Dreamtime to Jungle Time: Seeking the Numinous in the Amazon
It all started in a dream…
About five years ago, I had a profound dream—one of those rare visitations that carry a resonance beyond the personal. Having worked with dreams for more than thirty years, I’ve come to recognise the ones that speak with a deeper voice. This was unquestionably one of them.
In the dream, I encountered a man who was to introduce me to a shaman from the jungle, someone who would be arriving soon. The man told me his name, which translated into English meant Tomek the Little Deer. The shaman never appeared—the dream ended before his arrival. But the encounter was enough. I woke knowing something significant had been set in motion.
Some time later, to my astonishment, I met him. During the pandemic, I attended the online launch of the Scottish Psychedelic Research Group—an organisation I had helped to found—and there he was. His name was indeed Tomek. He spoke about his time in Peru and his plans to create a retreat centre there. His surname wasn’t “The Little Deer,” of course, but the resonance was clear. I began to call him by the name from the dream. Since then, to everyone I’ve introduced him to, he has been Tomek the Little Deer.
The reconnaissance
Over time, through many conversations, we discovered a shared understanding of human existence, including the potential of psychedelics to facilitate a connection with the Numinous. Tomek’s approach to the cultures and traditions he’s learned from resonated deeply with my own. He shares my aversion to the mindless commercialisation of sacred practices, recognising the inherent dangers of “psychedelic tourism.” We are both committed to doing things the right way—emphasising deep respect, reciprocity, and a dedication to protecting the wisdom of indigenous peoples. Our aim is to create a bridge between these ancient ways and the modern world, offering opportunities for learning, understanding, and personal transformation while upholding the sanctity of these traditions. Sustainability and genuine partnership are at the heart of our approach.
Tomek is an experienced facilitator of ayahuasca ceremonies, having learned traditional ways of working with plants from various shamans. He spent years in South America and elsewhere, studying different methods across several traditions.
Tomek has since realised his vision—building a small retreat centre in the jungle with the help of friends. Although ayahuasca isn’t central to my own numinous path, we decided to collaborate and organised our first retreat at his centre. It was, in many ways, a reconnaissance mission: a chance to explore the potential for working together, to learn from one another, and to deepen our understanding of the Numinous in this context.
Our group in January consisted of seven adults and one six-year-old child. Naturally, the presence of a young child in such an intense environment raised concerns for some of us, particularly around safety and well-being. But Tomek, who knew the location intimately and had already built a strong relationship with the local community, convinced us of the child’s safety. In the end, she thrived in the jungle setting—well cared for, happy, and fully integrated into the rhythm of our shared experience.
That was the beginning of a remarkable adventure—one that continues to unfold.
The Centre
Reaching Tomek’s retreat requires a journey by boat along the Amazon River—the only way in or out of this secluded haven. For a city dweller like myself, navigating this “river of rivers” was an adventure in itself. The vast, serpentine flow of water, fringed by thick green forest, offers a magnificent and humbling introduction to the rainforest’s mystery. It’s a slow, sensory shift—one that prepares you, quietly, for a different rhythm of being.
After countless hours of air travel, we finally arrived—and were met with the gift of fresh coconuts, cracked open by hand. Lura and Lester, the warm and welcoming couple who live in the nearby village of Tamashiyaku, greeted us with wide smiles and generous hearts. Their two sons, Pietro and Lester Jr., hovered nearby, shy at first but full of curiosity. This family has become an integral part of the centre’s life and evolution, their presence woven into the land and its unfolding story.
We were also welcomed by Piña, a small, affectionate dog with a clear preference for human company. She made her rounds between us, offering companionship with quiet loyalty.
Just before our arrival, Tomek and Lester had completed the construction of new huts for our group. These structures were simple but thoughtfully designed, built to draw us into deeper communion with the natural world. Rather than solid walls, the huts were enclosed with fine mosquito netting—transparent thresholds that kept us protected while allowing the forest in. We could hear the night sounds, feel the breeze, and watch the morning mist rise through the trees without ever leaving our beds. This openness gave the sense of sleeping not in the jungle, but with it.
