The moonlight poured through the windows of the dark room like a knowing smile. It was just enough light to make out the shadows: people shifting quietly, a hand wiping away tears, someone hunched forward, caught mid-revelation. There were about twenty of us, sitting on mats, wrapped in blankets, waiting for whatever the night—and the ayahuasca—had in store.
In this tapestry of stillness, my friend Isla was assigned a task of great importance: to guard the gate.
Now, “to guard the gate” in an ayahuasca ceremony has nothing to do with locks or keys. It simply means keeping track of who goes out to the toilet and making sure they come back. Sounds easy, right? Unless, of course, you’re on ayahuasca. And it was Isla who was given this honorable, yet… let’s say, challenging role. A bit like asking someone to photograph a waterfall while blindfolded.
The shaman, a man of few words and many secrets, handed Isla this task with a knowing nod. I swear I saw a sparkle in his eyes, as if he knew exactly how this would go.
“Isla, tonight you will guard the gate.”
Her eyes widened with solemn purpose. Isla, so efficient and commanding in her daily life, took on this role as if she had been crowned Queen of the Night. And me? I believed in her. Well, at least for that brief moment.
But the “normal” world had already left the building.
The shaman’s voice broke the silence: “The first cup is ready. Please come forward.”
We moved forward one by one, some reverent, some hesitant, others already looking a little lost. Isla stood with confidence, walked to the shaman, accepted her cup with a bowed head, and returned to her mat. For now, she was upright and functional.
The medicine affects everyone differently. For me, it began as gentle ripples—the edges blurred, colors seemed to shift. But Isla? Isla began to unravel.
One moment, she was laughing. Not just laughing—howling. A full-bellied, tear-streaming laugh, as if someone had whispered the universe’s greatest joke in her ear. The next moment, she was crying—deep, gut-wrenching sobs as if her soul were leaking out. It was as if she had a direct line to every emotion ever felt. She was a human rollercoaster of discovery.
“Second round. If you’d like to drink again, please come forward,” the shaman called.
The room grew heavier. The energy had shifted—the medicine had taken root. I glanced at Isla, who was trying to stand as though she were still in a normal room. But gravity—or perhaps the ayahuasca—had other plans. Slowly, she sank to her hands and knees.
“Fair enough,” I thought. “Crawling counts too.”
With a determination that was almost touching, Isla crawled forward. Her hair hung in her face, and she moved like someone either searching for something important or on the verge of giving up. If you ignored the sacred setting, you might have thought she was looking for lost keys.
The shaman watched her with a faint smile.
“Good,” he murmured, as if her crawling had met some ancient standard.
On her slow journey back, the shaman offered rapé—the sacred tobacco blend that clears the mind.
“If you seek clarity, come forward,” he said.
From her mat, Isla’s hand shot up like an eager student’s.
“Oh no,” I thought.
And so she crawled back to the shaman. He blew the rapé into her nostrils. The reaction was immediate: Isla sneezed so violently I half expected her soul to shoot straight out of her nose.
She froze on all fours, utterly still. A rock in the river.
After this second round, as the medicine sank deeper into her body and mind, Isla returned to her mat on all fours. People came and went to the toilet, but Isla noticed none of it. Her thoughts were too far away, her focus entirely on the world within. The shaman, of course, noticed. He always notices. He turned to me and nodded with amusement.
“You guard the gate now,” he said.
I sighed, stepping into my new role like a reluctant soldier. Isla laughed, cried, and unraveled further in her corner, unaware she had just been relieved of her duties.
The room had sunk deep into ceremony. The shaman’s voice merged with the sound of breaths, sighs, and murmurs. Most people were motionless. I thought Isla had surrendered.
But when the shaman called: “Third cup. Please come forward,” Isla began to move.
Slowly. Her arms stretched forward. Her body followed—not crawling, but slithering. Her hips swayed. Her spine rippled in a wave-like motion. She wasn’t moving like a person anymore.
She crawled like a snake—slow, fluid, and with a grace that was both hypnotic and unintentionally comedic. It was hard to tell whether she had completely surrendered to the medicine or simply felt one with the floor.
The shaman watched her approach, a faint smile on his lips.
“The serpent knows its path,” he said softly.
I had no idea what he meant, but it sounded profound.
As the first rays of dawn crept into the room, the ceremony came to a close. The shaman approached Isla.
“Good work tonight,” he said.
Isla nodded slowly, her eyes still half in another world.
And me? I sat there, grinning. Because sometimes, it’s the ones who fail to guard the gate who travel the farthest through it.
Would I ever tell Isla how she looked, gliding across the floor like a playful river otter under the moonlight? Absolutely not.
Some things are best left to the moonlight. And Isla, as much as she didn’t guard the gate, was unquestionably part of it that night.
Leave a Reply