to his waist to better show off his Grim Reaper tattoo smiles at us. "Champiñones, wey!" Are we that obvious? Yes we are.

7.20pm: We get out of the taxi and walk up a gravel path to Quetzal's house. Out of nowhere, we are accosted by three enormous slavering beasts. According to Quetzal, these are "a very rare breed, magical hairless Mexican dogs revered by the Maya and Aztecs." They look like enraged naked Dobermans and they snarl and bark at us, following us up the path. I have a problem with scary Latino street dogs, after a savage attack by a deranged cocker spaniel back in Chile. Try to control my fear so they don't smell it and tear me to bits. It's hard.

7.25pm: Quetzal's place. It is basically the skeleton of a house. The downstairs consists of a concrete floor scattered with seeds, for some mysterious untold purpose, and a ladder to the loft. The loft consists of a straw mat, a hammock, a lamp, and an A3-sized piece of paper covered with a few dozen drying mushrooms. The man lives simply, getting high and making art. "I built this house with a guy from Quebec," he tells us vaguely, before getting down to business. As we leave, he gives us each a mango. "The sweetness is a catalyst, eat it with the mushrooms for maximum effect," he says.

7.45pm: No car will stop for us. Despite Quetzal knowing everyone in town, they simply whoosh past with a wave. Maybe it's us. Probably it's us. We reluctantly start walking down the highway praying that it won't rain on us, at least. Right then, the Grim Reaper pulls up in a blue ute. We pile in the tray like Mexicans and hoon home, giggling at the pretty pink full moon as the sun sets. We're not even high yet.

7.50pm: We all pile out of the ute. The Grim Reaper shiftily hides something under his singlet as we pass reception, and then moves it to his pocket. It's a bag of weed as big as my head. Yeah, wey! Looks like we're not the only ones with big plans.

8.15pm: Sit down with the others and prepare to consume. The mushrooms are very earthy and have tiny little black bugs crawling on them. Ew. Do my best to wipe them off. They are disturbingly crunchy with dirt. The things people do... Four of us chomp down and decide to pass the time at the bar waiting for them to kick in, which should take half an hour or so. "Oh, and if you get gut rot, don't worry, just go with it," Jeanine says helpfully. Great, gut rot. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

10.15pm: We are sitting in the big open restaurant, watching the band and waiting. It has been two hours and we all have to admit that these mushrooms are total duds. What a disappointment. Although I have been compulsively drumming on a ketchup bottle with my knife and fork... but can't call that "tripping". Not happy. The firetwirler still has our money and has the gall to walk past us and nod hello and deliver nothing. Outrage! He is wearing a cape. Mark says, "I never trust anyone with a cape, man! You guys were all, oh, he seems so genuine, and now look. Cape. And what do we get? Nada."

10.30pm: After sending sweet Angelo to play bad cop and apply some pressure, we finally get our new batch of mushrooms from the firetwirler. Back in the cabaña we unroll a strip of purple fabric to find a mass of white and black fungi and, inexplicably, two chess pieces - a white queen and a black pawn.

10.35pm: Discuss the significance of the chess pieces.

10.40pm: Get eating. These mushrooms are much tastier, like normal raw mushrooms and blissfully free of both bugs and crunch. Head back to the restaurant and watch the firetwirler perform. He is good.

11.15pm: Start to feel very heavy-headed and drunk. Wonder if I should have had that beer and tequila shot earlier. Jeanine looks the way I feel, kind of slack-mouthed and fluffy-headed. "It's coming," she says slowly. Finding it hard to lift my hands up... so heavy... slump into my seat.

11.17pm (all times from now total approximations): I grin at something Mark says and start laughing. And laughing and laughing. It is compulsive and unstoppable and I am gasping and crying. The mushrooms have hit me full force, and taken me entirely by surprise. The others think I am having a bad trip and I can't get enough air to tell them that it's all good. My nose is running and I find this the most hysterical thing in the world. It takes me about ten full minutes to get the first laughing jag under control. Why is everything so funny? "There she goes," says Mark. Mark, you are so hilarious! I giggle and try to stop laughing but it's impossible.

11.30pm: Jeanine is having a very bad trip. She's slumped in her seat with a massive headache. Mark is trying to talk her up out of it but it's not working. Maybe the double dose has had an adverse reaction? I find her downness extremely amusing. People have more or less stopped talking to me and are just letting me chuckle to myself. In between gigling fits I try to lift my hands up but they're too heavy which makes me laugh all the more.

