First Contact

The Indigenous people are profoundly curious, not just about the faces and personalities of outsiders but also about the unseen threads of spirit woven through our beings. In the village of Pinuya, renowned for its spiritual music and deeply transformative ayahuasca ceremonies, this curiosity was palpable.

Though we had arrived with the intention of discussing business, our plans quickly dissolved like mist in the morning sun. Our guide, Teresa Lundgren, led us to a large gathering unfolding on a sun-dappled patio. Around forty villagers were present—indigenous men and women adorned in beads, feathers, and earthy fabrics, their presence grounded yet luminous.

They watched us with wide, perceptive eyes, not judging, but sensing. Reading the energy we carried, as if our spirits spoke more clearly than words ever could. Two chairs were offered with respectful hospitality, but we gently declined, choosing instead to sit cross-legged on the earth, mirroring their reverence for stillness and presence.

Many among them were practicing shamans, and one by one, they introduced themselves. I remember clearly a conversation about the Huni Kuin people—their rich traditions, their deep-rooted connection to nature, and the belief that each soul is guarded and guided by a spirit animal. I could feel the air shift as we spoke, charged with the sacred energy.

Then the eldest shaman stepped forward, speaking with quiet authority about the sacred plants of the forest. He shared how certain plants, including Cannabis, were sometimes used to journey beyond the veil, to glimpse the spirit world with clearer eyes. As he spoke, a ceremonial pipe made its way around the circle, passed from hand to hand, mouth to mouth, like an offering to the invisible.

Soon, the topic turned to us. What were our spirit animals? What role would we play in the ceremony that night? Laughter rippled through the group like wind through leaves—light, spontaneous, full of life. It was as though the entire space was alive with warmth, curiosity, and the joy of communion.

We had come for business. But what we found was far more sacred: an invitation to be seen, not just as visitors, but as three souls.

Visit to the Shaman 

As the sun began its slow descent behind the canopy, casting golden streaks across the trees, the villagers extended a sacred invitation to join them in that night’s ceremony. We accepted with quiet reverence, understanding the depth of what we were stepping into. Together, the three of us made our way toward the shaman’s humble home.

He was a man who seemed carved from the jungle itself, perhaps in his early sixties, maybe older. His presence was calm, talkative, like a river that had seen many seasons. His house was simple, cradled in the arms of the forest. Inside, a lone hammock swayed gently, as if whispering the memory of dreams past.

We sat and spoke, letting the conversation unfold naturally, from the rhythms of the Huni Kuin way of life to the deeper threads of spirit and purpose. There was a quiet preparation in the air, not just of space, but of soul. My business partner, ever curious, asked him all manner of personal questions. The shaman responded with generosity, his answers woven with humility and laughter.

In a gesture that felt both practical and symbolic, he offered us to stay in his home for the night. There was no ceremony yet, but already, the experience had become one.

As our time together drew to a close, I offered him a special flashlight I had carried, just a small token, yet given with sincerity. He accepted it with a wide smile that lit up his weathered face. In return, he removed the wristbands he wore, faded, handwoven, infused with meaning, and put them gently around my wrist.

“Protection,” he said. “For tonight.”

And in that quiet exchange, something ancient passed between us: respect, trust, and the silent understanding that in this place, under these stars, we were no longer strangers; there was the presence of the Creator God, charging us with its immense electricity.

Our shared silence, deep, grounded, and full, was suddenly broken by the soft chime of a phone message. It signaled that our ride had arrived. The pickup truck that would carry us onward was waiting, ready to take us to the festival grounds. 

It was dark when we stepped outside, the air now thick with anticipation and the lingering scent of woodsmoke and wildflowers. As we climbed into the bed of the truck, we turned back toward the village. With hearts full and voices lifted and shouting ihuuuuu. A few curious dogs trotted alongside us until the truck rumbled forward, its wheels stirring up the red dust of the earth. The house grew smaller behind us, but its spirit lingered, woven into the wristbands now snug around mine, and into the memory of the shaman’s steady gaze. We rode toward the festival arena, not as mere visitors anymore, but as vessels, carrying the energy, stories, and blessings of the place we had just left.

Ayahuasca night ceremony with the Huni Kuin Tribe of Pinuya Village 

Little did we know that night’s ceremony would draw a powerful circle, twenty to thirty-five souls gathered beneath the sacred sky to partake in the medicine. The ayahuasca would not just be consumed; it would awaken something ancient in each of us.

The ceremony began late, the moon high, and the jungle whispering in hushed anticipation. One by one, people stepped forward to receive the brew. My business partner and Teresa drank the medicine as the orchestrated music began weaving its spell. For me, I sat back, cross-legged, letting the rhythm of the night wrap around me.

This wasn’t my first time with ayahuasca. I knew its intensity, the heaviness in the body, the spiraling mind, the flood of emotion, and of course, purging. I also knew the fear, the resistance. So I began as I always do: by breathing, by emptying, by preparing. Still, a quiet anxiety clung to me. I’d always struggled to process the medicine, both mentally and physically. Yet somehow, this time felt different—gentler, more inviting, as though the spirit of the plant approached with compassion rather than force.

