Searching Mexico for shamans

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Krzysztof Pietroszek, IJ grant recipient, and his translator explore the culture and rituals of shamanic people, which includes their use of peyote

Sierra Madre Occidental, Mexico. Standing in front of ten shotgun-armed Huichol natives with serious faces, I debated if pursuing an investigation into the ancient world of shamanic rituals was worth my life.

Thoughts of paranoia echoed in my head. These circumstances bore quite a resemblance to the tragic events which befell a group of American documentary filmmakers just a few years ago. The journalists, who had fearlessly entered a native village without permission, later found themselves tortured to death. The terrifying footage of this event is available in the BBC archives – because the camera was rolling the entire time.

So there I stood, lost in the desert mountains, wondering if it would be more pleasant to be scalped or to have an axe thrown in my back. Getting shot with a modern weapon was the least probable option. It would be a waste of precious bullets, as I was a much slower runner than the reindeer roasting on the fire nearby.

While shotguns hung loosely on the natives’ backs, I took a step back and attempted to reassure myself.

After all, I was invited here, right? Yes, but on the other hand, I was specifically told not to bring camera equipment. I guess the two fully-loaded mules I brought along looked somewhat suspicious. But that’s why I was there: to document the experience of my investigation of modern shamanistic practice in Mexico. 

Having visited Mongolia, India, the Middle East, South America and East Africa already, this time I decided to aim towards Mexico. Among the few native groups who presently cultivate shamanism are Mexican Huichols – a tribe conquered neither by Aztecs nor Spaniards. When National Geographic journalist James Norman wrote an article on the Huichols 31 years ago, he predicted the disappearance of their rituals within the next few decades. Nothing like that has happened yet.

Still, Huichol culture has little presence in the everyday lives of Mexicans. A few days before finding myself in the aforementioned potentially terminal situation, full of doubt, I took to the streets of Guadalajara in search of shamans.

Many cityfolk had never heard about Huichols. Those that had, described them as “drunk, poor natives, who come to sell their craft at a local market.” The natives would visit the market once a month on a Sunday.

A market fruit-seller dismissed the natives as outsiders of society. They speak a different language, wear different clothes – one cannot just go and talk to them.

Finally, in the market, I found a Huichol man who introduced himself as a shaman – although his clothes were not perfectly in accordance to my earlier research regarding shamanic dress. Under the influence of peyote drink – a hallucinogenic drink made of “holy” cacti – he spoke with glazed eyes. Although it was difficult to talk to him, I was able to understand - thanks to my translator - that, three years ago, the Council of Elders had forbidden shamans to share their experiences with outsiders.

But now I knew they existed.

The next day, I interviewed Ramon Mata Torres, professor emeritus at the University of Guadalajara and a distinguished researcher of indigenous shamanism. Most importantly, though, is the fact that he had lived among the Huichol for thirty years and went through four of five levels of shamanic initiation.

What does it mean for him to be a Huichol shaman? “Shaman is a person who sees everything.

Everything...” replied Torres, his eyes widening with the repeated word “everything.” He continued,

“Shaman serves his community as a spiritual guide, a priest of magic, so to say.”

“I have experienced [shamanic magic] myself,” he said, “But I am forbidden to talk about it in detail. Believe me, it is a very intimate and personal thing.”

Communicating with spirits, gods or daemon is done differently in each culture, said Torres.

“Shaman may dance and sing for hours, deprive himself of food, sleep, water, or, very commonly, consume a hallucinogen substance. In the case of the Huichols, the hallucinogen used is the ‘flesh of god,’ called peyote. It is a desert cactus.”

Peyote was popularized in Western culture by Carlos Castaneda, a controversial pseudo-anthropologist, who convinced half of the world that, under peyote influence, he had experienced shamanic visions. He claimed to be guided by the mysterious shaman Don Juan. Castaneda then wrote a bestselling book based on his experience titled Teaching of Don Juan.

“Did you consume peyote yourself, sir?” I asked Torres.

“Of course. This is an integral part of Huichols’ life. Peyote is one of the main Huichol gods. Every member of the community, including children, consumes his body. The interesting thing is that peyote grows only in a desert around Real de Catorce, which is 300 kilometres from the place where Huichols live,” he elaborated.

