A Witch's Memoir 2
Helen Guerrero continues her
amazing story on
this page, where
we follow her
travels from India
to Australia and to South America. Her narrative has been serialised in
weekly instalments.
14: The shock of our lives
I arrive in Keylong in the afternoon and head straight for the post office, but there is no message for me. At this point, all my strength dissolves and I sit down on the step, surrounded by a crowd of Indians, and bawl my eyes out. Well, in India there is nothing worse than a woman crying and it is the quickest way to get help, although I did not know this at the time.
Immediately, a young man steps forward, asks me what is wrong, and offers to take me to his father’s hotel. I dry my tears, although they threaten again when I arrive at the hotel to find the pompous English walking party staring down their noses at me. I dump my things, pull my shoulders back and head out to watch the full moon rise.
Raising my spirits a little, I walk into town for dinner, and who do I see walking towards me but Jon and Glen! Of course, they hadn't left me a message, they knew they would bump into me - didn't I have any faith? United, all my worries slipped away and they even carried my bags for me to the temple where they were staying, under the smiling eyes of a true silent Indian baba.
Some days later we head south to Manali, and settle in a guest house to have a holiday. Glen decided he was ready to go off by himself for an adventure and, sadly, we said goodbye. Jon and I were still enjoying relaxing into the pace of the Indian side of the Himalayas, and took walks around the region.
One afternoon, we were having afternoon tea at the guest house when a young Indian boy arrived, looking for us. He had a message for us from Glen, and we received the shock of our lives. Glen had been shot, and was in hospital in Kulu with his arm amputated. I could hardly breathe, panic brimmed over in me and I felt myself become hysterical. Jon kept his head, and calmed me, and gathered our things together to go down into Manali and catch a bus south to the hospital.
That was the longest journey of my life, held up even longer by heavy rain. We arrived in the hospital to find Glen, a giant of a man, French, stoic and confident, in a pool of tears, so grateful was he to see us. To my immense relief, his arm was intact, the boy must have had poor English to get the message quite that wrong.
Glen sent us immediately to buy pain relief; we were in a government hospital, and nothing was free. As Glen had given all his money to the taxi driver who had brought him in to the hospital, he had had no painkillers for 24 hours. When the surgeons had removed the home-made cube of lead that was the bullet, five men had to hold him down.
As he relaxed with the onset of the pain relief, he told his story. He had travelled up Parvati Valley (pictured above) by bus and got off at a village called Manicurun, an hour or two up the valley. He recognised the name of the village from his guidebook but had no recollection of what the book had said. In retrospect, we discovered the book suggested avoiding this village as it was a known site for Italian mafia to buy large amounts of hashish and export it from a nearby town.
Glen arrived here, spent the afternoon looking around, met a local who said he was welcome to put up a hammock on his land. Glen, being the adventurer he is, would not stay in a guest house, and we had not yet learned that in India people claim to own things that belong to a family member, no matter how distant the relation.
We believe this land must have been close to a cannabis plantation. Glen read a little by a candle, and fell asleep. He awoke to the shot. The bullet entered his arm, missing his head by inches. He was shocked, disorientated, in pain and bleeding, and it was pitch dark. He had fallen from his hammock, and stumbled barefoot and terrified through the forest to find the village.
On arriving he tried to get someone’s attention but, perhaps due to many stoned westerners behaving erratically in their village, it took a long time before someone came to see to him. He still didn't know what was going on, only that he was in agony and bleeding. The Indian walked him 40 minutes to the nearest town, still barefoot and in pain, and put him in a taxi to take him to the government hospital in Kulu. This takes the last of his cash, and here we find him.
Immediately, a young man steps forward, asks me what is wrong, and offers to take me to his father’s hotel. I dry my tears, although they threaten again when I arrive at the hotel to find the pompous English walking party staring down their noses at me. I dump my things, pull my shoulders back and head out to watch the full moon rise.
Raising my spirits a little, I walk into town for dinner, and who do I see walking towards me but Jon and Glen! Of course, they hadn't left me a message, they knew they would bump into me - didn't I have any faith? United, all my worries slipped away and they even carried my bags for me to the temple where they were staying, under the smiling eyes of a true silent Indian baba.