As the night deepened, the singing began inside the Chosa. But I found myself drawn elsewhere, sitting by a glowing fire just outside. The festival grounds were alive, filled with sacred sounds, clusters of shamans, and the soft hum of the unseen world pressing closer.

More people gathered around the fire, silent or softly murmuring, and then came the call, a voice from the Huni Kuin shamans: “We encourage you to get back to the Chosa. The real work is happening inside.”

At those words, something shifted in me. The fire was no longer enough. I could feel it, an invisible current pulling me inward. The Chosa had become a living temple. And I was no longer alone in my body; I could feel the presence of the Spirits moving among us, swirling through song and smoke, through the breath of the shamans and the quiet hearts of the participants.

My ego, that stubborn shadow, began to dissolve. In its place, a deep stillness opened up. I was no longer concerned with how I appeared to others, to myself. The veil had lifted, and I was simply present.

Waves of energy began to rise and fall through me, especially when I saw the lead shaman dancing and singing, flanked by three powerful female singers. They weren’t just performing, they were channeling, transmitting a force that felt celestial yet rooted in the very soil of the Earth.

A longing stirred in me. I wanted to join them, to move, to sing, to belong. But then the voice came, quiet and sharp like a warning echo from childhood:

“Don’t stick out. Remember? Stay safe! You’re not one of them. You’re not a singer. Not indigenous.”

For a moment, I froze. But then, only for a moment. Because something in me had already started to rise. The walls of doubt, thick as stone, were beginning to crack.

And before I could think my way back into fear, I realized: my feet were already moving. Slowly, inevitably, they carried me toward the heart of the song, toward the fire inside the Chosa, toward the ceremony that was calling my soul to remember.

And there I was, singing, dancing, heart wide open, moving behind the trio of female singers, with the shaman leading like a flame through the darkness. The songs were no longer something I heard; they were something I was. Each syllable, each beat, felt as if it rose straight from the earth and poured through my chest.

My friend appeared behind me, placing his hands gently on my shoulders. Without words, we began to form a line, a human serpent slithering through the sacred space, alive with rhythm and reverence. One by one, the others joined, until we were many more! All of us! A living chain of souls in motion, bound not by thought, but by spirit.

Every so often, a collective shout erupted from deep within us: “EHHHH!”—raw, primal, rising like a cry from ancient memory. It echoed through the Chosa like thunder from the bones of the Earth. In those moments, it was as though the ancestors had returned—not as ghosts, but through us. The old ones were dancing too, their spirits flickering in our eyes, our voices, our feet pounding against the floor.

We were no longer strangers, no longer separate. We were one tribe, fluid, timeless, vibrant. There was no audience, no stage. Just one great pulsing body, honoring creation, honoring the Creator, lost and found in the heartbeat of the song.

And just when I thought the ceremony could not grow more powerful, the entire tribe rose as one and joined the line. It stretched, circled, coiled around the space like a great ancestral river. Laughter mixed with tears, and the sacred merged with the joyful. 

The ceremony wasn’t just a ritual anymore. It was a celebration of life itself.

The ceremony flowed like a river through the entire night, unbroken and eternal, until the first blush of dawn painted the sky. We purged not with vomit or cries, but through the silent trembling of our bodies, through movement, breath, and release. There was a palpable presence, something vast, ancient, and benevolent, moving through the Chosa. The Great Spirit was there. I felt it, not as a concept, but as a living force pulsing in the very air.

And then, as the music slowed and the visions softened, we gathered one final time. A great circle formed, dozens of us, hand in hand, heads bowed in reverence. We bowed to the healing, to the Creator, to the sacredness of nature. No words, just hearts. The sun rose quickly, slicing through the trees, golden and radiant. Its light touched our faces like a blessing.

Then, like a spell broken, the village fell into silence. One by one, people slipped away to sleep. When we stepped outside, the world had stilled. Not a soul in sight. No footsteps, no voices, just the warm hush of early morning and the memory of what had just unfolded.

We walked back to the shaman’s home. And there he was, swinging gently in his hammock, exhausted but peaceful, like a tree that had weathered many storms. Though tired, his eyes held a quiet wisdom, and his spirit still glowed.

Teresa looked around and laughed softly, “I can’t believe I can’t find anyone. The whole village is sleeping. Even the shamans.”

We hadn’t yet spoken about the larger vision, the dream of sharing this medicine with the world. But in truth, nothing needed to be said. The ceremony was the conversation. A wordless agreement had been made, forged in spirit and sealed in song. They had felt our hearts, and we had felt theirs.

They knew our intentions were rooted in love and reverence. That we came not to take, but to offer something back, to carry their medicine with respect, to honor the Earth and its wisdom.

And so, when the taxi driver appeared that morning, we left quietly, hearts wide, souls stirred, forever changed. Our next target was visiting the Yawanawa Tribe in Mutum Village.