And sleep in the jungle is an art in itself. The jungle doesn’t quiet down at night—if anything, it becomes more alive. Insects, frogs, monkeys, and many other unseen creatures filled the dark with an overwhelming chorus of sound. At first, it was disorienting. My amygdala was in overdrive, reacting to every unknown noise. That primal part of the brain, tuned for danger, lit up in the face of the unfamiliar. But eventually, exhaustion overcame vigilance, and I dropped into a long, deep sleep.
The centre itself was basic but well-considered. One detail we all appreciated: proper flush toilets with familiar seats. After the journey and the sudden adjustment to jungle life, this small comfort made a big difference.
This was no polished retreat resort, and that was exactly the point. It was a place built with care and respect—for the land, for the people, and for the work. A place where the forest isn’t just background, but part of the process.
The Jungle
We weren’t interested in fleeting “psychedelic tourism”—simply drinking ayahuasca and leaving. We came seeking a genuine relationship with Grandmother Ayahuasca, the spirit of the vine and the protector of the forest. Our hope was not for spectacle, but for insight. Not for escape, but for a deepened sense of connection to nature and to the living world we so often forget we are part of.
Tomek had arranged something special for us: a journey deep into the rainforest with a local herbalist. It would not be a retreat from the work, but a continuation of it—another way of listening.
Eduardo, our guide, arrived in the morning. As we prepared to leave, Monika apologised for our delay—only to be met with smiles from Eduardo and Lester. Here, time moves differently. Our Western anxiety over fifteen minutes means little in a place where “late” simply doesn’t exist. “Everything happens in its own time,” Lester explained. Even the famous Spanish mañana feels rushed compared to this pace. I found it strangely comforting. A whole culture organised not around urgency, but trust.
Piña, ever our loyal companion, decided to come along—trotting fearlessly ahead with a tail full of purpose.
At the forest’s edge, we stopped. Eduardo told us we had to ask permission before entering. This wasn’t a metaphor. It was protocol. A practice rooted in respect. He lit mapacho, a local tobacco revered for both its ceremonial and practical powers, and gently blew smoke into the trees. We stood silently as the offering rose. Only when Chullachaqui, the guardian of all plants, had been honoured, did we cross the threshold.
Inside, the jungle was dense and alive. There were no clear paths—just movement through thick vegetation. Every so often, Eduardo or Lester pointed something out: a tree used for kidney problems, a plant that supports the liver. This wasn’t textbook knowledge. It was lived experience—passed down, used, and remembered. This wasn’t a list of ingredients, but a living web of interconnections, learned through generations. But this knowledge is disappearing. Eduardo told us younger generations are no longer learning it. Much of this plant wisdom is already being lost. He’s one of the few still carrying it, and he worries about what happens when it’s gone.
His own story held this truth. Years ago, diagnosed with diabetes, Eduardo turned to Grandmother Ayahuasca for guidance. In a vision, she showed him a specific plant and instructed him to begin a dieta—a sacred practice where one isolates, purifies, and consumes a plant to learn from it directly. It’s not just about taking the plant—it’s about becoming quiet enough to hear what it has to say. Not theory, but relationship. Not trial and error, but communion.
And how else could ayahuasca have been discovered? A brew that requires two or more plants—one containing DMT, the other an MAO inhibitor—combined in just the right way, among some 80,000 species in the Amazon. It’s hard to believe this was the result of random experimentation. More likely, it was the result of listening—of dreams, visions, songs, and dialogue with the living forest.
Thanks to Eduardo and Lester, we didn’t just hear stories. We touched the plants. Smelled them. Tasted them. Learned what thirst feels like, and how a vine can answer it. This was the jungle as a teacher—not a backdrop, but a presence. One that asks not only to be seen, but to be known.
