Whispers of the Forest: A Night Near the Chôça

We left quietly that morning, the sun barely brushing the earth, our hearts wide open, our spirits subtly transformed. Our energies from the previous ayahuasca ceremony got even lower. The taxi rolled in like a silent messenger, and we surrendered to the road ahead. Our next destination: Mutum Village, the sacred heart of the Yawanawá territories, cradled deep within the soul of the Amazon.

The ride was long, hours stretched across silence and jungle roads. We were already weary, mentally, spiritually, our minds still reverberating from the energies of past ceremonies. By the time we reached Vila São Vicente, we stopped briefly, picking up small gifts for the tribe, humble offerings from one world to another. Our boatman was already there, waiting, steady like the river itself.

Then came the true crossing.

A journey through the Amazon’s green arteries. Eight, maybe nine hours on the water. The forest watched as we moved. We stopped often, swimming in the sacred waters of the Rio Gregório, resting, sharing hapé with the wind and the trees. Time softened, the mind quieted. The river knew the way.

By the time we arrived at Mutum, my body was dissolving. Fever coiled slowly through me. The ceremonies in Pinuya had delayed their grip, but here, it caught up. The village was beautiful, neat, vibrant, and alive. But I felt myself waning, caught between dimensions.

We settled into a nearby household, stringing hammocks beneath a modest patio. I tried to honor the space with my camera, but lacked the strength. Still, I lifted the drone, as if my spirit, too, needed to rise. The family welcomed us with warmth and openness. Their way of living, close to the earth, deeply woven with spirit, moved me.

Then, as the sun faded and the mosquitoes arrived in full fury, we tried to rest. My body was burning. My skin itched from countless bites. I lay awake in the hammock, fevered and aching, when something profound stirred within me that night.

The Call of the Shaman

In the distance, through the trees, a chant began to rise.

It was not music. It was a summoning, chanting. An ancestral sound, born from the breath of the forest and shaped by a voice rooted deep in the heart of the earth. The Shaman was singing in the chsaa, the ceremonial hut, and his voice moved like wind through fire, ancient and eternal. He was talking to the Creator, and the Creator was listening and empowering his existence, spreading love and healing to the entire village. As Teresa, our guide, mentioned later, he was a well-known shaman who dedicated his life to Spiritual growth with medicines and diets. 

The moment I heard him, my soul recognized something sacred as if heaven was coming close to this region. But the presence of God moves me. Every cell in my body vibrated. Something within me rose, an energy I cannot explain. It felt like the sky was drawing closer, folding the heavens into the soil. I have never felt and seen or heard anything like this before in my entire life.

Compelled, I rose from the hammock. Without much of a realization, my fevered legs carried me into the jungle. My mind questioned this behavior, but I couldn’t stay in my hammock. I needed to get close to our Creator. There were no lights, only darkness, and the strange sounds. The sound that called me beyond fear.

I walked aimlessly, not knowing the path. 

The path was alive. I could hear creatures moving, running through the bushes. They snarled and growled, unseen. This made me fear the unknown grow. The jungle was thick with an unseen presence. I knew I wasn’t walking alone. There were animals and spirits in that forest, old ones, wild ones, watching.

Fear came like a wave, but I kept going. I questioned everything, my existence, my purpose, and my sanity. The survival mechanism was there, too. 

I felt more and more animals reacting to my presence, and I was afraid of them. I could not tell if it was one or more creatures.  Perhaps I was afraid of being unworthy of this moment. I got so afraid that I kneeled beneath a tree, trembling. I placed my hands on my knees, lowered my head, and whispered to whatever was there:

“I come in peace. I surrender. I am no threat to you. I only seek truth.”

The animals approached. I realized they were dogs, the guardians of the sacred ceremony. Perhaps they felt my fear or were trying to protect the sacred ceremonial circle. I felt them circling, sniffing, sensing. Their growls softened. Their energy changed. It was as if they saw me, not just as a human, but as a spirit visitor, humbly entering their sacred night, respecting the space.

The ceremony continued in the distance. I dared not enter, I was not invited. Yet I was called. So I remained outside, kneeling beneath the tree, a silent witness to the divine.

The Sky Opened

Above me, the stars stretched beyond anything I had ever seen. Thousands of them. Shooting stars rained down as if the universe were speaking in light. The Shaman’s chants wrapped around me like warm air. His voice was no longer just a sound, it was a bridge. A dialogue with the Creator.

I felt it, deeply, unequivocally.

God was there. He/she/it was there.

Not as an idea. Not as a distant belief. But as presence. As breath. As love.

