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We offered red wine and juice to the spirits. I was on high alert, trying to stay tuned to the details but also driven by fear of the unknown. Gina said, later, that her adrenaline was pumping. We were stripped naked and dressed in large pieces of black fabric that the crew tied, tightly, around our bodies. We were led into the middle of the red river, up to our chests. The men washed me with handfuls of herbs and grass that smelled incredible, while the women washed Gina.
They scrubbed us and then shoved the herbs into our own hands, with instructions to wash ourselves and throw the concoction over our heads, behind us, when finished. They guided us to dive under the water and rinse ourselves, clean. It was the first of many bathing ceremonies we would have throughout the week. Gina had her chest covered, like a robe, mine was bare. They took handfuls of deep red bark and painted our arms, legs, faces and- in my case- chest. They produced beautiful crowns of vibrant green vines that were placed on our heads, showering verdant fragrances over us. These became sacred items that we wore the rest of our time as banzis pre-initiates.
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I could feel the spoonful of iboga working in me, washing over me, in waves. It had a stimulant effect that I was particularly sensitive to and I felt dizzy. I could see the visual effects as my mind played tricks on me in the forest. Iboga has peculiar effects on the body, causing the joints and muscles to stiffen with a condition called ataxia , which is literally a disruption between the brain and the signals it sends the body to move.
In flood doses, it can cause complete paralysis. I felt my body constrict and get crunchy and I had to remind myself to stay open and breathe.
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Many times in psychedelic experiences, I have gotten very self-critical and hard on myself. I felt some of that arise and tried to keep it from spiraling out. I felt silly doing it the couple times I accidentally looked back but I knew how serious this all was and there was no way I was going to temp the spirits.
My heart was racing and I felt the high voltage of fear, exhilaration, and immense, unreal, indescribable beauty, coursing through me.
I got a glimpse, as I have occasionally received in other medicine experiences, of divine gratitude for the struggle and suffering that led me there. I thought of our loved ones back home who were worried about us and I wanted to share that moment with Annie- me, deep in a forest in Gabon, approaching my healing with the heart of a warrior. We spent the next couple of days participating in various ceremonies and rituals, each rich in detail and texture and steeped in meaning.
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There was the bucket ceremony where we prepared a concoction of bright-smelling herbs and leaves that we let soak overnight in the temple- each placed within a circle of chalk- and then bathed with. As the members of our crew chanted, I reflected on what it might mean to truly forgive myself, to bring all parts of myself into the circle. I thought about what that might look like- truly- to leave no part of me behind.
Sixty years after independence Gabon still a ‘home’ for French | African Migrants In Europe
During those early days on the compound, we became enamored by the quirks of its residents. There was a tiny puppy named Maron who we saw grow up before our eyes, from suckling to chewing on our fingertips. There was a small parrot named Jolie Coeur who had chewed all of her feathers out from stress. There was also a young woman, named Nege, who Yo had taken under his wing as she had run astray in the underworld of Libreville and, apparently, was making money doing what she had to, to survive. She had a wild and frenetic energy that suggested she had become comfortable in some pretty rough situations.
She would throw greetings to us from across the compound as she came and went, sometimes disappearing for a couple days at a time. I felt the impact of realizing how much of my identity is carved, in the Western world, from aesthetic presentation of clothes, haircut, car I drive, etc. In Africa, I did not have the benefit of that facade. In fact, there were certain things that I realized I actively hid in my normal life, that were, now, hanging out for all to see. I have a scar on my leg from a dark night when I accidentally burned myself, while unconscious.
It is a small, ugly reminder that I would rather not see. I found myself, there in Africa, with no option but to see it, daily, and have it exposed to others. No part of me outside the circle, no part of me left behind. There was a purging ceremony where we were bathed and then covered in white chalk and painted with a single, bold red line that went from our belly buttons, up our chests, up our throats, up our faces, and landed at the top of our heads.
We knelt over empty buckets as ounce mason jars were filled from a stew of acidic green liquid that had been brewing all night over a fire. It tasted like cactus as I started to drink it. I made it almost to the bottom of the jar when I began to throw up with deep, guttural stomach convulsions, as the body tried to expel what it saw as poison. He had the lean energy of a hyena and he approached these ceremonies with the seriousness of a drill instructor.
After heavy puking, I was surprised to see him fill my mason jar back up to the top and hand it back to me. After another round of purging, Pemba finally tipped our buckets to look at their contents, with a torch. Yo later explained that Pemba was looking to see how much we could purge- to determine how much iboga it was safe to give us on initiation night. In the afternoons, daily thunderstorms descended on us.
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The dark clouds moved in and hammered the hot ground with rain and mighty cracks and booms in the sky for a couple hours before they moved on, leaving steam to rise as the sun broke through again. I had a lot of time to sit alone with mother Africa, as I journaled, watched the rain, and thought about everything that had brought me there. Even in its most moderate amount before our forest hike, I had felt the medicine work on me and I had felt my ego start to push back. I had felt my usual fears around abandonment get loud.