It was sometime in the 80s when I arrived in southern Mexico with nothing more than a travel bag and my hammock – right in the heart of Chiapas, not far from the legendary Maya ruins of Palenque. My destination: a place called Camping Maya Bell. Even the name sounded like adventure. And that’s exactly what I got – in a way more intense than I could’ve ever imagined.

The “campground” was anything but conventional – no solid bungalows, no standard comforts. Instead: palm roofs on stilts, a few benches, a place to hang your hammock. Two dollars a night. The real luxury? Birds singing, jungle sounds, and the occasional roar from the forest. No joke – during my very first night, I heard a sound like a monster waking up in the dark. Luckily, someone had warned me: it was just the howler monkeys. Still, if I hadn’t known, I might have sprinted to the bar in panic like others had before me. These monkeys sound like demons on steroids.

The days were hot, the jungle steamy, and I was constantly soaked in sweat. The next morning, I set out on foot with a few fellow backpackers to explore the ruins of Palenque – a mystical place, half-devoured by the rainforest, where history seeps out of every stone crack. I climbed pyramids, descended into a king’s burial chamber, and stood in awe before a massive stone sarcophagus, cracked open just slightly by archaeologists. The lid alone must have weighed several tons. How on earth did they move that over a thousand years ago? It left me speechless.

But that wasn’t the end of the magic.

A few days later, I heard that wild magic mushrooms grew in the area. Three Austrians at the campground – who had clearly been there too long – were already deep into the psychedelic scene. One of them looked totally gone, with a glassy stare and erratic behavior. Word was, he’d been tripping nonstop and couldn’t come down. One night, he lost it again – shouting, throwing stones, completely out of control. His buddies had to tie him up. The next day, they put him on a bus to Mexico City to hand him over to the Austrian embassy. Jungle madness meets diplomacy.

Naturally, I had to try the mushrooms too.

I teamed up with an Australian I’d met at the bar, and we bought a handful each – four or five. I took a small dose, always cautious with that kind of thing. We hiked into the jungle, past a little stream that ran partly through the camp, until we reached a natural pool – a stone basin carved out by water. You couldn’t really swim in it, but it was deep enough to cool off. The heat was brutal.

As the mushrooms began to kick in, the Australian got bored and returned to camp. I stayed. Alone. Just me, in my swim shorts, in the middle of the tropical jungle, floating and exploring.

And then it hit.

The world transformed. Colors pulsed, sounds breathed. I stood in awe in front of a single plant for minutes. Everything was full of meaning – the roots, the moss, the light through the canopy. I wandered deeper into the forest, discovering overgrown ruins, stones with faces, trees that whispered stories. It felt like the jungle itself was telling me the ancient tales of the Maya – without words, but with profound clarity.

I spent hours there, drifting between dimensions, surrounded by the living, breathing forest. That experience burned itself into my brain – and even though more than 40 years have passed, it still feels like it happened just yesterday.

I stayed in Maya Bell a few more days. Climbed the ruins again – once even after official closing hours – and watched the sun set from the top, surrounded by ancient stones and jungle symphonies.

There was a lot of weed, lots of laughs, plenty of booze. I met amazing people from all over the world. It was raw, chaotic, alive. No Instagram, no Google Maps, no plan. Just the jungle, the old gods of the Maya – and me, right in the middle of it all.

When I think back to Palenque today, I can still smell the humid jungle, hear the howler monkeys… and somewhere in between, my own voice: “What a trip.”