Some days later we head south to Manali, and settle in a guest house to have a holiday. Glen decided he was ready to go off by himself for an adventure and, sadly, we said goodbye. Jon and I were still enjoying relaxing into the pace of the Indian side of the Himalayas, and took walks around the region.
One afternoon, we were having afternoon tea at the guest house when a young Indian boy arrived, looking for us. He had a message for us from Glen, and we received the shock of our lives. Glen had been shot, and was in hospital in Kulu with his arm amputated. I could hardly breathe, panic brimmed over in me and I felt myself become hysterical. Jon kept his head, and calmed me, and gathered our things together to go down into Manali and catch a bus south to the hospital.
That was the longest journey of my life, held up even longer by heavy rain. We arrived in the hospital to find Glen, a giant of a man, French, stoic and confident, in a pool of tears, so grateful was he to see us. To my immense relief, his arm was intact, the boy must have had poor English to get the message quite that wrong.Glen sent us immediately to buy pain relief; we were in a government hospital, and nothing was free. As Glen had given all his money to the taxi driver who had brought him in to the hospital, he had had no painkillers for 24 hours. When the surgeons had removed the home-made cube of lead that was the bullet, five men had to hold him down.
As he relaxed with the onset of the pain relief, he told his story. He had travelled up Parvati Valley (pictured above) by bus and got off at a village called Manicurun, an hour or two up the valley. He recognised the name of the village from his guidebook but had no recollection of what the book had said. In retrospect, we discovered the book suggested avoiding this village as it was a known site for Italian mafia to buy large amounts of hashish and export it from a nearby town.
Glen arrived here, spent the afternoon looking around, met a local who said he was welcome to put up a hammock on his land. Glen, being the adventurer he is, would not stay in a guest house, and we had not yet learned that in India people claim to own things that belong to a family member, no matter how distant the relation.
We believe this land must have been close to a cannabis plantation. Glen read a little by a candle, and fell asleep. He awoke to the shot. The bullet entered his arm, missing his head by inches. He was shocked, disorientated, in pain and bleeding, and it was pitch dark. He had fallen from his hammock, and stumbled barefoot and terrified through the forest to find the village.
On arriving he tried to get someone’s attention but, perhaps due to many stoned westerners behaving erratically in their village, it took a long time before someone came to see to him. He still didn't know what was going on, only that he was in agony and bleeding. The Indian walked him 40 minutes to the nearest town, still barefoot and in pain, and put him in a taxi to take him to the government hospital in Kulu. This takes the last of his cash, and here we find him.
15: Cleansing our karma
We took Glen home to Manali and tried to see what we could do to help him. His arm was broken and in a cast but, of course, he refused to go home to France. He wanted to rent a house here and receive treatment at the local mission hospital. Crazy Frenchman that he is, we agreed to stay and take care of him.
The weeks stretched out, a haze of painful hospital appointments and autumnal Himalayan beauty. Eventually, Glen sent us on our way; he didn't want to hold us up, and needed some space. Though I was hurt by his rejection, he was as stubborn as a rock and so we left.
The stress of those weeks were washed away in the stunning hot springs of Parvati Valley, most especially at the sacred springs of Khirganga. This hot spring is the legendary breast milk of the Goddess Parvati, daughter of the God Himalaya, consort to Shiva, mother to Ganesh. Horrified at Ganesh's sexual antics and refusal to marry and give her a grandchild, she demanded back all the milk she gave him, striking her trident into the ground. The spring welled up from this place and flows, white and hot directly from the heights of this mountain.
It took us three days to walk to the spring and, on arrival, the snow also arrived and we enjoyed bathing in this sacred spring surrounded by pristine mountain snow. We met one of the many lost westerners at this place - a Swiss baba who had lost his toes to frostbite in the Swiss mountains and was going to stay at the springs all winter and live on prana. Even the Indian babas thought him to be crazy.