I did not question it. I didn’t need to.

Around the chôça, people drifted like shadows, some were Yawanawá, others seekers like us. One man sat sobbing on a bench. Another gazed upward, as if the stars were singing back. Later, the women performed a quick hapé ritual by candlelight. They were glowing, vibrating with something ancient and sacred.

I sat for hours soaking up this energy. Outside. Unseen. Uninvited. But deeply moved.

I didn’t need to be part of the ceremony, I was already inside it.

Eventually, I returned to my hammock to get more sleep. The fever still hummed, but my soul was quiet. The night had given me something no medicine could.

The Morning After

The sun returned gently. We gathered for breakfast. Someone casually mentioned a ceremony had taken place the night before, asking if any of us had gone.

I said nothing.

That moment was too holy to dilute with small talk. I had not entered the chôça, but I had been there, in spirit, in silence.

Later, the fever surged again. My skin itched violently. Flies followed like shadows. My body was breaking, and my spirit wavered. I began contemplating leaving early. My business partner, Vola, was equally frayed. Our tensions collided. Words turned sharp. Survival was testing the edges of our alliance.

I remember the indigenous household that welcomed us into her home, Julia, the heart and guardian of the household. There was something maternal and strong about her presence, like the spirit of the forest itself had taken human form.

She noticed the way I moved, the heat radiating from my body, the subtle pain in my breath. Without words, she sensed my struggle, and with quiet concern in her eyes, she offered me antibiotics from her modest medicine collection. Her gesture was full of care, a bridge between ancient wisdom and modern necessity.

But something in me said no. Not out of pride or fear, but from a place of surrender. I was here to feel it all, the ache, the healing, the ceremony of the body itself.

Instead, she ordered our boatrider to cut a fresh pineapple, golden and fragrant, as if sunlight had been hidden within its flesh. She handed it to me in silence. I ate slowly, each bite cooling my fevered spirit. It was more than fruit, it was medicine from the land, sweet and alive.

The Child and the Mirror of Souls

There was a moment, quiet and tender, in the middle of the day, when the child who had been crying—her voice like the echo of an ancient sorrow—came near.

She stood close, eyes wide with innocence and curiosity, her small frame barely reaching my waist. There was something familiar in her presence, as though she carried a pain I had once known, or perhaps still carried quietly within me.

She didn’t speak. She just looked.

And so I knelt down slowly, meeting her gaze, and gently placed my palm against hers. Her skin was soft and warm, pulsing with life and mystery.

I whispered as if I were a child:

“Look… we are in different stages of life, you and I. But we are both walking the soul’s journey. Beneath the surface, beyond age, beyond language—we are the same. Don’t worry about the struggles this human life tries to accumulate. They are not yours to carry forever.”

Her eyes didn’t look away. She felt the words. Not with her mind, but with something deeper; a knowing beyond years.

And then I stood up, softly, and walked away.

Not out of distance, but to honor the silence that follows sacred moments.

Departure from Mutum Village 

Later, I spoke with Teresa, our guide. With calm grace, she made the necessary calls, arranging the boat and the long taxi back to Rio Branco. Vola chose to stay and continue toward new tribes. I, on the other hand, left, aching but lighter.

Our goodbyes to Julia’s family were quiet, but steeped in something eternal. There were no grand gestures, no long farewells, just the kind of parting that lives in the heart’s memory, soft and enduring.

Julia, strong and gentle, embraced me. Her arms were warm with the spirit of a mother, a healer, a guardian of sacred ground. As she pulled away, she looked into my eyes—not just at me, but through me, as if she saw the roads I had yet to walk.

With a voice that carried the echo of her ancestors, she whispered:

“God bless your soul.”

Not “good luck” or “safe travels.” But a blessing for the soul—for the invisible journey, the one beyond the body, beyond the fever, beyond the jungle.

And in that moment, I knew something within me had shifted. I wasn’t just leaving a village. I was being sent forward with a prayer stitched into my spirit.

As the boat cut once more through the sacred waters, I felt the weight lift. My fever began to dissipate, the itching eased, and I breathed more fully. I almost reconsidered my departure, but the path had already rearranged itself.

This was not just a return, it was a release. I was carrying more than just a fever. I had been digesting the jungle herself, her darkness, her light, her medicine. I was being rebalanced. Ayahuasca, the spirit of the Huni Kuin, the rhythm of the forest, all of it was inside me now.

And in that moment of stillness on the river, I smiled.

I had come seeking stories.

But I was leaving as one.

To be continued..

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