Who Knew a Journey Into Shamanism Could Start in Vegas?
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Who Knew a Journey Into Shamanism Could Start in Vegas?

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shamanismIf you had asked me to define Reiki two months ago, I probably would have said it was some sort of martial art or maybe an interior design methodology, like Feng Shui. This is pretty pathetic, given I live in Los Feliz—a juicing, hipster, vegan, yoga-obsessed neighborhood of LA—and there’s a Reiki spot around the corner from my apartment. But I’ve just never given too much of a shit about the healing arts. In fact, when my first sponsor in AA talked about visiting a shaman to clear up her energy, I started to question her credibility.

Things have since changed for me. It all started in Vegas.

About a month ago, I drove out to Sin City to write a story on this alternative recovery home that’s doing some ostensibly wacky things, like floatation therapy, Qigong, Reiki and kambo, to keep addicts clean and drunks sober. The guy who started it, Justin Hoffman, happens to be a badass open format DJ who’s killed it on the Vegas strip for some time. He specifically designed the recovery home to function as a sort of Ibogaine aftercare spot.

As part of my research, I chatted with both him and his head healer Tishara Cousino, a stunning brunette with the complexion of Snow White who once graced the pages of Playboy. The two made a fascinating pair, and I was tickled to meet such interesting people. So when they suggested I try a plant medicine called hapé, I just had to go through with it because I wanted to be as cool as them. Plus, I have a lot of psychological problems.

So what the hell is hapé? It’s a mix of pulverized tobacco and some herbs that shamans in the Amazon have used for thousands of years to excise dark entities from one’s person. Or aura. Or chakra. The “sacred snuff” engenders a sort of spiritual catharsis, one that settles the psyche, opens the heart and allows for great healing.

Now I’ve never snorted anything—nothing in my entire life. Cocaine never interested me because I knew I would immediately get addicted and I didn’t want to have a “problem.” Of course I binge drank and inhaled bowls of weed on top of lots of vodka with religiousness. At the time I believed that was par for the course for a 20-something living in LA with a penchant for the literary arts.

It didn’t occur to me that the hapé could have been laced with something unsavory—I really trusted Justin and Tishara. I don’t really know why since they were veritable strangers, but my spidey senses told me they were on the up-and-up. And Justin had a bunch of really cute rescue dogs, one that jumped up on me and licked my face when I entered the house, so I figured he wasn’t trying to kill me or get me high. So he blows this shit up my nose, and it burns horribly in my sinuses, but I didn’t flinch. Over the years, I’ve had many parts of my body pierced, so the pain from hapé didn’t bother me. It certainly didn’t compare to the agony of having a two-gauge needle shoved into the cartilage of my upper ear.

“Breathe in the medicine,” Justin said. I obeyed, and then my nose began to run like crazy and that’s when he told me the entities were fleeing my body. “If you need to spit, use the bucket.”

I didn’t have to spit for some reason, although I began to feel kind of queasy and dry heaved a few times, but apparently that’s normal as well. Within a few more minutes, I felt light-headed and very clear-minded, all of my neuroses shutting down—my mind was silent, still and peaceful, and yet I was very present, very in control of myself and my nervous system. I’ve never experienced anything like it.

“You’ll start getting downloads, now,” he told me. At that point, part of me thought Okay, I’ve really gone down the rabbit hole with these people.

“Downloads,” Justin explained, are the words of timeless wisdom that pop into your consciousness when you do ibogaine or the hapé or ayahuasca or any kind of plant medicine. I’ve had this experience during the hypnogogic sleep, that state where your mind hangs between wakefulness and oblivion. Often I get answers to all of my inner conflicts when in this state, usually through a very clear and rational voice, this higher inner wisdom. The problem is, I never remember these thoughts. But this might explain the “downloads” from ibogaine, as it’s said to engender a waking state of REM.

I received one download on hapé. This very firm voice, neither male nor female, declared authoritatively “You are not flawed.” That was it. It might not seem like a big deal, but since I feel I must apologize for my existence every three minutes, something that annoys people, the download made me cry.

For days I felt lighter, my vibrational field jacked up, and my negative thoughts vanished. The experience impacted me to such a degree, I thought maybe I should take this esoteric healing crap seriously. I have plenty of problems. I’ve attempted suicide many times, and should probably be dead.  All my psychotherapy and even my bipolar meds haven’t seemed to curb this tendency to trip into the heart of darkness every now and again.

So why not go to a Reiki master? Why not burn incense? Why not even go to church?

Thankfully, I have a cousin-in-law who practices the healing arts. She’s new to the family, a Reiki practitioner and spiritual counselor who I immediately took to when we first met. Knowing that some people in the healing biz might want to rip me off, I thought it best to approach her before hitting the Reiki spot around the corner.

This was a very wise move. She offered to help me (for free) and has led me down a journey of self-discovery unlike anything I’ve expected. She’s also teaching me how to perform Reiki so I can clear out negative energy from both myself and my home. This is good, because when I first came back from Vegas I got all this sacred white sage and burned so much of it throughout the apartment all my precious white linens became dingy with a fine layer of ash. Plus I couldn’t breathe too well—my lungs wheezed like when I used to smoke. I’ve since cut back on the stuff.

In fact, I’m so desperate to clear off whatever demonic entities are sucking at my soul I went to church with my friend the other day for the first time in like 16 years. Granted, it was at the Armenian Apostolic Church where I can’t understand a word of the stuff because they talk in the tongue of my ancestors—hence my ability to tolerate the service. But I like that priests in those bejeweled robes and crowns spray you with incense and bless you in the Name of Christ. And they serve some really yummy kebabs after the service, along with kadayif. I even tagged along with a pal to a Yom Kippur service yesterday, as the temple is very welcoming to gentiles. We set “intentions” for the Jewish new year. It’s year 5777, so I hear it’ll be a lucky one.

I’ve written over and over and over about my atheism—or non-theism—so it’s a big deal for me to open my mind and heart to the healing arts. Who knew I would become a sort of quasi-believer in Vegas, of all places?

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About Author

Tracy Chabala is a freelance writer for many publications including the LA Times, LA Weekly, Smashd, VICE and Salon. She writes mostly about food, technology and culture, in addition to addiction and mental health. She holds a Master's in Professional Writing from USC and is finishing up her novel.