Journey To Ixtlan: Part 1: Chapter 01 - Reaffirmations from the World Around Us.

Journey To Ixtlan. ©1972 by Carlos Castaneda.

Part 1: Chapter 01 - Reaffirmations from the World Around Us.

A friend of mine and I were in the waiting room of a bus depot in Arizona, and my friend had just put me in contact with the old Indian in front of me.

But my friend immediately left the room without introducing us, so the old man and I introduced ourselves to each other.

He told me that his name was Juan Matus.

I said to him, "I understand you know a great deal about plants, sir."

Don Juan casually asked, "Did your friend tell you that?"

I replied, "Yes, he did."

Don Juan said softly, "I pick plants; or rather, they let me pick them."

I asked him in very formal Spanish if he would allow me to question him, saying, "Would the gentleman [caballero] permit me to ask some questions?"

'Caballero' is derived from the word 'caballo', horse, which originally meant a horseman or a nobleman on horseback.

Don Juan looked at me inquisitively, and with a big smile he said, "I am a horseman without a horse."

Then he added, "I have told you that my name is Juan Matus."

I liked his smile. I thought that he was, obviously, a man that could appreciate directness so I decided to boldly tackle him with a request.

I told him I was interested in collecting and studying medicinal plants. I said that my special interest was the uses of the hallucinogenic cactus, peyote, which I had studied at length at the university in Los Angeles.

I thought that my presentation was very serious. I was very contained, and I sounded perfectly credible to myself.

Don Juan shook his head slowly, and I, encouraged by his silence, added that it would no doubt be profitable for us to get together and talk about peyote.

It was at that moment that he lifted his head, and looked me squarely in the eyes. It was a formidable look, yet it was not menacing or awesome in any way. It was a look that went through me.

I became tongue-tied at once and I could not continue with the harangues about myself.

That was the end of our meeting except that don Juan left me with a note of hope. He said that perhaps I could visit him at his house someday.

It would be difficult to assess the impact of don Juan's look if my inventory of experience is not somehow brought to bear on the uniqueness of that event.

When I had begun to study anthropology, and thus met don Juan, I was already an expert in 'getting around'. I had left my home years before, and that meant, in my evaluation, that I was capable of taking care of myself.

Whenever I was rebuffed, I could usually 'cajole my way in' by making concessions, arguing, getting angry, or if nothing else succeeded, I would whine or complain. In other words, there was always something I knew I could do regardless of the circumstances.

Never in my life had any human being stopped my momentum so swiftly and completely as don Juan did that afternoon.

However, it was not a matter of only being silenced. There had been times when I was unable to say a word to my opponent because of some inherent respect I felt for him. Yet in those cases my anger or frustration was still manifested in my thoughts.

Don Juan's look numbed me to the point that I could not think coherently.

I became thoroughly intrigued with that stupendous look, and I decided to search for him.

I prepared myself for six months following that first meeting. I read up on the uses of peyote among the American Indians; especially about the peyote cult of the Indians of the Plains. I became acquainted with every work available, and when I felt I was ready I went back to Arizona.

Saturday, 1960 December 17.

I found don Juan's home after making long and taxing inquiries among the local Indians. It was early afternoon as I drove up to his house, and parked in front of it.

I saw don Juan sitting on a wooden milk crate. He seemed to recognize me, and greeted me as I got out of my car.

We exchanged social courtesies for a while, and then in plain terms I confessed that I had been very devious with him the first time we had met. I said I had boasted that I knew a great deal about peyote, when in reality, I knew nothing about it.

Don Juan just stared at me with eyes full of kindness.

I told him that for six-months I had been reading to prepare myself for our meeting; and that this time I really knew a great deal more.

Don Juan laughed. Obviously there was something in my statement which was funny to him.

Because he was laughing at me, I felt a bit confused and offended.

Don Juan apparently noticed my discomfort, and assured me that although I had had good intentions there was really no way for me to have prepared myself for our meeting.

I wondered if it would be proper for me to ask whether that statement had any hidden meaning, but I did not.

Yet don Juan seemed to be attuned to my feelings and he proceeded to explain what he had meant.

He said that my endeavors reminded him of a story about some people a certain king had persecuted and killed once upon a time.

Don Juan said that, in the story, the persecuted people were indistinguishable from their persecutors except that they insisted on pronouncing certain words in a peculiar manner proper only to them. That flaw, of course, was the giveaway.

