TAKING FLIGHT
“Remember that just because you hit bottom doesn’t mean you have to stay there.”
— ROBERT DOWNEY JR.
“If you never fail, that means you never tried to do something impossible.”
— POLLY WHITTAKER, POLLY: SEX CULTURE REVOLUTIONARY
W E WOKE in darkness, silent and somber. Any traces of affection had vanished. We were in survival mode.
Chor wore a festive Hawaiian shirt and bright shorts. With his hardened expression and shady demeanor, he looked like an escaped prisoner posing as a tacky American tourist.
The taxi brought us to the bus station. Chor was immersed in his music, his smartphone, his virtual world. His enormous headphones served as an iron shield that isolated him from the rest of the world—and from me.
Every time I had to mention a logistical detail or ask him a question, he’d flip his headphones off one ear dramatically and suck his teeth, irritated and inconvenienced. I trimmed down our interactions to the bare minimum. Just get there.
At the airport, he pushed past a couple people, muttering under his breath, “Get the fuck out of the way.” Offended or confused looks would follow from people who almost heard him.
“Chor, take it easy, baby.”
Past security. Bathroom break. Five minutes...seven minutes. Fuck! Not again!
Ten minutes. Heart pounding. Breath shallow.
That’s it. I’m calling airport security.
Finally, Chor walked out, with a clear and even stride.
“What the fuck?” I gasped. “Ten minutes? Did you DO anything?”
“I took a BIG SHIT! And I was looking at my phone while I did it. Get off my back. I’m not doing any drugs. Let’s go,” he said sourly and strode off ahead of me.
Your words don’t mean anything.
My heart wouldn’t take this panicked pace much longer.
Just get there.
On the plane, I leaned onto his shoulder. I reached for his hand. I was met with dead weight. He was unresponsive. Eyes closed. Music blasting. Alive, but not there.
Don’t take it personally, I advised myself. He’s just making it one breath to another.
Just get there.
“What am I gonna ask?” Chor asked softly on the plane.
“What?” I asked, just slipping into sleep.
“I’m just thinking about what in the world I should ask...the Most High.”
He’s engaging. He’s going to give it a shot. Grateful, I silently celebrated.
“Yeah, I was wondering the same thing. What in the world do you ask the Supreme?”
While he contemplated, I turned away, hunched over my journal, and unleashed a torrent of words. “Are you writing about me?” he probed. “What are you writing?”
“I’m in a process. It’s not for you yet.”
Everything started to pour out. Our story. Our sickness. It was my first peaceful moment of self-reflection in a long time.
Venting into my journal cleansed my mind. I could feel fresh space for the cosmic questions to form.
We left the plane travel weary, anxious, hopeful, and desperate.
We walked up to the customs desk. Chor whipped off one side of the headphones so he could hear, looking like an asymmetrical alien. “What brings you to Panama?” the man behind the customs desk asked us politely, as he scanned us from head to toe. Chor barely passed as a functional human.
“Vacation?”
“Yeah,” Chor said, rough and robotic.
Salvation, I wanted to say.
Julia had told us that our shuttle driver would be waiting for us with a sign that read Iboga Sanctuary. After exiting the baggage claim area, we looked around. No sign.
We went outside into the tropical night air, searching.
“Chor, you HAVE to tell them if you took any more,” I whispered, vowing to make that question the last act of the warden in me.
Chor didn’t answer me. “God, I hope that ends after we do this medicine,” he whispered spitefully.
“Yeah, me too! Seriously!” I screamed under my breath.
Where was our sign?
Then I saw Chor walking purposefully forward. He outstretched his hand. There was Mopunga himself, the shaman, in a baseball cap, polo shirt, and cargo shorts, smiling kindly at us. No pomp. No entourage. No sign.
They shook hands. Chor actually seemed enthusiastic. “Hey Mopunga! It’s you, in the flesh! Good to meetcha. Good to meetcha.”
“Yeah, so good to meet you! Welcome!” Mopunga responded warmly.
I wouldn’t have thought the head honcho of the retreat center would be our driver, but I’d soon learn why he had to be there.
“You...READY?” Mopunga asked us, excitedly. His words seemed loaded and multilayered: Ready to go? Ready for life? Ready for miracles?
We packed up the SUV and headed out into the night, through 30 minutes of jungle roads and small towns. We conversed with Mopunga about the medicine, drugs, and detox. Chor opened up to him immediately. I hadn’t heard him engage in such lively conversation in weeks.
“So, you ready to be free of your addiction?” Mopunga asked Chor point-blank.
“Yeah. I’m ready!” Chor said, solid.
“When you’re addicted, you are a slave, man,” Mopunga said as he glanced over at Chor. I’d never heard it worded just so, but that was the raw truth.
“Yeah, that is true.” Chor said, contemplative.
We brought up Chor’s friend Jake and his less than ideal experience. “Yes, it’s SO important to have a guide with iboga...a true guide, who knows this medicine,” Mopunga affirmed, live and in person.
“So, you have a 70% success rate for addicts in recovery?” I asked, probing for the current stats.
“Actually it’s about an 80% success rate without relapse so far. The deciding factor is if people really want to heal. The 20% that relapse were pressured to come here by loved ones. They weren’t ready. A lot of kids are pushed here by their parents. Sometimes people wake up when they are here, but ultimately someone has to do this for themselves. Then basically it’s 100% successful.”
“So...am I going to shit myself on this medicine?” Chor asked, and then exploded with a rowdy laugh. Mopunga laughed right along with him.
“No, man, you won’t shit yourself. You’ll see.”
“So, you don’t have a driver?” I asked.
“Not this time. I needed to check you out personally. I’ve been scanning you since the airport.”
“Scanning us?” Chor asked, fascinated. I’d never heard him listen to anyone so intently, ever.
“Yes, I needed to see how much medicine to give you. The medicine tells me. Sometimes, for severe detoxes, when people are on a tight schedule of using, we have to start giving the medicine immediately, like right off the plane. You are both good for tonight. Get some rest. You will start your first journey tomorrow night at 7 o’clock,” he said confidently.
A proud old-world ranch gate welcomed us, and we drove along a short road up to a modest Mediterranean-style mansion.