We wandered through the rainforest, over streams and small rivers, following Eduardo’s sure footsteps through terrain that shifted from soft earth to tangled roots to narrow, muddy tracks. It was an exhausting and demanding trip—physically challenging, mentally expansive. Our senses were stretched wide open.
And then, right on cue, the sky broke open.
It was the rainy season, and now we understood what that meant. A sudden, torrential downpour drenched us in seconds. There was no escaping it—only surrendering to it. We laughed, soaked and dripping, as the forest exhaled around us.
By the time we arrived back at the centre, we were tired, soaked to the bone, and utterly content. The jungle had welcomed us, tested us, and shared a glimpse of its living wisdom. We returned changed—washed not just by the rain, but by the experience itself.
The Amazon River
For someone like myself, visiting South America for the first time, there was no question—we had to journey up the river of rivers. This wasn’t just an adventure; it was a kind of pilgrimage. A deepening. Moving along the vast body of the Amazon felt like aligning with the pulse of the land itself. The river doesn’t rush—it flows with a vast, deliberate rhythm. Travelling it, you begin to slow down too. You begin to listen.
The river is massive and slow-moving, and spending time on it has a noticeable effect. Everything starts to slow down, including your own thoughts. The boat ride gave us a different perspective on the rainforest—dense greenery on both sides, occasional birds overhead, and the steady movement of water beneath us. But beneath the Amazon flows another, lesser-known river—the Hamza. This underground aquifer runs about 4 kilometres below the surface and follows a similar path to the Amazon. In some places, it stretches up to 400 kilometres wide, though it moves very slowly. Even if we can’t see it, knowing it’s there adds a different perspective—reminding us that there’s always another layer of reality, often hidden from view.
Along the way, we had some memorable encounters. Pink river dolphins appeared close to the boat, surfacing quietly before disappearing again. We also spotted a toucan’s nest high in the trees, and managed to get a glimpse of the birds themselves.
We stopped briefly on a small island where a local coconut farm was located. It was peaceful and quiet. We drank fresh coconut water straight from the source—a small but satisfying experience.
This journey wasn’t separate from our preparation. It helped us shift gears, adjust to the pace of the jungle, and begin connecting with the environment around us.
Tamshiyacu: Life, Dogs and Cacao
We took a trip to the nearby village of Tamshiyacu, a small riverside town that offers a glimpse into daily life in this part of the Amazon. Despite the visible poverty, people here seemed genuinely cheerful—present, grounded, and often smiling. There was a strong sense of community and rhythm to life that didn’t rely on material wealth.
For a dog lover like me—especially as someone with a beloved cocker spaniel, Abra, waiting for me back in Edinburgh—the street dogs were difficult to witness. Many were clearly unwell, suffering from conditions that would be easily treated back home, but here are simply part of the background. It was heartbreaking to see, especially knowing how preventable some of their suffering is.
Piña, the small dog who lives at the centre, is a noticeable exception. She’s not just tolerated—she’s part of the family. Loved, looked after, and clearly thriving, Piña seems to be everyone’s dog, moving from person to person with quiet confidence and receiving affection wherever she goes.
Tamshiyacu is also home to a local cacao initiative run by Lester and Laura, who produce small batches of organic cacao used in ritual. Their process is fully manual and deeply connected to the land—slow, deliberate, and grounded in respect. We brought some of their cacao with us, both to use and to support their work. It’s strong, earthy, and carries the taste of the jungle.
Later, we were surprised by a small but vibrant market. Locals from Tamshiyacu came to visit the centre, offering handmade crafts, jewellery, and textiles. We hadn’t expected such a turnout. The colours, designs, and intricate patterns all reflected a deep connection to the forest. These weren’t tourist souvenirs—they were expressions of cultural identity, each piece carrying meaning tied to plants, animals, and the spiritual world. It was a reminder of the richness held in these communities, even in the face of economic hardship.