The king posted roadblocks at critical points where an official would ask every man passing by to pronounce a key word. Those who could pronounce the word the way the king pronounced it would live, but those who could not were immediately put to death.

The point of the story was that one day a young man decided to prepare himself for passing the roadblock by learning to pronounce the test-word just as the king liked it.

Don Juan, with a broad smile, said that in fact it took the young man six-months to master such a pronunciation.

And then came the day of the great test. The young man very confidently came upon the roadblock, and waited for the official to ask him to pronounce the word.

At that point don Juan very dramatically stopped his recounting and looked at me. His pause was very studied and seemed a bit corny to me, but I played along.

I had heard the theme of the story before. It had to do with Jews in Germany, and the way someone could tell who was a Jew by the way they pronounced certain words.

I also knew the punch line. The young man was going to get caught because the official had forgotten the key word, and was going to ask the young man to pronounce another word which was very similar, but which the young man had not learned to say correctly.

Don Juan seemed to be waiting for me to ask what happened.

So I tried to sound naive and interested in the story as I asked, "What happened to him?"

Don Juan continued, saying, "The young man, who was truly foxy, realized that the official had forgotten the key word, and before the official could say anything else the young man confessed that he had prepared himself for six-months."

Don Juan made another pause, and looked at me with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Don Juan had turned the tables on me because the young man's confession was a new element, and I no longer knew how the story would end.

Now truly interested, I asked, "Well, what happened then?"

He replied, "The young man was killed instantly- of course."

Then don Juan broke into a roaring laughter.

I liked very much the way he had entrapped my interest; and above all I liked the way he had linked that story to my own case. He seemed to have constructed it to fit me. He was making fun of me in a very subtle and artistic manner.

I laughed with him.

I told don Juan that no matter how stupid I sounded, I was really interested in learning something about plants.

He said, "I like to walk a great deal."

I thought he was deliberately changing the topic of conversation to avoid answering me. Since I did not want to antagonize him with my insistence, so I remained silent.

He asked me if I wanted to go with him on a short hike in the desert.

I eagerly told him that I would love to walk in the desert.

Don Juan, in a tone of warning, said, "This is no picnic."

I told him that I wanted very seriously to work with him. I said that I needed information- any kind of information- on the uses of medicinal herbs, and that I was willing to pay him for his time and effort.

I said, "You will be working for me, and I will pay you wages."

He asked, "How much would you pay me?"

I detected a note of greed in his voice, and said, "Whatever you think is appropriate."

Don Juan replied, "Pay me for my time... with your time."

I thought he was a most peculiar fellow, and I told him I did not understand what he meant.

He replied that there was nothing to say about plants, thus to take my money would be unthinkable for him.

He looked at me piercingly.

Don Juan, frowning, asked me, "What are you doing in your pocket? Are you playing with your whanger?"

He was referring to my taking notes on a minute pad inside the enormous pockets of my windbreaker.

When I told him what I was doing he laughed heartily.

I said that I did not want to disturb him by writing in front of him.

He said, "If you want to write, write. You do not disturb me."

We hiked in the surrounding desert until it was almost dark. He did not show me any plants, nor did he talk about them at all. We stopped for a moment to rest by some large bushes.

Don Juan, without looking at me, said, "Plants are very peculiar things. They are alive and they feel."

At the very moment he made that statement, a strong gust of wind shook the desert chaparral around us, and the bushes made a rattling noise.

Don Juan put his right hand to his ear as if he were aiding his hearing, and asked me, "Do you hear that? The leaves and the wind are agreeing with me."

I laughed. My friend who had put us in contact had already told me to watch out because the old man was very eccentric. I thought the 'agreement with the leaves' was one of don Juan's eccentricities.

We walked for a while longer, but don Juan still did not show me any plants; nor did he pick any of them. He simply breezed through the bushes touching them gently.

Then he came to a halt, and sat down on a rock. He told me to rest and look around.

I insisted on talking. Once more I let don Juan know that I wanted very much to learn about plants, especially peyote. I pleaded with him to become my informant in exchange for some sort of monetary reward.

He said, "You do not have to pay me. You can ask me anything you want. I will tell you what I know, and then I will tell you what to do with it."

He asked me if I agreed with the arrangement.

I was delighted.

