News

Mescaline on the Mexican Border

Continued from page 3

There are, in fact, white members of the Native American Church. Frank Collum is one, and he's been welcomed into meetings by Indians. It took him a while to be accepted, but now that he's married to an Indian and a veteran of peyote meetings, he feels like he's just as much a part of the Church as anyone. In the eyes of the law, however, it is illegal for Collum — or any non-Indian — to buy or consume peyote.

According to James Botsford, an attorney who has been defending peyote use by Indians for decades, there's a clear distinction between Indian and non-Indian peyote users. The law, he says, protects Native American Church members who can prove they have one grandparent from a federally recognized tribe.

There have been recent challenges to the law on First Amendment grounds. One case made it to the Utah Supreme Court, but the ban on peyote use by non-Indians remains.

"I'm comfortable with the law as it stands," says Botsford. "There's not enough peyote around to allow a broader interpretation of the law. Indian people understand peyote to be the flesh of God, something that the creator put here to help them pray."
_____________________

A year ago, Mauro Morales started losing weight. He always looked forward to February, when busloads of Indians descended on South Texas for meetings in the peyote gardens. Suddenly, though, he didn't have the energy to go hunting for medicine with his sons. Morales is a small man who has always weighed about 125 pounds.

"I was all skin and bones," he says. "I was down to about 97 pounds."

The doctors couldn't give Morales a clear diagnosis. They told him he needed to rest, so he spent most of his time on the couch. When the Indians arrived in February, they were shocked to learn that he could ­barely walk.

"The Indians kept saying, 'We need you, we need you,'" Morales says.

One Indian from South Dakota called Morales and told him he would be down to his place the next day. The man had been visiting Morales for decades, and like many Indians, he had formed a friendship with the peyotero. The Indian brought 20 people to pray for Morales in his little peyote garden behind his house. In the garden, Morales has clumps of old peyote — chiefs — as well as ultrarare specimens of the star cactus, a super-potent, highly endangered plant in the same family as peyote.

Morales's Indian friends often set up their teepees on his ranch about half an hour outside town to conduct their ceremonies. This time, though, the 20 Indians put the teepee behind Morales's house. It's not the most tranquil spot for a campout. The neighborhood is abuzz with ranchera music, crowing roosters and belching pickups. But the Indians wanted Morales to participate in the meeting, which goes from dusk to dawn with constant drumming, singing, praying and — of course — peyote eating.

"I was so sick," Morales says, "I didn't think I could make it in the teepee — you've got to be in there all night long. I got up at 5 a.m. to go out. I didn't want to go back in. It's so hot in there and I'm sweating."

Still, he went back in. Morales, who had spent the majority of his life working around peyote, had never used it. Now, with his Indian friends praying over him, he took the medicine.

"I've only taken it when I've been real sick," he says. Days later, Morales started gaining weight. He got off the couch and was able to walk without pain. He's not sure how it worked, but he's convinced that the medicine — along with the Indians' prayers — healed him. Now, when they come back to Morales's place, he cuts them a deal, selling them bags of peyote at $200 a piece, which amounts to a significant discount from his regular price of $350.

"You've got to have faith in the medicine," he says. "Without faith, it won't work."

Morales says he's seen the medicine work for others as well. The most miraculous case he's seen happened when his brother was dying in the hospital. A doctor called Morales to tell him the brother had two days left. Morales started calling his family. At the same time, a group of Indians were visiting him to stock up on peyote before heading back to Arizona.

"One of them told me to write my brother's name on a piece of paper," he said. Morales wrote the name — Ajeo — and the Indians left. He didn't ask the Indians' names because he didn't believe it would work. "They told me not to worry because my brother wasn't going to die."

The family gathered at the hospital, thinking that it would only be a matter of hours. Days passed, and Ajeo held on. He didn't die for another six months. Weeks after the Indians left, one of them called Morales.

"He asked how my brother was doing," he says. "I said that he was still alive. He said it was the medicine. They were praying for him."

Other terminally ill people have turned up at Morales's door, looking for medicine. He would like to be able to help them, but if he deals to the wrong people, Morales's license to sell peyote could be revoked.

"One woman drove here from San Antonio," he says. "She had been taking chemo and it wasn't working. Nothing had really worked for her and someone had mentioned the medicine. But she didn't have the papers, so I had to turn her away."

"If you don't have papers, I can't sell to you," he says. Then, with a little smile, he adds, "but I can tell you where you might find it."

As Morales explains the magical power of the medicine, he inspects his supply. So far, business has been slow for the winter. It was still deer season in early January and Morales couldn't harvest much peyote if he wanted to. He sold about 5,000 buttons for December, which means that he netted around $1,750. Subtract wages for his handful of part-time workers and it becomes clear that Morales isn't making much money, even though the price of peyote has more than doubled in the past ten years.

• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4
• 5
• 6
Next Page »