From here we descended into the plains, and entered the real India. Dusty, crazy, overpopulated, over-polluted, wow! We had been three months here now and were somewhat acclimatised by our experiences, but still... We travelled to Rajasthan (pictured below) and the desert. The stunning scenery, picture-perfect dunes and camels, the inevitable stomach sickness, and more Indian mafia, coloured our experiences here. We visited Pushka and cleansed all our karma in the sacred lake. We took an independent camel ride and came up against camel trek mafia. Jon contracted Indian belly, and I won't go into details of that experience.
Nevertheless, we found ourselves escaping the desert in the only transport that the controlling families would let us on to, the train, cattle class. If I can for a moment describe the wondrous train system of India: easily the best way to travel, if you can afford first class, or a bunk. But cattle class is an experience I shall never repeat. Stuck on a square metre of floor space by the exit door, next to an Indian toilet, on the slow train to Delhi. Eighteen hours without sleep, smelling the overflowing sanitation, constantly disturbed by people leaving the train, surrounded by staring Indians, our patience was stretched to its limit. Jon, a normally peaceful man, finally lost his temper. His eyes blazing, he stood and ranted at our fascinated audience on the incredible rudeness of Indians and their constant need to stare at foreigners.
We must have been strange indeed to these people, dread-locked as we were, dressed like ragamuffins; what they must have thought of us, I will never know. In the silence following Jon's tirade, an Indian gentleman rose and solemnly spoke in perfect cultured English. "On behalf of all Indians, I apologise. I am your servant, what do you need, and I shall fetch it for you." Humble is not a strong enough word to describe our emotions. The rest of the journey was spent drinking chai and making friends, and our faith in humanity was truly restored
The rest of our journey through India, was not as dramatic but has its own tales. Friendships, temples, wonderful food, devastating poverty and all the sites and sounds that is that crazy ancient country. I was forever changed by my time there. I learned so much about myself and other cultures and lives in those six months. I will go back again and again, perhaps with more money to spend; it is the least we can do as visitors to their land, for they need money more than I ever dreamed possible.
As for the mafia we encountered... consider the desperation of a land on the constant edge of poverty and disaster, overflowing with mouths to feed. A life there is about survival and they do what they must; I can understand and respect that. From India we travelled to Thailand and then to Australia and the incredible relief of entering a western country. Well, that feeling lasted a while until I began to encounter the lost humanity of Australia's aboriginal communities.
16: Sixth sense
My first meeting with an aboriginal was magical. I was on a train travelling north for three days to Cairns to meet up with Jon in Cedar Bay. I was taking some air, and found myself talking to an older man. I can't remember how the conversation began, but within moments we were comparing quantum physics and the ancient shamanic belief systems, as you do.
We talked for hours and I was relieved to find an aboriginal neither lost nor abused nor drunk but strong, confident and powerful. Perhaps there was no need to fear for these elders, and they were indeed more powerful than us arrogant westerners thought. This was a truth shown to me time and again.
We think, in our compassionate way, that these cultures need our help, our charity, our understanding, when in fact they are quite fine as they are. Of course, this isn't true for all people; there is a great trouble with alcoholism, diabetes and abuse. But those I met who were alcoholic - my friend Groovy, for example, from Kuranda - had their reasons. Groovy and his family were the survivors of a clan who, in the 1970s, had been rounded up and shoved off the top of the Barren Falls at Kuranda (pictured below). I challenge anyone to survive that without the numbing relief of alcohol. I witnessed Groovy drunk, at my fireside, arguing with his spirit relatives as they berated him for his drinking. I could not prove they were not there and real as you and I.
If I was to describe the spirit of Australia, it would be “alive”, with a voice as clear as a song. Every place, was alive with spirits, memories, call them what you will. The whites might dominate the culture, but the land dominates all else. If we have the ears to hear her voice, the land speaks directly to our heart.
Cedar Bay was one such place. Far north of Cape Tribulation, along a four-wheel-drive track closed most of the year, Cedar Bay welcomes only the adventurer. I had hitched from Cairns, and caught a ride with a man who lived deep into the country near Cedar Bay. Jon was at the bay, now a national park, with Bas, a friend we had made in Pushka, India. Bas had grown up there and knew the land from his childhood. They had gone in on boat and made a camp there, hidden from the rangers.
