Imagine yourself as night falls. You sit as part of our circle surrounding the fire. The smoke keeps the mosquitoes away. The ceiling is a weave of intricate bamboo, some as thick as my leg. The walls are made of jungle. A jungle shrouded in darkness. Kilometres upon kilometres of it. You hear the monkeys jumping from tree to tree. Sometimes you think you catch a snake or scorpion in the corner of your eye, temporarily triggering your fight or flight response, but almost always it’s just another shadow of a root reaching out of the red earth, or a dried fallen leaf dancing in the evening breeze. Coming here was not hard. One flight to a major airport, and then a three hour pre-organised car ride through valley upon valley of protected private owned land. There is only one way in to our sanctuary. Hidden from the many, forgotten by the few. Its border is a river. We all swam across. If entering this adventure was surprisingly easy then leaving it is another story. Especially at night. Where every metre of pitch black jungle feels impenetrable.

You are waiting for our ritual to begin. The topics vary with each night. Desire. Submission. Collective Suffering. Death. And the esoteric eros. Entering this space. Your ritual. Our circle. The jungle. Is a commitment. To yourself mostly. And there is little escape. There is no network coverage, obviously. If your phone is not turned off, it has likely discharged by now anyway. You could go to your room and light your candle. But it’s not really enough to read that book you carried in a dry bag across the river just in case. Or you could sit on the sandy beach in the moonlight, watching the stars and listening to waterfalls a couple of kilometres up the valley. But more likely, you’ll be with us. The fire is by far the brightest thing right now. A beacon of safety and belonging. Around the fire, you are with your temporary tribe. The other beings that share your experience. Like little planetary bodies all circling the very same sun. Each with a gravitational field affecting the other. In a way, all the rituals are always the same. You can always spend the last few waking hours sitting here in the circle. In meditation. In devotion. Or you can enter that what’s happening around the fire. Be witnessed or be our witness. Just as the thousands upon thousands of eyes in the jungle. Some hiding in the darkness just a breath away.

And then it begins. And so does your process. Each ritual is a journey. You enter as yourself. And hopefully you leave as someone slightly new. You might encounter others in ritual. But in a way they are all reflections of you, of what’s happening inside of you. Of your process. You might know them from the exercises we did during the day, or the meals you shared, or from conversations in the morning sauna. But our fire is not really a social space.

As our days together pass, there is less and less talk about the future or the past. Whatever is outside our sanctuary tends to feel further and further away. Or maybe just of less importance. Instead you are present with yourself. No distractions. Except for the occasional mosquito bite. Somehow it’s very different from when people decide to spend time with me in Berlin. Great, an Andy Buru workshop in Berlin — then you can also update your kinky gear from McHurt or BlackStyle, stay an extra night, visit KitKat or Berghain, or the Philharmonic, or the Bode Museum. Maybe you’ll meet someone; everyone knows Berlin is a heaven of freaks and weirdoes. Someone to consensually stalk at that exhibition opening. But it’s a distraction. Just like the loud U8 train passing outside the windows between Jannowitzbrücke and Ostbahnhof.

In the jungle things are sensitive. In the way that there is more space to sense things. To be affected. By everything. Hence the rituals tend to be gentler. Every little detail has a big impact. When it’s more silent, it’s easier to listen. Practically, soundwave-wise, but also metaphorically, in the lack of distractions. It’s harder to get away. From yourself. From your process. Seeds are planted and they keep growing. Independently of whether you want it or not. So it’s interesting from a consent perspective. Because it’s much harder to opt out. Not to say no, per se, but what do you do instead? You can’t really take the elevator downstairs for some coffee, cake and Instagram scrolling. You can of course go to your room, or the river, but maybe that is worse. Walking the narrow jungle paths alone at night with only a few oil lanterns to guide your path. It could even be dangerous if you stray too far. A few nooks and turns, and then you no longer see our lights. From the fire that we share. From the candle you carry. From the oil lantern guiding you through the night.

Daytime is a bit different. When the jungle shows its splendour and beauty. When you wake up to the sauna’s steam. When all the birds come to life. To celebrate a new dawn. And this is our isolated dance in the jungle, between night and day as the days and nights come and go. Rituals and exercises. Eating and sleeping. Little social interactions. New friendships and lovers. Watching the seeds we sow.

I started visiting this place long ago, but in other forms. Perhaps twenty years ago, my first Vipassana — ten days of isolation, meditation and silence. I reached a place of such profound stillness that I could simply sit and watch a flower bud unfold its petals for the first time in the morning sun. In the Buddhist obsession of letting everything go there was less space there for research, for the esoteric eros, or the conscious and consensual sadomasochism. But it was perhaps the first seed planted in my own soil — that fascination with isolation, silence and stillness. Something I wish for you too.