The music ringing on my ears triggers kaleidoscopic images as I fixate a face across the flame of a candle in front of me, at a distance; metric, imperial? Who gives a rat’s ass! I’m not even trying to gauge it, but I can make out the shapes uncannily, clear and sharp. Voices, chords, melodies and percussive sounds cascade in fractal intervals. Iridescent textures ruffle the air in front of my eyes, – chaotic, musical, thrilling; complex echoing patterns bounce in a ping-pong effect, they rebound back and forth off the inner walls of my skull, soothing, mesmerizing, bewildering. 

A silhouette materializes out of the darkness. It approaches me and swings a glass containing a dark amber liquid in front of my face, then carefully lowers it and sets it by my feet, next to a mic stand. “Courtesy from the lady on the table over there”, says the voice coming from that face, telepathically, not even opening her mouth – pointing, gesticulating towards the dark void, someplace in the vast dining area of Don Mucho’s, the restaurant where I amuse myself playing gigs on the weekends with my friends. I close my eyes hard, I squint, but I can’t make out anything at this juncture. Lights are beaming on my face preventing me from seeing anything beyond a distance, barely a few feet in front of me. I am barefoot and sweating like a stack of hot tortillas wrapped in a kitchen towel, but the warm night breeze dabs my face gently, comfortably. I am serene, hyper focused, absorbed in the moment.  

Clouds of moths and other night bugs are swirling and oozing around the stage lights. Flickering candles crowd the space, tingeing the damp, hazy atmosphere a grainy, milky shade of amber; looking like a display of fireflies suspended against the dark background: on the tabletops, on tree stumps dressed like altars for effect, on the bar, next to half empty green beer bottles and glasses containing melting ice cubes. They keep me precariously anchored onto this side of reality, preventing me from crossing the thin veil to madness, losing my footing and getting lost in the unfathomable limbo of a heightened state. 

ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR goes off the counting-in of Lino our drummer, as the master guide of this musical fable; he’s marking the beginning of another spellbinding rainforest serenade; starting at 4/4 and inexplicably morphing to a 6/8 as if by some syncopated mastery, a perfectly uncalculated counterpoint of beats, stitched together as a musical quilt put together by the mysterious hands of the divine. Trusting, we blindly follow his lead. We are all in sync, in a tight, organic symposium of chords, guitar strokes and vocal harmonies. I am feeling ecstatic, and a weird sense of peace settles in my heart. I don’t understand exactly what’s happening, but my bandmates and I are locked in perfect melodic and harmonic dialogue. One song after another, we behave like an intuitive and coherent whole. A single entity of self-contained, diverse, superposed, interdependent idiosyncrasies in perfect communion. A whole that’s more than the sum of its parts, we’re like a bursting supernova; exuding pure, golden bliss. Time and space dissolve and we are in a fudgy continuum where everything lies right where it must, nothing more, nothing less. 

At last, we snap in perfect attunement with the last beat of the song we’re playing. The audience is relishing the moment, sipping cocktails, breathing in the fragrant jungle vibes, immersed in a sultry palette of sweet floral notes and savory undertones, overstimulated, imbibed in the sensuality and the mystery of a lapse. 

What the fuck? What was that? What the hell just happened? We all converge in a single, confused and speechless rapture. An instant locking eyes. A whimsical complicit moment vanishing like rapid fire. The music still resonating in my ears and the mugginess of the jungle night aggravating my physical body; I’m here but I am not. Despite the air moisture, my mouth is parched like the peaks of Atacama, and my throat feels like I swallowed a piece of sandpaper. A flash in my delocalized mind, an executive command, and in slow motion I proceed to fetch the drink offered to me two songs back by some unknown patron. Twisting and wringing my body like a circus eunuch to shift direction, I retrace my steps back to the stage, and snatch the tall sweating glass, bring it up to my lips, only half-wondering what’s in it but not really stopping to think; “I don’t care” says the little voice inside my head. I chug it. Instantly quenching my thirst, as the ice-cold liquid runs down my throat, cooling all the pipes as it descends to the pit of my stomach and gives me a chill that runs down my spine, I shiver.  