The Shipibo
Maestra Celia and her son, Maestro Alessio, arrived in the afternoon to meet us for the first time. They introduced themselves and spoke briefly about their work, their heritage, and the Shipibo way. Celia is a shaman who lives nearby. She leads ceremonies with ayahuasca and also runs a small shop in Iquitos selling traditional arts and crafts made by her community.
She was slightly irritated about the cost of her boat journey. Lester laughed and explained that locals assumed she was a wealthy curandera, and so she was charged tourist rates. Apparently, taxing the rich is a universal concept.
Celia learned curanderismo from her father and has since passed that knowledge on to her son. She spoke at length about the deep relationship the Shipibo have with the plants of the jungle, especially ayahuasca. Mapacho, too, holds an important place in their practice—Celia smoked it constantly as she talked, with the air thickening gently around her.
We also learned about Shipibo art and the nearly forgotten practice of visionary weaving. In their tradition, weaving is not just craft—it’s sacred technology. The geometric patterns known as kené are not decorative; they carry meaning. These designs are visual expressions of icaros—the healing songs sung during ayahuasca ceremonies—and of visions received during those altered states. The fabrics function as spiritual tools: to protect, to heal, and to encode ancestral knowledge. Women are often the weavers, and they translate what is heard and seen into form—sound into pattern, vision into textile.
It was fascinating to listen to Celia speak about her people’s cosmology. Inevitably, it reflected a mix of traditional Shipibo beliefs and Christian influences—a clear example of Huxley’s perennial philosophy in action. The Shipibo ontology seemed to have adapted these foreign elements not through imposition, but by recognising their overlap with existing truths. At the centre of both systems lies a shared idea: the One, the source from which all things emerge—a concept easily translated into the Christian notion of the Creator. For Celia, these weren’t conflicting worldviews, but different ways of describing the same deep reality, made accessible through her experiences with ayahuasca.
For Celia, these are just different names for the same experience—an experience accessible through ayahuasca. Her explanations reminded me of my own approach. Frameworks are tools, not truths. They help us navigate the psychedelic landscape, but they’re not the terrain itself. What matters is not which system we use—Christian, indigenous—but whether it allows us to access the Numinous. The value lies in the experience, not the concept. And any system that opens the door is worth our attention.
The Ritual: Preparation for Ceremony
One cannot simply drink the sacred potion without proper ritual preparation.
In her tradition, Celia—our guide and guardian—led us through a ceremonial plant bath, an important step before working with ayahuasca. This was not just symbolic; it was a practical and meaningful part of the process.
Celia and her son, Alessio gathered various local plants, each selected for specific purposes. We were encouraged to help—stripping leaves, crushing stems, and mixing everything together. It was a quiet, focused activity that brought us into the moment and connected us with the preparation.
This cleansing wasn’t only about washing the body. It was about calming the mind, letting go of unnecessary tension, and creating a clear space—mentally and physically—for the ceremony ahead.
We also took part in a clay bath. Covering ourselves in local clay and letting it dry before rinsing off added another layer to the preparation. It was simple, but effective. Afterwards, we felt lighter, cleaner, and more ready to step into the ceremonial space.
The Vine
One of the major issues with psychedelic tourism is the exploitation of the vine itself. In many parts of Peru, it’s not uncommon for retreat centres to harvest ayahuasca indiscriminately, with little thought for regeneration or reciprocity. The result is a troubling pattern of depletion. In places where the vine once grew in abundance, it has now become difficult—or even impossible—to find.
This isn’t unique to ayahuasca. We’ve seen similar patterns elsewhere—such as with the peyote cactus (Lophophora williamsii) in North America, which has become increasingly rare in areas where it once flourished. The pattern is clear: overuse, under-care, and the gradual disappearance of sacred medicines.
We don’t want that.
Tomek showed us his approach—one rooted in sustainability and reciprocity. Instead of taking from the forest without thought, he harvests only what he has previously planted. And we took part in this cycle too. We cut vine that Tomek had grown, and we planted new ones in return.
