Bufo

One with the mystic man and another with myself.

The mind races—a constant, electric chatter. It’s how I’ve always been, a frantic carousel spinning faster than it should. Sending children of thought out into the spectating crowd and there’s always injuries. A defining trait, they say. The torment and the brilliance, inseparable. Like oil and vinegar shaken into the portrait of who I am.Don’t fight it, feel it—the immortal wisdom of Primal Scream.

This year’s been a crucible for that madness. University’s done, the shell of youthful immortality cracked open, and adulthood has lurked like a vulture. Every project—every hopeful spark—met with the same devil’s whisper: “This won’t work. Rent’s due. Who are you kidding?” The world tightens its grip. The first casualties of pressure? Joy, creativity, hope. Always.

And then, last Thursday, the phone rang.

Charlie: "JP! Got something wild for you. How about joining a Native American medicine ritual? There’s this shaman…”

Me: "Hold on. A shaman? Seriously? Where did this come from?"

Charlie: "Family friend tipped me off. This guy’s legit. Decades of practice, traditional lineage, the real deal. He’s on a vision quest through Europe, and Newcastle’s a stop. Healing, wisdom, the works. You’ve got to do this. It would suit you to a T.”

As much as I’m glad my reputation per seeds me. I’m intrigued, obviously, but cautious. Mysticism sells, and there’s no shortage of charlatans selling salt water in the guise of spirituality. Still, the idea latches on, gnawing at the edges of my brain. By the time we hang up, I’ve agreed. Something about the desperation for clarity, for meaning, pushed me over the edge.

And that was it, just like that it was on. No idea what to expect or how to even feel about being a part of it. Id heard stories about some of the ‘medicines’ that have made their way into western modern culture. But only tried recreationally.

The beach. Close to my heart and isolated enough to not be disturbed by the chaos of city life. seemed a good of a place as any in which to hopefully find some spiritual enlightenment and a newfound perspective on life.

But who knows this might just be some old crony pretending to be a Sharman to skimp Nieve young person like me out of a few bob. Or even some luxury drug dealer who provides an experience with the drugs he’s shotting. Who knows.

Me and dodd head there now. The time has come. Nerves are still mounting and the questions around “could this be the last day on my sane life? Will I let my over-active (Admittingly) sometimes extremely paranoid brain gets the better of me. Either way we are talking of dose of a serious drug and of what I’ve been assured is of the purest quality and potency. Nothing to be taken lightly or on a whim. Lucky for us winging the unwingable is something of a talent.

Nighttime drops like a curtain. Comes early this time of year and by the time we get to the beach its already pitch black. Nobody insight. Perfect, the saltiness in the air calms me as we step out the car and the Suttle noise of the ocean reminds me of home. Nerves are calmed and the internal moral and psyche suicide questions are muted for a moment. This has to be a sign of good things to come. Or at least I hope it does.

Two fires are lite. One for ceremony and one for the group. Charlie b-lines right towards me and I can’t help but appreciate a familiar face. Figures shuffle into view, faces illuminated by flickers of flame. Familiar strangers, all here seeking…something. Redemption, maybe. Escape. Truth.

Charlie greets me with a grin. "Glad you made it, man. Thanks for the firewood."

I nod. "No problem. Thanks for dragging me into this."

The group hushes as two silhouettes emerge from the shadows. The shaman and his interpreter. He’s older, sharp-dressed in a way that’s almost cinematic—scarf, blazer, the works. She’s younger, unassuming. Together, they command the room. Or rather, the beach. The shaman speaks in Spanish, his voice low and rhythmic, the kind of tone that makes you lean in. The interpreter follows:

“Welcome, my friends.” The women next him began to speak. Interpretating and translating for the shaman…

“It is a sacred moment that brings us together here, under the guidance of the Great Spirit and the blessings of the earth, the sky, and all that is within and beyond. Tonight, you step into a space where the old ways still whisper, and the medicines of the earth offer their wisdom."

"I honour each of you for being a part of this ritual of healing. This is not a journey to escape—it is a journey to remember. A journey inward, to meet the truths of your spirit, the rhythms of your heart, and the reflections of your life. These medicines are not tools of man; they are gifts from nature, shaped by the wisdom of the ancestors and carried to us through time."

"Tonight, we work with powerful allies. Some of you may already know of them, and for others, they may be new companions. One is Bufo, the medicine of the toad, which carries the spirit of profound awakening. Its song is not gentle, but it is clear—it takes you to the heart of creation, where all dissolves into oneness, puts you in touch with reality and the see into the eye of the universe in real time. Put’s great perspective on one’s life and always healing of the mind.”

"The other is Changa, the medicine of the plants, a gentle yet potent guide. It weaves visions and insights, showing you paths of light, connection, and truth. It is a teacher that allows you to see with clarity but also with kindness, helping you integrate the lessons into your soul’s journey."

"Both are sacred. Both demand respect. These are not substances to consume but spirits to commune with. Their purpose is not entertainment or distraction but healing, understanding, and renewal. And so, as we begin, I ask you to listen deeply—not just with your ears but with your heart. Approach this space with humility and openness, for what you bring to the medicine is as important as what it offers you."

"Now, we will set our intentions together. Speak silently to yourself, or aloud if you feel called—what is it you seek tonight? What are you ready to release, and what are you ready to receive? These intentions will guide the medicine and your journey. Remember, there is no right or wrong way to experience this. The medicine knows the way."