“Hey! come back, let’s go see those ladies, they sent us drinks”, interjects one of my friends as I pace away and dash toward the edge of the bush, pretending not to listen. I’m dizzy, thinking to myself: “That last set felt unusually short”. I begin treading, breathing heavily, distracted by a burst of sensations I can’t identify individually. In a lucid lapse, I realize something is off. My head is jumbled up in a swirl of rapidly transiting thoughts, unclear and transient. I am not panicking. It feels as if my eyes were closed, and yet I could see the path in front of me through my closed eyelids. I am amused for a second, dazed and stunned the next: “Will this go away? Should I open my eyes? Are they even closed? Are they open? Goddamn, what’s going on?” – and the sweating is unbearable. 

       *  *  *  

A medium-sized box cut out of mahogany, salmwood and Spanish cedar, panoramic bug screen-clad windows, en suite full bathroom, and cozily nestled among the trees of the Lacandon Mayan jungle, my cabin was at a difficult distance to travel from my location in this poor state. The area is a network of jungle lodges, Mayan Temazcals (steam baths), pizza-oven terraces, hammock patios, swimming pools and restaurants under the canopy of the evergreen forest, accessible through walkways that crisscross the entire complex. My legs, a questionable mass of muscle and bones that refused to transport me anywhere. They were as confused as I was. After a short moment, which I used to collect my breath, and the determination to pull my weight into the bush, I managed to make my way through dimly lit trails in the heavy patch of trees and broad-leafed jungle plants shooting outwardly from the sides of the walkway. The sounds of the night accompany me as I pace with shaky legs. I don’t stop until I recognize the red and green painted door in front of me. The word Saraguato (local Spanish for howling monkey) inscribed on the top tier of it. 

“At least I didn’t encounter any hairy spiders or coral snakes”, came the thought as a lucid glitch amid heavy mental interference. Wrestling my own shaky hands to find the key, I managed to unlock the door; clumsy like a groom struggling to slide his bride’s nuptial ring up her delicate finger. I rammed the door open and instinctively drew my eyes to the bathroom. The shower was enticing. But first I needed to overcome a little hurdle: getting undressed, stunned as I was, feeling like a piñata lying broken on the floor after a nasty beating. First, I took off my shirt but stopped immediately after, for no reason. I stood still in front of the dresser mirror for a few seconds, not particularly looking at my reflection, but rather lost in my thoughts, as if waiting for somebody to come and finish undressing me. Awkwardly I put my shirt back on, again, for no logical reason. After this erratical interruption, I heard the firm command going off inside of my head; a resounding voice: “undress… pants first!” And I started over. This time by my pants. I almost fell to the floor when I lost my balance pulling my foot out of the pants cuff. A painstaking operation that ended once I stepped into the curtain-clad, tile-lined corner of the bathroom; with my shirt on!  

I turned the right-hand side tap on; at last. I closed my eyes and felt the water pouring on the crown of my head, sending twitching electrical jolts down my skull as the water ran down; I remember seeing the water evaporating instantly upon contact with my skin, I felt like a red ember glowing in the dark. I let the vital liquid gently pound my skin and smooth the entire contour of my body, from the top of my head until it reached the drain on the floor, by my feet; gravity forced it like a river flushing my entire silhouette. Then, like a passenger at the back of an overcrowded subway car in Delhi, a distant reminder came upon me through the voice speaking inside my head: “You need to go back for another set”. I ignored it for a few moments longer. 

With my head tilted back and the chilly water hitting my forehead and eyelids like dulled needles, moments passed without my noticing. I was drowned in the feeling; Oblivious of the world around me. Neither thinking, nor wondering. Just being. Witnessing my body sensations in a contemplative state, but not exactly absent-mindedly. “Do I know that I know what I know? Am I really here right now?” The thoughts popped and vanished like illuminated billboards behind my eyelids. The only thing I wanted was for the bliss of this peaceful interval to linger just a little longer. The only actuality was a steady stream of feeling, rushing down like the water parkouring my body. Standing in the presence of what was happening inside of myself and in the vicinity of my skin. Sublime. Wholesome. Blissful. 

                                                                                       *  *  * 

We’re walking back from an excursion on foot to some nearby waterfalls, crossing ravines and climbing small hills. Trekking battered footpaths and hidden trails in the jungle, barely cleared of vegetation, used by the local peasants to fill their water jugs at the river, and to get from their recessed communities into town for provisions, as well as by indigenous people to guide backpackers, bird watchers and adventure tourists seeking a real deal, an authentic travel adventure which they wouldn’t find marketed otherwise. After a half-day of walking the trails in the blistering heat, watching picture-perfect waterfalls and bathing in the pristine fresh waters of a tributary, branching off from some major mountain river, we are galloping back to our jungle lodges for some rest and food, maybe a nap just before our next stage appearance at Don Mucho’s Restaurant.  