The process is surprisingly simple. A segment of vine is placed directly into the earth, where it takes root and grows. It’s a small act, but one with powerful implications. It raised a question that stayed with me: is the idea of reciprocity and care for the places we draw healing from really so foreign to those who seek it?
We also had the chance to take part in the preparation of the brew itself. Making ayahuasca is a long and intentional process. We began by smashing the vine with wooden mallets, breaking it down to release its active compounds. Then we added chacruna leaves—rich in DMT—and layered everything into large pots. The mixture was boiled slowly over an open fire for the entire day. As the hours passed, the scent changed and thickened. Later, the excess water was carefully evaporated, concentrating the brew. This was not just cooking—it was ceremony. Each step demanded presence and respect. It reinforced the understanding that ayahuasca is not a product. It’s a relationship, one that begins long before the first cup is poured.
Meeting the Grandmother: Ayahuasca Ceremonies
Meeting Ayahuasca has always been a challenge for me. It was no different this time.
My relationship with Ayahuasca is not straightforward. I’ve always felt more at home with psilocybin—mushrooms seem to match my system better. But from time to time, I return to Ayahuasca to shift perspective and connect with the Numinous in a different way, even if it’s less comfortable for me.
We had three ceremonies during the retreat, all beginning after sunset.
The first night was the most difficult, as expected. Celia told us the initial ceremony would be about cleansing and preparation—and she was right.
It was also my first experience with the Shipibo way, which felt quite different from the approaches of other traditions I’d previously encountered. Complete darkness, intense icaros, and the very specific atmosphere of the ceremony created a sense of disorientation. It was strong and unfamiliar. Celia emphasised that the most important part of this practice is connection with la abuela—the grandmother Ayahuasca.
She also reminded us that Ayahuasca is often called la purga—the purge. Vomiting, often intense, is not just expected but considered part of the healing. Almost all of us went through it.
For me, the first ceremony was intense and overwhelming. Others had milder experiences, but I struggled. Despite having significant experience with various psychedelics, this felt like too much. The strength of the brew surprised me. My body couldn’t adjust. It’s strange—years ago, I used to need very high doses, even beyond so-called “heroic” levels, to feel satisfied. But something has shifted in recent years. What used to feel like a light dose is now more than enough.
What changed? Maybe it was that odd encounter years ago with a giant praying mantis-like entity performing surgery on my brain with delicate, tool-like limbs—offering me an eternal psychedelic trip, should I ever wish to return. Who knows?
The encounter with entities is always fascinating. Whether they’re parts of the psyche or beings from other dimensions, they always carry a sense of realness—often more real than ordinary life. In my second ceremony, I met a being with hundreds of faces who led me through expansive, non-dual states toward what felt like the ultimate source of consciousness.
I returned with a vision—a memory, actually. A place I had seen before: a mountain by the ocean, filled with eternal light. I realised I had seen this place in previous visions, but only now could I grasp its meaning. It felt like a calling. A quest. I need to find this place in the real world. Why? That part is still unfolding.
The third ceremony was entirely different. Joyful. When Maestra Celia came to sing her icaros directly to me, I felt sudden waves of energy flowing through me—guided by her voice and movements. I became a jaguar. I could see my paws, feel the strength and fluid motion of my body running through the jungle. Her singing felt like a conversation between the wild and the human—an invitation to friendship with nature itself.
Afterwards, we held an integration circle—sharing visions, insights, and how we might bring them into our daily lives. It was fascinating to hear how the jungle had shaped others’ experiences. Some turned into anacondas, birds, even mosquitoes during their visions.
Even though Ayahuasca is not new to me, this experience reminded me how crucial set and setting truly are. Nothing compares to meeting the Grandmother in her own home—in the heart of the forest, surrounded by the spirits of the land.