Then don Juan added a cryptic statement, saying, "Perhaps there is nothing to learn about plants, because there is nothing to say about them."

I did not understand what he had said, nor could I guess what he meant by it.

I asked, "What did you say?"

Don Juan repeated the statement three times; and then the whole area was shaken by the roar of an Air Force jet flying low.

He put his left hand up to his ear and said, "There! The world has just agreed with me."

I found him very amusing, and his laughter was contagious.

In my effort to keep the conversation centered around his being my informant, I asked, "Are you from Arizona, don Juan?"

He looked at me and nodded affirmatively. His eyes seemed to be tired. I could see the white underneath his pupils.

I then asked, "Were you born in this locality?"

He nodded his head again without answering me. It seemed to be an affirmative gesture, but it also seemed to be the nervous head-shake of a person who is thinking.

He asked, "And where are you from yourself?"

I answered, "I come from South America."

Don Juan said, "That is a big place. Do you come from all of it?"

His eyes were piercing again as he looked at me.

I began to explain the circumstances of my birth, but he interrupted me by saying, "We are alike in this respect. I live here now but I am really a Yaqui from Sonora."

I quickly responded, "Is that so! I myself come from-..."

But don Juan did not let me finish. He interrupted me, saying, "I know, I know. You are who you are, from wherever you are, as I am a Yaqui from Sonora."

His eyes were very shiny, and his laughter was strangely unsettling. He made me feel as if he had caught me in a lie. I experienced a peculiar sensation of guilt. I had the feeling he knew something that I did not know, or that I did not want to tell, and my strange embarrassment grew.

He must have noticed it, for he stood up, and asked me if I wanted to go eat in a restaurant in town.

Walking back to his home, and then driving into town, made me feel better; but I was not quite relaxed. I somehow felt threatened although I could not pinpoint the reason.

I wanted to buy don Juan some beer in the restaurant, but he said that he never drank, not even beer.

I laughed to myself. I did not believe him because the friend who had put us in contact had told me that this old man was plastered out of his mind most of the time.

But I really did not mind if he was lying to me about not drinking. I liked him. There was something very soothing about his person.

Yet I must have had a look of doubt on my face, for don Juan then went on to explain that he used to drink in his youth, but that one day he had simply dropped it.

He said, "People hardly ever realize that we can cut anything from our lives, any time, just like that." And he snapped his fingers.

I asked, "Do you think that one can stop smoking or drinking that easily?"

Don Juan, with great conviction, said, "Sure! Smoking and drinking are nothing. Nothing at all if we want to drop them."

At that very moment the water that was boiling in the coffee percolator made a loud perking sound.

Don Juan, with a shine in his eyes, exclaimed, "Hear that! The boiling water agrees with me."

Then after a pause, he added, "A man can get agreements from everything around him."

At that crucial instant the coffee percolator made a truly obscene gurgling sound.

Don Juan looked at the percolator, and softly said, "Thank you," and he nodded his head.

Then he broke into a roaring laughter.

I was taken aback. His laughter was a bit too loud, but I was genuinely amused by it all.

My first real session with my 'informant' ended then.

Don Juan said good-bye at the door of the restaurant.

I told him I had to visit some friends, but that I would like to see him again at the end of the following week. I asked, "When will you be home?"

He scrutinized me, and replied, "Whenever you come."

I told him, "I do not know exactly when I can come."

Don Juan said, "Just come then, and do not worry."

I asked, "What if you are not in?"

Smiling, don Juan replied, "I will be there."

Then he walked away.

I ran after him, and asked him if he would mind my bringing a camera with me to take pictures of him and his house.

He frowned, and said, "That is out of the question."

I asked, "How about a tape recorder? Would you mind that?"

Don Juan replied, "I am afraid there is no possibility of that either."

I became annoyed, and began to fret. I said I saw no logical reason for his refusal.

Don Juan shook his head negatively, and forcefully said, "Forget it. And if you still want to see me, do not ever mention it again."

I staged a weak final complaint. I said that pictures and recordings were indispensable to my work.

Don Juan told me that there was only one thing which was indispensable for anything we did. He called it 'the spirit'.

He continued by saying, "One can not do without the spirit, and you do not have it. Worry about that and not about pictures."

I began to ask, "What do you...?"

But he interrupted me with a movement of his hand, walked backwards a few steps, and softly said, "Be sure to come back."

Then he waved good-bye.