"Breathe. Be present. Trust the process. I am here to hold this space for you, and so are the ancestors and the spirit of the medicine. You are safe, and you are deeply supported. Let us begin. Chris you were here first. Head over when you are ready"

Shit. Here we go then

People started heading over to the other fire one by one. Being the last one to arrive I was last. I didn’t mind it gave me chance to scope the situation out and assess how this drug might affect me.

Conversations were sparked around the camp. ‘Which one will you do? How do you think it will feel? Who’s next?”

All felt like white noise. I was preparing myself for whatever it was to come and, in that process, fell into my shell. Only saying the very least I can pass the social comfortability test. Say too much and you ruin someone else’s vibe; Say too little and the camps pre drug nerves spike and everyone’s anxiety has been permanently raised higher than it already is now.

Time moved slow and it felt like each participant is taking longer and longer to finish the process. I suppose it’s different for everyone. Or is it just been subconsciously knowing my time is drawing ever closer.

JP, your turn.” I looked over and froze. Every muscle in my body locked up, unsure of the script, the protocol, the rules of engagement—if there even were any. My inner voice wasted no time: “This is a really bad idea.” And then, the kicker: “This could be the last sane moment of your life.”

But then, like a rogue spark in the dark, another thought blazed through: “Fuck it. You’re here now. What’s worse? Losing your mind or backing out and letting these strangers think you’re the kind of coward who folds under pressure?” That thought stung. I’m not that guy. Never have been. Never will be.

The fire in the distance loomed closer, flickering like a siren’s call. My senses sharpened, the primal instincts awakening in some ancient corner of my brain. And then, like a boot to my rear from some spectral drill sergeant, the question hit: “How would you feel if you didn’t do this?”

My legs started moving, almost without permission. Each step felt surreal, the crunch of sand underfoot grounding me in the here and now. As I neared the fire, the faces around it broke into welcoming smiles. In the darkness, a palpable energy seemed to ripple, drawing me in and steadying my nerves.

Two figures sat close to the flames. Their faces glowed, eyes wide and fixed horizontally into the fire as if staring straight through it into some other dimension. They looked spirited, almost otherworldly, as though the ritual had wrapped itself around them and refused to let go.

“Which would you like to do?”. And without even thinking I responded “Bufo”

 The shaman motioned me to sit, his face calm but commanding. His assistant prepared the pipe with meticulous precision, the substance within glowing faintly in the firelight. The air around us felt charged, like static before a lightning strike. He handed me the pipe, nodding solemnly as if to say, “This is yours now, before going into this you need to ask it for something.”

I thought for a second and it was almost obvious. “Ease that demon voice inside my head. Have a deeper self-confidence for the things I want to do most in life. Not let it win as much”

I took the first hit, the smoke filling my lungs with a weight I didn’t expect. The taste was earthy, almost ancient, as though it carried the essence of the earth itself. “Again,” he said, his voice steady. I exhaled, then inhaled once more, deeper this time. By the third hit, my body began to tingle, the edges of reality starting to blur.

By the fifth hit, my hands were trembling, my breath shallow. The shaman began to hum, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through my chest. He beat a steady rhythm on a small bongo drum, the sound anchoring me even as the world around me started to dissolve.

The final hit. I barely managed it, the pipe slipping from my fingers as I exhaled and fell back. The sky, the fire, the faces around me—all of it fractured like a smashed mirror, shards of light and colour spinning in every direction. There was no up, no down, only a vast, infinite expanse that pulled me deeper and deeper.

The shaman’s humming grew fainter, his rhythm slower and what replaced it was that same inner voice.

That inner voice, with its usual nervous apprehension, The voice wasn’t just a voice this time—it had weight, presence, like a drunk staggering into the room uninvited. It slithered up from somewhere deep, wearing my face but grinning like it had stolen it. My inner demon, alive and well, detached but tethered—a rogue spectre of my worst instinct. But I looked upon it on a completely different light. As the drug absorbed itself into me, I couldn’t help but laugh. Small, Weak, limiting. Pathetic is all I could think.

And then—release. A flood of warmth and light, a sense of weightlessness. The pressure in my chest eased, replaced by a strange, glowing emptiness. It felt as though years of pain, fear, and doubt had been pulled out of me, leaving behind something raw but clean.

It’s impossible to describe, really. Words fail. It’s not a trip; it’s an unravelling. The self dissolves into a vast, unending expanse of light and sound. Every question, every doubt, every torment—reduced to ash in the furnace of something greater. It’s terrifying and beautiful, a plunge into the core of existence itself.

I lay there, staring up at the stars, the hum of the drum coming back to the foreground. Along with my consciousness. My body felt light, my mind quiet for the first time in what felt like forever. Whatever had just happened, it was something very spiritual.

I sit back up and the ritual is all but complete. I question him about why he does it, all of it and what he replied with really landed.

He paused, his eyes glowing in the firelight, as though the question itself carried weight. His voice, when it came, was steady and rich with history.

“Because this is my path,” he said, the interpreter translating with reverence. “My ancestors, all shaman before me, led my tribe through times of peace and war. They carried the wisdom of the medicines and the spirit of the earth. When the conquistadors came, we knew the war for the land was lost. But my ancestors saw a vision—a prophecy. They said, ‘The sons of the conquistadors will one day seek the sacred ways they tried to destroy.’”

He glanced at the stars, his voice soft but resolute. “This vision quest is not mine alone. It is theirs. I walk this path because their prophecy lives through me. I share the medicines so that the spirit of my people will rise again, not in conquest, but in healing. The world forgot the old ways, but the medicines remember. And through them, so will you.”

His words hung in the air. I stared into the fire, feeling their weight settle in my chest.