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Registered: 09/15/07
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Iboga Wings
    #11247350 - 10/14/09 06:52 PM (8 years, 11 months ago)

Note: This is my story of taking iboga. I wrote this in February, after my experience.


I mixed fine gray illegal powder with a shot glass of orange juice. It didn't dissolve. The silt eyed me from the bottom, thick, resolute. It lifted its shoulders in smug ennui.

You're a poser, girl. You don't know what the hell you're doing, mixing us with frickin' orange juice? Geeze. Get a grip. Go back home, little girl. You're outta your league. This will end in death.

I gulped it. The talking powder, my depression, the last four hundred days of sidewinder pain, swallowed it whole.

While I waited, my young sons skied on five feet of powdered snow. Their dad led them down double diamond slopes, fed them greasy burgers and Cheetos, let them sleep in a double feather bed, held them willing captive in a Taos alpine lodge.

"Please take the boys this weekend. Please. I have to do something. Go somewhere. Okay? Please. Please."

He did as I asked, even though it meant canceling a job, a chance to exchange music for money. Even though we had been married for five years, divorced for eight, it was the first time I ever asked him for anything. He breathed into the phone, frustrated with my usual lack of information. He agreed, drove twenty-three hours into the bleak winter desert.

I waited for the substance to shake my body, to give me the swollen tongue, the scratchy skin I knew would first come, would signal the start of my journey. I sat in bed, on top of a brown faux-fur throw, a green Tupperware basin ready to catch vomit between my legs.

Be sure to have a sitter when you take the iboga.

I ignored the cardinal rule, the instructions written in careful Spanish. I sat alone, me and a stainless-steel barf bucket, waited for death, for life. The man who sold me the African drug mocked me from the window. I could see him, a thousand miles and two years away, a Juarez shaman, suspended in sidewalk ice. I handed him fifty American bucks for a tiny baggie filled with a bitter ground shrub said to open the gateway.

"Senorita, you need to sneak it across the border. Maybe hide it in your body. You don't want the Border Patrol to know."

He smiled, his teeth straight and narrow.

"Lady, I tell you the truth. This is not an easy drug. Be safe."

He faded. My tongue swelled.

Fourteen months ago my mom died. She died at home. I held her hand. She died. Her spirit fled her body, but when it happened I would have told you I denied the existence of it, that her spirit was nothing, was talk and memory, talk and fear. She died. I squeezed her fingers, let my mouth say "I love you," but my heart said something else, said "Forget it" said "I don't believe in anything," said "You were a crappy mom."

My dad died, too, the phone close to his chest, a 9-1-1 operator pleading him to wait, to breathe. He died two months ago, while I plotted ways to get him out of my daily life. He died. My mom died. I held a bucket between my legs. I vomited.

The Thursday before I took the drug, a friend had emailed me.

"C'mon, girl, tell me something interesting. I don't have a question, you have to make up your own question. Just tell me something good."

I groaned.

I have nothing to say to you! I don't even know you, haven't met you, know nothing, know only that the last year has been death, death in my lap, in my throat. I breathe it like cigarette smoke, eat it, slices of orange death, full of mold citrus, full of invisible gallows flavor. I live death. I have nothing to say to you.

I remembered the baggie, the African drug I had purchased two years in the past, bought on a whim, the powder I thought I'd take with a man, with a new boyfriend, perhaps on a sailboat, on the sea, hours after making salt-driven love.

No boy bought my difference. No boy took me on the sea, gave me reasons to toss the kelp covering my body. They all had their own troubles, their own kelp to keep salted, keep shrouded in tide-churned water.

I removed the baggie from a locked cabinet, placed it on my dresser.

I hesitated. I don't want to be hasty. This drug is strong. It might be dangerous. That Juarez man might have lied. Maybe it's not iboga. Maybe it's poisonous.

I held the plastic in one hand, stared at the fine spray of gray pressing against the bag. My parrot saw my grief, knew the year of trial, knew I fed him peanuts and mango, caressed the undersides of his wing. He knew me better than any man, any animal. He whistled. He spoke a phrase he knew.

"Bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird birrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrd."

A truck rattled the windows, almost slid on black ice as it passed my house, my place of indecision.

The vomiting stopped. I breathed deep, smelled snow, the dead coffee left cooling on the kitchen counter, smelled the orange my stomach couldn't process. The night began, though it was eight in the morning, though my boys were shifting cold butt onto poma lift, skis trailing in morning snow. The night began, and I saw my ancestors, my favorite gramma, my mom, my dad, the silhouette of the man I knew still loved me even though his heart still churned red blood.


