Breathe in, breathe out. I was laying on the ground. Breathe in, breathe out. It was hard to stay focused on the respiration. With each new breath, I was sinking deeper and deeper into the earth below me. Breathe in, breathe out. I was engulfed by pure bliss. I felt so light, so relaxed, so careless… Breathe in, breathe out. I had to focus, yet I wasn’t doing a mindfulness exercise, or a breathing technique. Breathe in, breathe out. I had to focus, and breathe consciously, because otherwise, I would not breathe at all. How did I end up in such a peculiar situation?
It all started with an invitation. Or, rather an announcement. Some of the vendangeurs were making a rave on the cliffs nearby, and everyone was invited. Most of the time, I hung out with the Polish guys, and they definitely had to go. So I went along with them. We packed the yellow Volkswagen van in the late afternoon, and left the camping municipal, heading towards the mountains.
Narrow, bendy road leading to Spain cut through the steep windeyards of the Pyrenees. The air was hot and humid, and the sun rays bounced from the deep blue Mediterranean below. I could die right there and then and my life would be fulfilled. Northern Catalonia has the most stunning landscapes I’ve seen so far. I can only recommend visiting it at least once in your life. I may be biased, but late August and early September is the best time of the year to go. The small city is no longer being crushed by hordes of tourists, the beaches are almost empty, and the vendange is in it’s prime. You can loose yourself in the salty air and sweet local vine.
When we arrived at the destination, others were already gathering as well. I knew some of the faces, but not all. I usually hung out with the Polish guys and their “crew”, but most of them didn’t go that evening. B, who you know from the previous story, was there as well. Afterall, it was him who brought me on this adventure. He was my personal Dean Moriarty.
I’d never been on a party like that before. I was used to DIY punk concerts, but this took the idea to a whole new level. One person provided generator, another provided speakers, yet another was the DJ. No entry fees, no bar, nothing, just raw electronic music, out in the nature. And drugs. A lot of them. By coincidence the DJ was also a dealer, and he was stashed with a considerable variety of substances.
“What do you want?” he asked, as we approached him with B.
“What do you have?”
“LSD, MDMA, hash, speed, opium, ketamine, mushrooms…”
I was intrigued. I was 19 at the time, eager to try new things and have new experiences. Opium was on my list for quite some time already. I realised this might’ve been once in a lifetime opportunity, so it was a no-brainer for me. B got himself some speed and I went with the poppy. The only problem was, I had no idea how to consume it.
“Eh, that’s a bit awkward, but how do I do this?” I asked the dealer?
“Your first time?”
I expected judgement, but the guy was actually pretty helpful. He told me about the options – I went with eating. For some reason, that felt like the obvious choice. He had a scale in his van, so we weighted the proper dose, and I consumed it right there and then, packed in a piece of cigarette paper.
The music started, and we danced in the sunset. I didn’t drink because I didn’t want to mix the new drug with anything. There was a French guy who I knew from before, and he went around, feeding people. He came to me, told me to open my mouth, he put something inside, and I swallowed. I was fed MDMA. There it goes for not mixing. There it goes for being responsible with drugs. Was it responsible to eat the opium in the first place?
I danced some more, and then I saw Chris. Chris was an Englishman, around 27, who was a little on the crazy side, but he was a good guy. I met him before, and we got along pretty well. He had a private bottle of vodka, which was nearing the bottom he told me he ate a lot of acid. He was in for a ride, and we stuck together throughout the evening. It must’ve been the contrast of our experiences. Him, in almost a manic fit, running around, blabbling inconherently; me, chilled out and down to earth. I’d say we complemented each other very well, and it might’ve saved our lives and sanity that night.
Next few hours were a blur to me. I don’t know what I did, but I don’t think I’ve danced that much. The opium, preceeded by MDMA, was making me mellow, so I just chilled on the ground and smoked cigarettes. Chris was peaking, and he was all around the place. Our conversations went along the lines of: “I need to go on this quest. I need to find what’s hidden!” from his end, and a particularly slow “Yeess?” from mine.
Over time, the opium got more and more onto me. At first, I barely felt it, but after a while, I wanted to sit more and more. I was more relaxed, I was breathing more slowly… We found a secluded spot under a canopy, which we turned into our headquaters. My eyes were sleepy so I went around the party, asking people for coffee. Everybody turned me down, there was no evening cup of Joe for the young boy, and I ended up my search in the van of a group of Romanians.
