Entertainment
The Magic Mushrooms of Palenque (1976)
Thu, Apr 17, 2003 12:00 am
by Ed Dwyer
Early morning in Mexican mushroom country is misty. The mountains that surround Palenque are draped with clouds, and the nearby pastures are dotted with grazing Brahma cattle. In the thick jungle ten miles outside Palenque lie spectacular Mayan ruins that attract tourists in growing numbers every year.
I was eager to explore the ancient site, especially the Pyramid of the Inscriptions. This giant hollow edifice was once the focal point of a classical civilization that has vanished without leaving another trace so awesome. A sarcophagus within holds the remains of a protoMayan, a mysterious figure whose crypt carvings show a jade-armored demigod of perhaps extra-terrestrial provenance. Outside, the hot, dense jungle has all but reclaimed the pyramid, the silent monument of the great magic that once lived here. But before going to the pyramid I wanted to hunt for another treasure, Psilocybe mexicana, the psychedelic mushroom that grows wild in Palenque.
At sunrise I set out from my rented room, a cinderblock cell attached to a private home. Painted a peeling, garish pink, with hooks in the walls for hammocas, one wooden window, and a hole in the floor for my private needs, it is no bargain, even at ten pesos a day per person.
I’ve been told the best mushroom picking is close to town, and I came by the information quite easily. Palenque is now used to young Americans and Europeans floating through on their way to Mexico City, Oaxaca, and Merida. Longhairs with backpacks drink cerveza beer with Mexican cowboys in the bar off the zocolo; hacks are kept busy driving unsuccessful hitchhikers to the outlying train station. One such cabbie filled me in on where to look.
"Ah, si, the mushrooms." He grinned at me and pointed out the window of his taxi. "There, amigo."
I didn’t want to seem stupid, yet all I could see were cows munching contentedly on grass, and the mountains in the distance.
"Donde?" I asked again.
"Caca de vaca, caca de vaca." He laughed. Cow shit, cow shit. He never eats them himself, he says. Only the gringos, he says, twirling his forefinger at his temple. Crazy.
I’d heard rumors that the delicate mushrooms wilt and lose their power in the afternoon sun, so I hurried down the rutted path. Behind me, El Gato Negro cantina was opening early for the local burrachos. I headed for open pasture.
Ahead of me, ranch hands on horseback wearing straw hats and vests rode to work. One pointed to my camera and empty plastic bag.
"Caca de vaca!" he shouted, and galloped away. I rolled a joint of the good weed I’d scored in the Yucatan and rested. I noticed that some of the cows had big horns and resolved to stay close to a tree at all times. By now the town was about a mile away. I scoured the grazing land ahead, one eye on cow flop, the other on the bulls.
After about an hour, no mushrooms but many baleful stares from disturbed cows. I realized that none of the other gringos from town were around. I’d begun to suspect I was on a dead-end search. The sun was rising higher, and I was soaked to the knees in cow biscuit from several unplanned plunges into the piss streams that crisscross the fields. What I wouldn’t do for a cold cerveza!
I was breezing myself with my hat when there it was -- a creamy yellow cap, darker at the center with a hint of blue at the highest point. Psilocybe mexicana. It’s a delicious sight: halfway down the stem is a dark purple skirt, and below that the sweet fresh crap that nourished and flavored the infant spore.
I snapped the stem in half and watched for the purple tint that would tell me if this specimen was ripe with psychoactive juices. As deep blue spread into the yellow, I knew. It was vero, the true thing.
As if one spell were broken and another begun, mushrooms are everywhere. Fat ones, perfect for omelettes; medium, mouth-sized wonders; and baby fungi, white and barely ripe.
I stride across the open fields, picking as I go. Soon my bag contains enough psychedelic vegetables for the next three weeks. I head in the direction of the ruined city, where there are waterfalls that plunge over volcanic rock. There I can wash the mushrooms and lie them out to dry.
As I near the road I meet four Mexican fieldhands with machetes, toying with a snake they have flushed from the bush. They see my bag and smile. "Caca de vaca," they chuckle, chopping off the head of the snake.
Once at the waterfalls, I quickly unload my treasures on the smooth rock. Holding them gently I rinse the psychoactive fungi one by one. nibbling as I do. The sun is very warm, and who can wait to get high? I take off my shirt and splash around, oblivious to mosquitoes, and relax after a half dozen miles of hiking.
The jungle reeks with exotic perfumes. Indians on horseback follow narrow paths between the giant trees, carrying supplies to villages where few white men venture. Deep in this same jungle lives a dwindling tribe of whiterobed Mayan magicians, they say.
In less than an hour I am feeling magical myself. The ruins await me. I go deep into the pyramid-tomb of the greatest Mayan priest. I sink into the warp of time. The dim light of the crypt glitters with half-hidden messages from the past. At the Temple of the Wind, a relief of a Mayan elder smoking a pipeful of some ancient herb catches my eye.
The howler monkeys scream from the hills behind the old city as I stand on the Temple of the Sun. Am I only imagining the music of conch shell, rattle and pipe in procession from the palace to the pyramid? A gentle tingling suffuses my every nerve and extends fiberlike toward the lush vegetation around me.
The effects of the mushrooms are smooth, even and colorful -- the perfect spell to cast on this pleasant afternoon in Mexico. Like the ancient Mayans who stood here before, I have tasted the fruit of the caca de vaca. And it is mighty fine.