My  gramma  moved toward me. Her Cherokee skin shone like abalone, blue, green streaks of ivory inlaid in something hard, precious, eternal.


My body flew above the bed, the Tupperware forgotten.


All of my dead relatives chanted me home, chanted me over the Sangre de Christo Mountains, toward my living boys. My house shrunk to a pinpoint, to an elapsed monument of grief. I flew. I flew. My parrot flew beside me. The men I've loved and lost waved us on our journey, waved us toward heaven.

It's a week later. It's the first week of February. It's the weekend. My parrot rests, eats a salted peanut. My boys build a snow fort. The men I've loved do what they do, watch the Super Bowl, click mouse against pad. I stand in my kitchen, consider whether to toss the empty baggie in the trash. I resist, stick it in the junk drawer with the birthday candles, with the postcards I bought on the old Route 66.

This is the way of my world. I live. I die. Nothing lasts forever.

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Registered: 08/26/05
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Re: Iboga Wings [Re: littlebirdie]
    #11263794 - 10/17/09 04:25 AM (8 years, 11 months ago)

Supernatural family and time-overlap motifs seem especially common for iboga; like holographic POSTcards dancing before your mobile eyes hanging in the ceiling of past present and future. Thanks for a special, well-written report about a rare drug.

[Edit: link correction]

Edited by Lakefingers (10/17/09 02:47 PM)

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Re: Iboga Wings [Re: Lakefingers]
    #11264408 - 10/17/09 10:30 AM (8 years, 11 months ago)

Lakefingers, thank you kindly for reading my report and leaving such a thoughtful comment.

Some months later, I feel as if my body still walks through temporal shifts in the ether. I remember bits and pieces of the iboga experience that I forgot; I remember snapshots from the perspective of the person I was many years ago. It is both disjointing and integrating all at once.

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taken by gravity
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Re: Iboga Wings [Re: littlebirdie]
    #11292287 - 10/21/09 03:51 PM (8 years, 10 months ago)


best trip report i've read in a long long while!
thank you so much for sharing this honest report, at once it left me deeply satisfied and craving to know more, to get deeper into your psyche and travel along with you.

thank you!


:mushdance::sanpedro::peyote::mushroom2: :heart: Shr:supershroom::supershroom:mery :heart: :mushroom2::peyote::sanpedro::mushdance:
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      :sun: Please help spread live Salvia Divinorum :sun:

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irregular verb
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Re: Iboga Wings [Re: Simisu]
    #11307567 - 10/23/09 07:15 PM (8 years, 10 months ago)

I agree,
a supercharged life watched and reported by a super smart bird.
glad I logged on tonight!

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Registered: 10/25/09
Posts: 197
Re: Iboga Wings [Re: littlebirdie]
    #11326891 - 10/26/09 09:06 PM (8 years, 10 months ago)

Very in depth, well written.. Thanks for this, Iboga is one of those enigmas that good reports are sometimes hard to come by. I hope to find some someday.

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Opened Eyes, Opened Mind

Registered: 05/29/09
Posts: 78
Last seen: 6 years, 10 months
Re: Iboga Wings [Re: mrkite210]
    #11352021 - 10/30/09 03:34 PM (8 years, 10 months ago)

That was a very interesting trip report.  Thank you for sharing it, it sounds like it was a fulfilling experience for you.

An open mind never hurt anyone except those that tried to close it again

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Not Knowing
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Re: Iboga Wings [Re: littlebirdie]
    #11370335 - 11/02/09 05:45 PM (8 years, 10 months ago)

Very interesting. Thank you for sharing.

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milk man
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Re: Iboga Wings [Re: Truth_Within]
    #11376328 - 11/03/09 01:39 PM (8 years, 10 months ago)

Great write up, i hope to try iboga one day, but not any time soon

thanks for the report:thumbup:


I love Psilocybin.  :shrug:

Psilocybin, LSD, Ketamine, Mescaline, 2C-E, 5-Meo-DMT, DXM, LSA, Marijuana, Alcohol, Heroin/Opiates, 4-Aco-DMT, Methylone, 25I-NBOMe, Cocaine/Crack, amphetamines, Pharms, PCP, Benzos, DMT/Aya, Salvia, MDMA, Nitrous, MXE, 2C-C

Exile Nation Project

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