“Do you have some coffee please?”
“Yes, but only for myself, for the morning. Why do you need coffee ayway? Have some speed if you need energy.” the driver said.
Before I could say anything, a woman said: “He’s on opium, and he thinks the coffee will help him. It won’t, boy. You need to push through it. Smoke a cigarette.”
There was my coffee. And my hope to feel like waking not sleeping, as well. I returned to the canopy and rolled myself another cigarette. My head was falling down every minute, so I laid on the ground. It felt so good. I was so relaxed, so happy. So mellow. It felt like laying in the softest bed in the world, after the longest and hardest day of work, ready to fall asleep. It felt like bathing in golden light. At that moment, there were no worries, no problems in the world at that moment. Nothing. I. Just. Felt. Good.
Slowly, I was falling asleep. Slowly, I was drifting away. Before the sweetest dreams engulfed me, I took a breath. After a while, I took another one. Then it struck me. I wasn’t breathing. Unconsciously, that is. I lost my instinct to breath, and I had to do it with effort. I quickly realised what it meant. If I didn’t breathe, I’d die. This realisation wasn’t accompanied by any emotional baggage. It was just a raw fact, like the fact that 2 + 2 = 4. Just like that, I simply resolved to not die that night, to keep breathing. Although the decision was clear and easy, breathing wasn’t. My next hour (I’m not really sure about the time at this point, but I suppose it was more or less an hour) was spent drifting between sleeping and breathing. Breathe in, breathe out, then enjoy the pure bliss, rinse and repeat. Breathe in, breathe out.
Chris was calming down a little. His gibberish receded, his excursions away from the canopy as well. He was sitting in a chair, smoking cigarettes. He was talking to me. This helped me to stay awake, but I still had to put so much effort to one of the most basic functions of my body. When was the last time that you consciously focused on your breathing? Breathe in, breathe out. Try it. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe consciously for the next minute. See how it goes. Breathe in, breathe out. Now imagine doing that for half an hour. And you can’t stop, because if you will, you know…
It was hard. It was one of the few situations when I was so close to death, that I can’t even comprehend it. If I drank, or mixed it with (more) drugs, I probably wouldn’t be writing this right now. Either way, I got through it. And to be honest, the whole trip was one of the most intensive feelings I’ve experienced in my life. I totally understand why people get hooked on opium or heroin, and I’m glad I dodged that bullet as well.
As I was coming down, Chris was coming down as well. Many times throughout the night, his friends (one of them being the MDMA guy from earlier) came to him and told him to go back to town with them. He always refused and stayed with me, which I’m eternally grateful for. However, this meant that we had no way to get back on our own now, no other than walking. And we weren’t keen on doing that. It would’ve taken us more than an hour through curvy mountain roads, and we were both totally exhausted. We sat inside the canopy and talked about how we really needed to get going and how it would be great if his friends were still there. We always postponed the start of our journey back home for just few minutes. This went on for two hours, maybe more.
When the sun was rising up, we asked a Spanish guy, who had his van parked nearby, for some weed, and after a bit of hesitation, he conjured up a joint. We enjoyed it like it was the last one, and then decided to finally get going. Well, after a few minutes of course.
When we finally came to terms with the fact that we will need to walk the way, and that nobody will take us in car, we got on the way. We had to climb a tiny little hill next to the canopy, which was just high enough that it prohibited you from seeing the other side. As we got up on it, we saw the car of his friends. The friends who we thought left hours ago. Turns out, they decided to sleep in the car and wait for him to come to his senses. Some 20 meters from us. We laughed for good two minutes, and then we woke them up. They laughed at us, and the MDMA guy gave another small paper package to Chris. We finally drove off.
The road was more windy than I remembered from the day before, and we didn’t have a particularly slow driver. Even sober, I tend to suffer from nausea in cars, but this was on a whole different level. As we reached the town, I had to jump out and vomit all over the sidewalk. When the guys made sure I was okay, they left. I was already close to the beach hidden behind the cliffs, where we were camping with B (who left the party hours ago), and I needed the walk anyway. When I arrived “home”, I dropped dead and slept through the whole day. I’ve never seen Chris again.