Early morning in Mexican mushroom country is misty. The mountains that surround Palenque are draped with clouds, and the nearby pastures are dotted with grazing Brahma cattle. In the thick jungle ten miles outside Palenque lie spectacular Mayan ruins that attract tourists in growing numbers every year.
I was eager to explore the ancient site, especially the Pyramid of the Inscriptions. This giant hollow edifice was once the focal point of a classical civilization that has vanished without leaving another trace so awesome. A sarcophagus within holds the remains of a protoMayan, a mysterious figure whose crypt carvings show a jade-armored demigod of perhaps extra-terrestrial provenance. Outside, the hot, dense jungle has all but reclaimed the pyramid, the silent monument of the great magic that once lived here. But before going to the pyramid I wanted to hunt for another treasure, Psilocybe mexicana, the psychedelic mushroom that grows wild in Palenque.
At sunrise I set out from my rented room, a cinderblock cell attached to a private home. Painted a peeling, garish pink, with hooks in the walls for hammocas, one wooden window, and a hole in the floor for my private needs, it is no bargain, even at ten pesos a day per person.
I’ve been told the best mushroom picking is close to town, and I came by the information quite easily. Palenque is now used to young Americans and Europeans floating through on their way to Mexico City, Oaxaca, and Merida. Longhairs with backpacks drink cerveza beer with Mexican cowboys in the bar off the zocolo; hacks are kept busy driving unsuccessful hitchhikers to the outlying train station. One such cabbie filled me in on where to look.
"Ah, si, the mushrooms." He grinned at me and pointed out the window of his taxi. "There, amigo."
I didn’t want to seem stupid, yet all I could see were cows munching contentedly on grass, and the mountains in the distance.
"Donde?" I asked again.
"Caca de vaca, caca de vaca." He laughed. Cow shit, cow shit. He never eats them himself, he says. Only the gringos, he says, twirling his forefinger at his temple. Crazy.
I’d heard rumors that the delicate mushrooms wilt and lose their power in the afternoon sun, so I hurried down the rutted path. Behind me, El Gato Negro cantina was opening early for the local burrachos. I headed for open pasture.
Ahead of me, ranch hands on horseback wearing straw hats and vests rode to work. One pointed to my camera and empty plastic bag.
"Caca de vaca!" he shouted, and galloped away. I rolled a joint of the good weed I’d scored in the Yucatan and rested. I noticed that some of the cows had big horns and resolved to stay close to a tree at all times. By now the town was about a mile away. I scoured the grazing land ahead, one eye on cow flop, the other on the bulls.
After about an hour, no mushrooms but many baleful stares from disturbed cows. I realized that none of the other gringos from town were around. I’d begun to suspect I was on a dead-end search. The sun was rising higher, and I was soaked to the knees in cow biscuit from several unplanned plunges into the piss streams that crisscross the fields. What I wouldn’t do for a cold cerveza!
I was breezing myself with my hat when there it was -- a creamy yellow cap, darker at the center with a hint of blue at the highest point. Psilocybe mexicana. It’s a delicious sight: halfway down the stem is a dark purple skirt, and below that the sweet fresh crap that nourished and flavored the infant spore.
I snapped the stem in half and watched for the purple tint that would tell me if this specimen was ripe with psychoactive juices. As deep blue spread into the yellow, I knew. It was vero, the true thing.
As if one spell were broken and another begun, mushrooms are everywhere. Fat ones, perfect for omelettes; medium, mouth-sized wonders; and baby fungi, white and barely ripe.
I stride across the open fields, picking as I go. Soon my bag contains enough psychedelic vegetables for the next three weeks. I head in the direction of the ruined city, where there are waterfalls that plunge over volcanic rock. There I can wash the mushrooms and lie them out to dry.
As I near the road I meet four Mexican fieldhands with machetes, toying with a snake they have flushed from the bush. They see my bag and smile. "Caca de vaca," they chuckle, chopping off the head of the snake.
Once at the waterfalls, I quickly unload my treasures on the smooth rock. Holding them gently I rinse the psychoactive fungi one by one. nibbling as I do. The sun is very warm, and who can wait to get high? I take off my shirt and splash around, oblivious to mosquitoes, and relax after a half dozen miles of hiking.
The jungle reeks with exotic perfumes. Indians on horseback follow narrow paths between the giant trees, carrying supplies to villages where few white men venture. Deep in this same jungle lives a dwindling tribe of whiterobed Mayan magicians, they say.
In less than an hour I am feeling magical myself. The ruins await me. I go deep into the pyramid-tomb of the greatest Mayan priest. I sink into the warp of time. The dim light of the crypt glitters with half-hidden messages from the past. At the Temple of the Wind, a relief of a Mayan elder smoking a pipeful of some ancient herb catches my eye.
The howler monkeys scream from the hills behind the old city as I stand on the Temple of the Sun. Am I only imagining the music of conch shell, rattle and pipe in procession from the palace to the pyramid? A gentle tingling suffuses my every nerve and extends fiberlike toward the lush vegetation around me.
The effects of the mushrooms are smooth, even and colorful -- the perfect spell to cast on this pleasant afternoon in Mexico. Like the ancient Mayans who stood here before, I have tasted the fruit of the caca de vaca. And it is mighty fine.