Eating Mushrooms From Elephant Poo in Thailand
In the foothills of Pai, during a conversation on a motorbike ride, I learned of a local secret: mushrooms grow in elephant poo. But not just any mushrooms, the kind you wanna take to see the colours of your brain exploding on the canvas of morning light..or you know, something to trip on while dancing.
Later I identified them as Panaeolus Antillarum mushrooms, but while using bare hands to shift through piles of dung, sandals sinking into the moistness, all I cared about was the psychedelic effects of these long, white beauties. With some friends I met a month ago in Bangkok, we piled handfuls into our pockets and let them dry overnight. The damp air of rain season prolonged my trip, but I wouldn’t leave Pai without stuffing my face full of hallucinatory nonsense.
“You ready” gravely asked my friend Saba (he took his trips seriously). I reminded him I’ve been taking drugs for a decade now, and with that I jumped on another bike and we rolled through the green mountains in search of a secluded waterfall. Mushrooms in our bags.
Most of the natural parks or sites in Thailand are claimed by the possessive fangs of tourism, sucking the beauty dry for profit and millions of footsteps changing the landscape for the worse each year. We opted right outta that nightmare- I imagined just how terrible it would be to become a meme or gif, (or worse), labelled as that incredibly fucking high chick that fell off the Pai Grand Canyon because of a mushroom trip. Instead we decided to walk for hours in the jungle, with 42 river crossings, to reach a supposed waterfall. A little excessive, but the lack of people and time to kill was alluring.
At the entrance, the group decided to drop some acid they brought from Cali but I stuck with the mushrooms. Onwards we hiked, hours on repeat passing joints during water breaks, and then I began feeling not just the shrooms but a contact high from everyone tripping on LSD. The grass became my friend while colours extended from my body and joined the wild greens and bright yellows in a happy unison. Everything was perfect and small giggles escaped each of our mouths in a sort of deranged chorus. We’d stop to examine bugs, twisted trees and logs, and small red flowers growing by the water. Eventually I found a walking stick that would be my guide across the “treacherous” river crossings (whether or not they were, I can’t recall soberly), the water filling my sandals made me think I needed to pee.
“Saba, your shoes are soaked!” said Morrea, the only sober one. We’d lost Saba for an hour or so, while he took to entertaining his thoughts over our spastic conversations. He looked at his shoes with glazed, blank eyes and of course they were flooded with river water. He was the only one not wearing sandals to cross a body of water and he seemed unphased.
As with every psychedelic adventure, everyone eventually splits up. Though this time it was the girls that stuck together and the boys going uphill for a view. I had no qualms about this because the waterfall we finally reached was gleaming jewels in the air and my body needed to touch it. Like three forest nymphs, we got naked and dove under the cool water ecstatic and sensual. When the boys joined us, they rolled a fat blunt and delivered it to us on a wide leaf to enjoy in our private bath, along with speakers reverberating for a well-packaged high. I danced furiously on a rock, topless and shaking, feeling the heaviness of the water falling. At some point a solo British guy hiked in our direction looking like he’d landed in a mythical paradise. We invited him to join us.
The walk back I stayed topless, allowing wet beads on leaves and bushes to brush against my chest and shoulders. Silently humming, loudly smiling. We didn’t take into consideration the time (what is time but a flat circle anyways..amIrite?) so when the first signs of sunset came, we realized the trees would narrow in our light very soon. Should’ve brought some headlamps, I kept thinking, nearly diving into a bad heady trip.
But no rush, no pressure. I relaxed with another joint and dug my feet into the cool water at each intersection. Somewhere I’d lost my wizard stick so it was hard to keep balance, but my legs no longer felt like sponges as the mushrooms loosened their grip on my psyche. I was coming down and we were coming out.
I’ve never been exactly sure how we found the motivation or the sight, but I was quite convinced it was the mushrooms that helped us out of the forest. The last two hours we spent in the black shade of night but we never slowed our steps or confused our paths. As if the blend of mushrooms, acid and weed had given us night vision instead of just inner vision, fantastical illusions. No paranoia, no weakness, just impulse and trust, listening to the mushrooms that grew from the very earth we walked on.
When the sky opened and we reached a meadow, we celebrated the end, in awe of our seemingly supernatural abilities. Morrea pointed to a sign:
“Welcome to Valhalla.”
Was I still high? I wondered. Possibly, but this was a real place. It was a bar situated in a treehouse, overlooking the jungle we had just finished trekking through. We climbed and entered the low lit room as warriors that have conquered the battles of weak human senses, pouring beers and singing into the night. From the dung of Ganesha himself, the fungus that helped us overcome each obstacle and become Gods ourselves.