My lift put me up for the night and dropped me on the track to the bay in the morning. This "track" was pretty dodgy. There were ties in trees to guide the way, but they were few and far between. There were snakes and stinging trees and God only knows what else. Eventually, I found myself at the coast, and realised the tide was high and I would have to clamber round the rocks to reach the bay.
Cedar Bay used to be a hippie community, and the residents had gardens planted all through the rainforest. Eventually, as it was made a national park, the people were evicted but the gardens remained. Bas showed us mango, avocado, star fruit, cinnamon trees and many more. Coconuts were everywhere, and you have not tasted coconut until you have eaten a green one. Each one tastes different, some fizzy, some mild, the flesh like ice-cream, or mousse, each perfect in its own way. We fished, ate coconuts, fruit, collected water from rainforest springs, lived naked among the wildlife. I saw a ball of 50 baby snakes roll into my bed, all turn to look at me, before fleeing, terrified. I had a stand-off with a giant yellow snake on the pathway; I gave in, of course, I'm not stupid.
I found my sixth sense came alive, my awareness expand, so I would stop, millimetres from a huge web with its poisonous occupant perched calmly in its centre. I found a scorpion in my underwear seconds before pulling them up. Anyone who thinks we are superior to animals should live like that and find out how close we still are to our animalistic senses.
And I encountered another spirit here... One evening I was making chapatis on the fire while the boys were fishing, and I felt a presence. I ignored it, though felt spooked; I was alone and needed to feel safe. When the boys returned, this presence came very close to me... I spoke from my heart, and interpreted what I was hearing. He wanted to speak to Bas; he was enjoying his company here in the Bay and was glad to see him, again.
Bas, was taken aback. Indeed, his best friend had died some years back of a brain tumour, and had been buried here at the bay, their favourite place. The relief for Bas was palpable, and I like to think they go there together now for Bas died two years later of a drug overdose, and was happier there in the bay than he ever had been out in society.
17: A message of peace
After we left the bay we spent some time busking at the Kuranda market. We met many characters there, and eventually began to think of the next step. I wanted to visit Uluru, Ayers Rock (pictured below), the biggest single standing stone in the world. We heard a lot of rumours about the sacredness of the place and what was allowed there, according to aboriginal culture. Apparently people aren't meant to climb it, due to an argument between tribes long ago.
I felt drawn to it as if a gravity emanated from its heart. We had met a young couple, who had an old unregistered classic big-bottomed car, and were up for an adventure, and so the four of us set off. We travelled into the Red Desert with such faith that we would be looked after and, as usual, we were.
When we had car trouble, we were outside a petrol station. When we got a flat tyre, it went down overnight, near a dusty desert town. Sleeping rough, out in the interior of Australia, you are the closest you'll ever get to infinity. The sky stretches on forever, as does the road. Storms roll over you, strange footprints are fossilised deep in stone, birds rule the air, snakes and lizards, the earth.
I had made a commitment to this journey being a spiritual path for me, and I wished with all my heart to carry a message to the people of this land: that we, those who lived close to the earth in England, saw them, saw their troubles, and saw our part in making this history their story. I wanted to take a message of peace to them, and show that not all westerners were foreign to the sacredness of the earth.
Along the route I found a bird of prey, struck down by a car, and took a wing feather, in which I placed my heartfelt message. I carried this feather, praying into it daily, until we arrived at Uluru. We passed through the gate and entered the park, and drove into the car park. As I got out to stretch my legs, I saw an aboriginal ranger standing near to me and so, swallowing my nerves, I approached her. I spoke to her of our sadness, in my community, about the devastation wreaked by our ancestors, and spoke of our wish to send love and support to these ancient people, and handed her the feather. Well, she just looked at me and said nothing. I felt a little foolish, but I had done my job and walked away.
Later, I received a message from her. We were invited to their town, for a welcome ceremony, and to pass my message to the elders. Wow, I was pretty blown away. But the next day, when we approached the gate, a white ranger stopped us and told us we were banned from entry. I explained about the invitation, and he laughed and said the aboriginals were so naive that it was easy for us to take advantage of them, and he would not let us pass. Once again, ignorance shows its strange power to rule the minds of men.