“Then how do they get it?” I asked, surprised.

“The shaman does a 500 kilometre-long pilgrimage, on foot, every year to get a load of peyote” he replied.

“When he comes back, the Feast of Peyote begins.”

The ritual of peyote is an extremely important part of Huichol shamanic traditions, often portrayed through their unique yarn-painting art. The ritual is a major event in the life of community. Despite the fact that it was unlikely that my participation would be allowed, I still hoped to meet and interview natives, so I left for the Sierra Madre Occidental region.

After two solid days of driving, I found myself lost on a dirt road at midnight.

Stopping the car at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, I could see nothing in the complete darkness. But the lights of my car were seen by somebody, a friendly road worker, who came by and invited us to sleep in his tent.

One cannot imagine my surprise when I awoke in the morning to find myself in the middle of a Huichol’s farm. Jose, the Huichol farm owner, invited us in for breakfast. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to ask about the ritual of peyote.

Jose told me there was an ongoing family Feast of Peyote that had started the night before; and so I convinced him to let me participate in the rituals. He warned me it may not be an easy experience. I was told the same in an interview with Silvia S., the Director of National Library in Guadalajara a few days earlier.

“The ritual of peyote,” she said, “is often very sexually oriented. After consumption of peyote, the Huichol must go to a fire and confess all [of] his sexual sins. It is common that he admits he had sex with his underage daughter. Then, when everybody gets stoned, the orgy starts. Men are allowed to have sex with any woman in the community and it is not considered adultery.”

Feeling invited, I rented two mules from Jose and walked them a few kilometres north, into a roadless valley. That’s how I found my-self in the specific aforementioned situation. One of the shotgun-armed Huichols shouted something at me, wanting to know what I had to trade.

Of course, I was willing to offer whatever they needed. “Large amounts of anti-scorpion serum” was their answer. Scorpions are the most common cause of children’s deaths, and the closest hospital is too far to get to. Soon we had come to an agreement that I was to persuade the Mexican government to send them the serum. In recognition for that, Huichols would not only let me participate in part of the rituals, but also film it from some non-distracting distance. Most importantly, they promised to let me leave in peace afterwards.

The main part of the rituals started with the first pinkish rays of the sunset. The shaman led a procession of Huichol people into four directions of the world: north, west, south and east. He didn’t seem distracted by the presence of the camera, so I dared to come a little closer.

After the procession, the shaman burned the animal and plant offerings, and then the blessing rite took place. The oldest member of the family, a father and lower-rank shaman, blessed all of his sons by stretching his hands, holding a string and putting it around them.

The peyote drink was constantly being served to everybody, including children. Over time, I could see the characteristic absentmindedness in people’s eyes. Physical reactions slowed down. Some natives began disappearing into the surrounding forest, wide-eyed and afraid.

As the camp eventually drifted to sleep, we suddenly heard long, loud human screams coming from a distance. After each sentence, there was a break as if the person was listening to something. Then, just barely, I heard a man’s voice answering. It seemed to come from very far away – and was almost indistinguishable from the noises of nature. The whole community listened in silence.

I asked the shaman what the noise was. “It is the spirit of my ancestor,” he replied, his face stone-cold serious. In that very moment, lying on the ground in the middle of the holy shamanic ritual place, I was unsure of the borders between the worlds of rationality and dreams. Or maybe it was peyote odour in the air that made me irrational. Seeing my awed expression, the shaman laughed loudly and said: “No, I was joking. It’s just a member of our community, who got lost in the dark, and was asking for directions.”

I laughed at myself realizing to what extent I was taken by the mystery. Soon I realized that what had happened to me was proof that shamanism is alive – because in even the most rational mind, the potential for mystical experience stays hidden.

Shamanism culture survived in the corners of subconsciousness of every one of us. When we hesitate for a second while deciding whether or not to cross the street after a black cat has passed. When we irrationally fear going into a basement at midnight if there is no light on. Or when we, like me in that moment, are ready to forget any rational explanation and believe that spirits talk in the forests – just after a few hours of shamanic rituals.