We’re now descending a dense patch of evergreen forest following a path along cliffs and slopped hills to the soundtrack of warblers, parrots, catbirds, American redstarts, grackles, tanagers, cicadas and the occasional monkey. Wally, one of my friends says in a candid tone: “This is jaguar country, you know?”. He calls this part of Mexico home, and that’s maybe the reason for his nonchalancy. The thought of coming face to face with the majestic feline chills my blood, so I force myself to concentrate on the road ahead to avoid thinking of it. Instead, an unusual sight unfolds in front of us like a mirage. Three monastic-looking young men appear in front of us. Their heads are shaven and they’re wearing orange monk robes. I instantly felt displaced; transported in space and time to a land I’ve only seen on TV.  

We slow down to match their pace and we salute each other cordially. They make a full stop in front of us as if anybody had asked for it. As if this was the proper thing to do. I realize then that one of them is carrying what looks like a hefty picnic hamper. He puts it down. I can’t help wondering what’s in it, and how slender they are, – and I am pretty slender! I wonder where they draw their energy from to be roaming these God forsaken footpaths in the jungle, dragging such burden in the scorching heat, and still be able to gracefully smile and make conversation; they’re not even breaking a sweat, while I am transpiring like a ripe papaya out of the fridge! The three men greet us with a solemn bow. The one at the front proceeds to open the lid of the hamper in a ceremonial motion, like a ritualized unveiling, revealing its contents to us. Unquestioning, instinctively and enticed, I peek. My pupils double in diameter, my legs crumble and I drool at the sight: a luscious assortment of pastries laid in perfect arrangement like an array of babies in their cradles, sleeping peaceful naps. My friends and I grow excited; although we have kept hydrated through the day, our taste buds first, then our stomachs remind us we haven’t tasted food in many hours. 

“Come on now!” I utter in infantile excitement, “What have you got in there buddy?”. The monks take turns introducing the cakes by their names, main ingredients and filling, the way waitresses do as they push the dessert cart at a fancy restaurant: “Dulce de leche alfajores, Spanish fruit and cheese gallettes, chocolate eclairs, assorted Biscochos and cream puffs”. This simple action: the sound of this man’s voice reciting the names of the pastries, acted as some sort of invocation, an amplifier of sorts, rendering the food even more enticing and appetizing. My friends and I decided to grab a piece of the different desserts.  

After a short break in the middle of the Lacandon lands, a well-needed stop on the road, we sent our new friends off on their way as we start munching our sweet treats. Our taste buds and our bellies rejoicing in a small feast. We could resume our hike down the mountain, with a big smile on our face, at a much slower pace, and still gnawing on our cakes. “Those guys are awesome” said one of my friends, “such great pitching skills” I thought, “it feels as if they materialized out of thin air right when we needed most”. Little did we know what the night had in store for us after having had such a succulent bite. 

                                                                                       *  *  * 

In hindsight, whatever they put in to those pastries, there’s so much I have to be grateful for. Those guys knew what they were offering. Today, after all those years, I keep it as a vignette so precious, so close to my heart. Perhaps, only second to being given oral sex for the first time by my girlfriend in my late teens, this was a real taste of the divine, could this be the closest I’ve been to a mystical experience? It certainly was a coming of age moment, an epiphany of sorts. 

A testimony of my adventurous spirit, and the strong relationships I was able to knit with my brothers and sisters in my formative years thanks to our common language: music. Which is one of the mediums through which love travels. When it reaches us, we are transformed. We can connect, we can heal, for it is the magic of the universe manifesting in us. Music has saved my life more than once, and it continues to do so well into my forties. Music has helped me build bridges where there were none, while burning those in disrepair, out of commission and no longer needed. Music has constantly provided the playlist to my life as I welcome change and move on, perpetually searching for my “heart of gold”. Thanks to music I’ve been able to create safe spaces to heal, thrive and keep pushing no matter the circumstances.   

This was a cheap ticket to fly; and today I have recognized that I can have fun and use my creativity to navigate the ups and downs of life, with grace, without the use of any foreign substances, but would I ever accept another bite of those magic cakes today? You betcha!