While we were at Uluru, a man climbing the rock had a heart attack and fell off that steep climb. This happens regularly, apparently, as it is a dangerous climb, and also tapu, or prohibited due to being sacred. When we hitched away from Ayers Rock, Jon and I got two separate rides; he in a hearse with the dead man, and myself in a van with three generations of aboriginal women.
It was on this ride that I learned of the death of Princess Diana. These women were mourning her, a real princess, they called her. It was a strange ride indeed, with fly-covered kangaroo tails on the floor, fashion magazines all across the seats, and them throwing their empty Coke cans out of the window. Ah, the flux of experience can be strange indeed. Thus, tired and a little disillusioned, I left the desert and Australia for New Zealand.
18: Night the spirits came
On arriving in New Zealand I began dreaming of a dark-skinned man. Jon and I were coming to the end of our time together and I found myself looking to be free for a while and not seek out a new partner. But the dreams persisted, until I came to Motueka and a Rainbow Gathering in the Baton Valley at the start of the beautiful Kahurangi National Park (pictured below).
There, on a stormy equinox night, three men arrived at our fire. It was dark and I couldn't make them out but I knew one of them was the man from my dreams. The next day I saw Chris and was struck dumb, I had just met the future father of my children, and I knew him immediately. He and Jon made friends first and, when I confided my feelings to Jon, he blessed us and told Chris so.
Chris had respectfully kept his distance, but now we connected and, in a whirl of romance, our relationship began. He had also been somehow dreaming of me, or a girl like me, and we felt it was a truly blessed connection. Twelve years and three children later, we are still the best of friends.
At the Rainbow Gathering, there were the usual renegades of society, strange and spiritual people looking for something to connect with deeply. There were some very odd characters and, as always, a couple who, overwhelmed by this new fringe culture they had discovered, threw off their old life, took on new names and became spiritually off-balance. There was the American, who "knew all about mushrooms", who ate a piece of fly agaric toadstool and proceeded to descend into depression about what a terrible womaniser he was. I spent that night coaching him through this deeply distressing experience.
Then there was the night the spirits came forth. I went to bed and found myself assailed by screaming, gape-mouthed lost souls. Fighting down my panic, I forced myself to repeat a ritual. I visualised a candle, streaming light out to the spirits. They gathered to this light and I drew a circle of salt around them to contain their souls. I then called upon some help, anyone from the other side to call them through. Suddenly, I saw a beam of light like the warmest afternoon sun, light up each of their tormented faces. They turned to the light, tears upon their cheeks, and disappeared. Once again, I cannot prove this vision has meaning. I interpret only what I see and this was deep behind my eyes, and not in the matrix of reality as such. But, the following day, Pedro, a shaman from South America who now lived in Golden Bay, told me he had risen that night, unsettled. Upon the brow of the hills that surrounded us, he saw rows of Maori warriors, and felt somehow they had been called to us.
As is often the case in New Zealand, some of the most beautiful areas were also areas of extreme inter-tribal violence and warfare, and there are still memories of these times imprinted in the land.
Leaving New Zealand, Chris and I headed to Australia. He to make some money on the sugar cane farms, and me to Jabiluka. In Jabiluka, in Kakadu National Park, the government planned to excavate uranium from a sacred part of aboriginal homeland. The tribe had sent out a plea for help to fight this mine.
Upon arriving at the camp, I was surprised and disappointed at the lack of a sense of real community between the protestors. I was used to a strong bond, as at Twyford Down, forged by a common goal. But these people seemed lost in egotistic battles and really not working well as a team. The aboriginal elders had gifted this land for us to stay on under the guidelines that no marijuana or alcohol be brought in. Unfortunately, this rule was not respected. Also, rituals were occurring that were foreign to Australia, by men who had read a little Aleister Crowley and thought they knew what they were doing.
The local elder was woken 5km away by this alien energy in his land and the relationship began to break down. I was unable to stay at the camp because of this disrespect, and so travelled deep into Kakadu to join a traditional weaving workshop. Instantly, things improved.
