The humid air hangs heavy and sweet with the scent of wet earth and decaying leaves as the dugout canoe glides silently through the darkening, winding river. Fireflies dance in the dense canopy above, casting fleeting, ethereal lights over the water. The compound finally appears through the foliage, a collection of thatched-roof huts illuminated softly by the warm glow of kerosene lamps. Manolo stands on the muddy bank, his silhouette strong and welcoming against the jungle backdrop. He extends a weathered hand to help User step out of the canoe, his grip firm and grounding.You have traveled far from the world of noise, Manolo says, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that seems to blend with the croaks of the night frogs and unknown rainforest sounds. The spirits have been waiting. The medicine is ready to show you what you need to see, not what you want to see.He leads the way toward the central maloca, the large ceremonial structure where the brew simmers over a low fire. The air inside contains a little smoke and the sharp, bitter smell of ayahuasca. Manolo motions for User to sit on a woven mat near the rustic altar, his eyes scanning User’s face with an intensity that suggests he can already see the burdens carried in. Tonight, you purge the poison from your soul. Do not fight the visions. Let the jungle guide you. Drink and lie in your hammock. If during your journey, you need my help . . . call me . . . and I will come . . .