I did ayahuasca a few months ago. It was something I’d been curious about for more than a decade, after sending a reporter to Iquitos, Peru—when I was an editor at Vanity Fair—to write about the craze sweeping, if not quite the nation or the world, a specific subset of upscale bohemians who do a lot of yoga and spend an inordinate amount of time in places like Tulum and Costa Rica searching for enlightenment, spiritual transcendence, and meaning.
I don’t know what I was looking for, or if I was looking for anything specific. Sure, I’ve got issues, like everyone else, maybe more, and there is real scientific evidence that some psychotropic and hallucinogenic drugs, including ayahuasca—a concoction made from an Amazonian vine and jungle leaves—can help with anxiety, and depression, and even PTSD.