Lima: A Pause Between Worlds
Saying goodbye to the jungle wasn’t easy. We had grown attached—to the place, the people, the rhythm of it all. We left with the sense that this was not the end, only a beginning. We will be back. Though, to be honest, none of us will miss the mosquitos and midges.
I had one last moment with the southern night sky before we left—a sky I rarely get to see from home. Stargazing has always been one of my favourite ways to reconnect with wonder, and the southern constellations delivered a quiet, moving farewell.
On our way back, we made a brief stop in Iquitos, where we visited Maestra Celia at her small shop. It was good to see her again in a different setting. Nearby, the local market offered a final sensory feast—tables overflowing with exotic fruits, spices, herbal remedies, and, of course, the ever-present mapacho. The air was thick with smells and sound—a reminder that even in cities, the jungle never feels far away.
Arriving in Lima after nine days in the rainforest was a contrast we all felt immediately. The hotel comforts—hot showers, clean sheets, no insects—felt luxurious in a way they never do back home. The city’s climate was gentle: warm but not humid, with a steady breeze and plenty of light. Resting here made sense.
We explored the local market, full of textiles and clothing made from alpaca wool—famous in this region and known for its warmth and softness. The designs carried echoes of Andean culture, vibrant yet practical.
One highlight was visiting an adobe pyramid—an architectural wonder built with sun-dried clay bricks. Our guide explained the unique engineering behind it: the bricks were laid with small gaps to absorb and disperse seismic energy. This clever design allowed it to survive earthquakes that had twice destroyed large parts of Lima. Even more surprising: in the 1980s, it was used as a makeshift off-road rally track by teenagers on motorbikes. That it survived such neglect makes it even more impressive.
We also made it to the beach—and took a spontaneous surfing lesson. Our instructor, originally from Venezuela, had left behind a promising IT career to follow his passion. He now lives by the ocean, teaching beginners like us how to ride waves. It was humbling and fun—and a good reminder that different paths are always possible.
Our final stop was Lima’s Centro Histórico—a showcase of South American colonial architecture, full of grand facades, balconies, and echoes of a complex past. Walking through it offered a sense of closure. A shift from jungle to city, ceremony to reflection.
And with that, we said goodbye to South America.
For now.
Planting the Seeds – Project Roots Begins
This journey to the Amazon was never meant to be just a personal experience. It was a reconnaissance trip, and it confirmed what we had hoped: that our vision for Project Roots is not only possible, but necessary.
What started as a dream—literally—grew into a powerful encounter with people, place, and practice. Through meeting Maestra Celia and Alessio, working alongside Lester and his family, and witnessing Tomek’s long-term commitment to reciprocity and care, we saw the pieces of something larger falling into place.
Project Roots was born from a simple idea: that ancient traditions still have something vital to offer us—and that they deserve to survive and flourish on their own terms. The Shipibo way is not just a cultural curiosity. It is a living, breathing spiritual system. It holds knowledge, discipline, and beauty that can’t be replicated or replaced.
We are not here to extract or to replicate. Our role is to listen, support, and build lasting relationships based on trust. This is not “psychedelic tourism.” This is about honouring the wisdom of the people who have carried these traditions forward, often against great odds.
Through Project Roots, we aim to build meaningful partnerships—starting with the Shipibo, and expanding to other cultures that carry numinous traditions rooted in nature, ceremony, and deep relational understanding. We will continue to organise carefully prepared retreats in collaboration with indigenous communities, with the focus on learning from them, not about them.
What we experienced in the jungle—the purging, the visions, the laughter, the planting of vines, the listening to stories and icaros—wasn’t the end of something. It was the beginning. We left with more questions than answers, and a renewed sense of responsibility. Now the work continues, slowly and carefully.
If this speaks to you—if you feel the call to learn, to reconnect, to walk respectfully between worlds—we invite you to join us. Whether that’s through retreat, support, or simple curiosity, there is a place for you in this work.
The grandmother doesn’t just heal. She teaches. And we are just beginning to understand what that means.
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