11.40pm: Angelo is compulsively burning limes in the candle. Dustin is feeling nothing but is his usually upbeat self. I am still giggling. "Stop laughing!" Angelo commands me. "You're so out of it. I'm babysitting you right now." The thought of Angelo as my babysitter sets me off on a laughing spurt of several minutes. Halfway through, the becaped firetwirler glides over and looks at me with a raised eyebrow. "Yeah," says Angelo wearily.

12am: The bar is closing and Jeanine has gone to bed. Jessica has gone with her. I am still giggling and seeing some seriously weird shit in one of the murals. Lovely Dustin is keeping me company and indulging my ridiculous babble, trying to see what I see. What little there was of Angelo's high has worn off and he is sitting there smoking slowly. I am still crying from laughter and there is a huge pile of used napkins in front of me.

12.15am: It is sprinkling with rain, the main downpour of the night done with, and the boys take me for a jungle stroll. I have regressed to the age of an overly-articulate six year old, stomping through puddles and muttering to myself. I coo repeatedly at a sparkling trail of fish that I see every time we cross one of the stream bridges. "Fish! Fish!" So pretty. "That's just muddy rainwater," says long-suffering Dustin.

12.20am: We decide to find the Full Moon party that both our mushroom suppliers had mentioned. We head out onto the road and turn down a fairy-lit driveway. It is still sprinkling lightly and I am still spouting complete nonsense. We follow the trail all the way around through a deserted campground and see lights up ahead. Don't get excited, it's just the toilet block. Which is populated by spiders, beetles and giant moths having a party of their own. The jungle is so creepy. "Man, you guys take me to the nicest places," I comment. I have taken to calling everyone "man", like some kind of comic book stoner. "I wish you could see what I see, man," I say to nobody in particular. After two more false alarms arriving in parking lots and more toilets we have to admit to ourselves that there might be a party somewhere, but it's not here.

12.30am: We start walking down the road towards the ruins, some four kilometres away. The sky is grey and luminous at this hour. The jungle curves away from the road on both sides and from within comes a cacophony of noise. That's where the real party is, amidst the unseen croaking honking hoardes of frogs and toads. We walk for a long time and it is beautiful.

12.50am: A car come towards us and its headlights throw Angelo and Mark up ahead into shadowy relief through the mist. I notice a single tree with no leaves and stand transfixed for a while. Dustin doesn't seem to be as amazed by a jungle tree with no leaves, like I am. What's the deal, man? It's like magic!

1.10am: We finally hear music in the distance and come upon the party. This is so not the mere two hundred metres away that we were told. Humpf. And what a downer - less than thirty people, mostly old guys, sitting at an outdoor bar and a few people on the dance floor salsaing. "This is crap," I announce loudly. I'm wet and bedraggled and stumble off to the toilet where a lizard watches me pee. "Hi, man, keep up the good work," I say to him.

1.20am: Quetzal approaches us. "How are you doing?" he asks earnestly. I decide to be honest. "We felt nothing from yours so we got more and now I'm great. Not them, though," I indicate the boys. He looks perplexed. Probably at my slurred Spanish. "Hmmm. Wait a momentito," he says and walks off with purpose. He never comes back. A few minutes later I see him dancing unconcernedly with a lady friend. Double humpf.

1.25am: "We're the only non-Mexican people here," Dustin observes. "Fuck that, man, I'm enjoying it," says drunk Mark, who is salsaing in his seat. "How do you not want to DANCE to this music?" He demands. "Yeah," I pipe up, "We were invited by a Mexican Jack Sparrow in turtle boots AND a cape-wearing firetwirler, we have every right to be here!" Feeling crap though. No longer laughing at absolutely everything. Have a headache. Think it's time to leave this stupid party.

1.30am: Dustin and I walk home down the highway past the frog symphony. Our epic walk to the party only takes us about fifteen minutes back. Time seems to have bent back towards normal.

2am: Jeanine is awake. "I'm still high," she moans. It's still not good. "Can I have some water?"

2.15am: Lie there listening to the jungle noises and watch the ceiling fan spin lazily. Somewhere up there in our reed roofing is an enormous spider. Can't sleep. Would like to end with a "drugs are bad, mmkay" moral but the truth of it is that I had a great time and I wake up tomorrow feeling fine. I don't yet know about the small army of red ants that have joined forces to ferociously bite my right foot. For now, ignorance is bliss.