19: Meeting my demon
I met an elder who had given a sacred gift to the world, that of his tribe’s dreamtime story- that we are the caretakers of this earth, and that the "great mosquito egg" under the earth that the miners wanted to exploit would spread poison through the world, if disturbed. This had been a story passed down for centuries, and all tribes stayed away from this place because of its poison. How in touch these people really are, to feel the presence of uranium, so deep in the ground?
The elder also firmly believed that among the drunken lost aboriginals were the souls of those foreigners who had committed crimes against the native people. Also, that among the new generations, who cared for the earth, were reincarnated aboriginals, and thus what once was sacred only to the black man was now to be shared with the world.
This family of weavers, survivors, hunters and thinkers saw deeper into the human soul than most "hippies" I have met. They called me Auntie and made me welcome, sharing time and weaving with me and sending me on my way with blessings.
From Australia, Chris and I travelled to India once more. We walked to the Everest National Park, 25 days, alone and free. We travelled to the deserts, and then back to England to reunite with my family. From there we went to Chile, the land that Chris is from. We visited with his grandparents, celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary, and watched these ancient folk dance until dawn while us younger ones slouched in the corners. We visited Machu Picchu at summer solstice, La Isla del Sol and their amazing baby trout recipes, and I experienced my ultimate shamanic vision yet.
In Peru, I came across an advertisement outside a small house for ayahuasca, the sacred herb of the Incas. Known as the "little death", ayahuasca is a truly transformational experience. We arranged to visit a shaman’s house and I spent the next week cleansing in preparation. Traditionally, it is a night ritual, so we sat in a dark room, with the traditional chanting playing in the background. The first drink was to "clear the way" and, wow, did it do that! Cleansed from all orifices, I was certainly set free from some of my shackles to the physical world. The next drink was to set you free to fly. I soared far and wide. I returned to the origin of human sorrow. Initially, rocked in the arms of my black mother, suckling at her breast, surrounded by the security of my tribe in the ancient rainforest.
This bliss lasted seconds, for into the clearing burst strange foreign men and I was ripped from my mother’s arms. I was taken to a vast city where I was sold to a man as his wife/slave and lived the rest of my days producing children and all the tasks of such an existence. The drama of this story was almost too much to bear, but didn't last long as I was catapulted forward in time, on and on and out into space.
I came face to face with a vast demon, with gaping jaws and glowing eyes. I opened my eyes and asked the shaman: "What do I do when I meet my demon?" He answered: "As Jim Morrison says, kiss the tongue." And so I did. I tumbled through his enormous jaws and floated into space. I was pure energy, free from history, and free from sorrow, desire and also from the warmth of love.
It was so peaceful. Below me was the Earth, full of the pains and sorrows, and also the love and the joy, that being human brings. I knew then there was freedom, one day, but that life was something to be appreciated and enjoyed, and that all beings longed to experience it. With gratitude I returned to my body, to find the whole day had passed and it was night.
20: Magic of life
I have had many journeys since: the birth of my three children, the death of my beautiful mother, and separation from my husband. All of the sorrows and pain and joy and love, all of the experiences and visions, have settled into me.
I find myself, now in the middle of my life, as excitable and emotional as ever, but with a little more patience. I have twins, and a huge amount of trust: trust that all is good, trust that all is perfect, and trust that I am, as are all of us, a Grand Creator of this miraculous web of life.
In the last few years, I have settled into my role as mother, slowly but surely. No longer a traveller, I move the furniture around once a month to keep my horizons shifting! I don't often feel the pull to practise rituals, and am satisfied with the magic of cooking, baking, music, stories and life.
Always living within the cycle of the moon, my pagan sisters and I hold sweat lodges and sing the old songs, in the dark womb of the mother, that is our lodge. I am, and always have been and will be, a witch. I am studying to gain my diploma in herbal medicine, and have built up a solid reputation here for my knowledge of herbs, especially in relation to children's health.
However, I miss the old country, the standing stones, the high places and the burial mounds, and hope with all my soul to return to live on the land of my birth, the Sacred Isles.
However, I miss the old country, the standing stones, the high places and the burial mounds, and hope with all my soul to return to live on the land of my birth, the Sacred Isles.
