A day with the Bribrí – deep in the Costa Rican jungle, where healing is song, ritual and sacred plants.
Two weeks ago, I found myself in a canoe, deep in the lush interior of Costa Rica, heading toward a place I could barely imagine.
My guide—a Bribrí man from near the Panama border—was taking me to his home village. It wasn’t your typical tour. No tourist buses. No information signs. Just him, the jungle—and me.
We traveled about half an hour by river—the only access to his village unless you crossed the mountains from Panama. The water was calm, the greenery dense and alive. It felt intimate—and at the same time, miles away from everything I knew.
I was alone. Far from my family, butterflies in my stomach, heart open. My guide and I spoke English—not perfectly, but enough to share what mattered. There was something in his demeanor that made me trust him. His voice was soft, his gaze warm. I sensed he wanted to show me something he carried since childhood: the plants, the traditions, the ceremonies—his people’s way of healing.
As a teenager, I had already felt drawn to indigenous peoples’ way of life—their outlook on health, on person and nature had awakened something deep inside me.
Life later led me to Chinese medicine—which at its core is no different: a deep, respectful dialogue with nature and with life itself.
My heart has always beaten for traditional medicine. Plant medicine. It carries another perspective. Another rhythm. Another silence
A People of Resistance and Roots
The Bribrí people have lived in the Talamanca rainforest for generations—across modern-day Costa Rica and northern Panama. They are among the few Central American tribes who resisted Spanish colonization.
When missionaries and soldiers tried to penetrate the region, they met organized—and sometimes armed—resistance, supported by a landscape that protected them. The jungle became an ally, preserving freedom.
Due to this isolation, the Bribrí managed to retain much of their cultural identity. Their society is matrilineal—the women inherit land and ceremonial knowledge. Plant medicine, language, spirituality—all endure, even under pressure.
My guide told me there were once eight distinct languages in the region. Today, only three remain, and they’re fading.
Many young people prefer Spanish, especially in school and in contact with the outside world. But during my brief stay, I still heard Bribrí: at lunch, in multi-generational conversations, in the voice used to ask permission to pick a plant. The language lives—but it’s fragile
When the Bananas Arrived—and the Land Was Lost
During our conversation, my guide pointed to a distant patch of tightly planted banana trees.
“That’s from the banana company,” he said. “They took our land. It was ours before.”
He spoke of the United Fruit Company—the U.S. firm that came to Costa Rica in the late 1800s. When they attempted to build railroads and convert lowlands into banana plantations, the king refused to cooperate.
But in 1910, Antonio Saldaña and several family members were poisoned. Shortly afterward, the company rapidly expanded.
Bribrí families lost their farmland and were forced into labor under harsh conditions on plantations. My guide showed me the invasive banana trees still growing there—a species that overtakes native flora.
“They don’t belong here,” he said. “And they leave nothing behind.”
It wasn’t just history he conveyed. It was sorrow. And anger. And something that’s still unfolding.
Women’s Choice—and Men as Bearers of Medicine
As we spoke about village life, my guide spoke with clear pride about their matrilineal system.
Women pass on knowledge, hold families together, and occupy central roles in daily life and ceremonial contexts.
But when it comes to plant medicine—working with illness, energy, and complex conditions—the men take on that role. They are called awá.
I asked:
“But… despite living in a matriarchal structure, are the men still the medicine people?”
He smiled.
“Yes. The women don’t want to be involved in that. It carries heavy energy. They don’t want to carry it in their bodies.”
I paused. I realized how quickly my Western perspective had assumed hidden power structures.
But here, it wasn’t about hierarchy.
It was about boundaries. About choices.
About who was willing to carry what.
Awá—Becoming a Bearer of Medicine
I asked how someone becomes an awá—how one learns this work.
My guide explained it’s not a personal choice. The village shaman selects a child—often early on—who shows sensitivity and receptivity. Then begins a long journey, sometimes fifteen to twenty years of training.
During this time, the apprentice learns everything: plants, their properties, combinations, dosages. They also learn songs, ceremony, energies—and how to read imbalance in others.
“It’s not just about knowing which plant helps with fever,” he said.
“You must know when, how much—and why. And sometimes sing the right song at the same time.”
Across the Bribrí territory—home to around 30,000 people—there are now only about twenty awá left.
“It used to be an honor,” he said. “Today it’s no guarantee. Kids want something else.”
He spoke without anger—more with a sense of sadness and understanding. To become an awá is not a ticket to prestige. It’s a life of service. Solitary, demanding, sometimes difficult to reconcile with the modern world.
Sibú and the Four Circles of the Ceremonial House
The ceremonial house, Ù-sulë́ (also known as the “conical house”), is structured with four inner circles—a cosmic map of the world’s order:
- First circle – the human world, the material and everyday
- Second circle – the plant and animal spirits, helpers of nature
- Third circle – illnesses, imbalances, negative influences
- Fourth circle – at the top: Sibú, the Creator, and the eagle-king who oversees all
Eight pillars support the structure—representing animals who assisted Sibú in the act of creation.
“This house is our universe,” my guide said. “When we enter, we step into our way of understanding the world.
Ceremony—Healing by Night
Ceremonies always take place at night. When participants sleep, the soul leaves the body—and that is when the awá can work deeply with it.
The ritual is preceded by fasting:
- 3 days for general cleansing
- 6 days for physical illness
- multiple weeks for deep imbalances
Song is central—and sometimes, my guide said, one can see the invisible touch the physical.
“The stone in the center—it moved. That was no joke.”
Illness—When the Spirit Loses Balance
Illness doesn’t begin in the body—it starts in the spirit.
The spirit is anchored in the blood. When it’s disturbed—by fear, grief, or external influences—the blood’s condition shifts. And through the blood, illness manifests physically.
Blood is the link between body and spirit.
Hence, to heal, the blood must be cleansed—both physically and spiritually.
The awá works with plants, songs, and ceremony—but also by taking the disturbed spirit into himself.
“At least once a year, an awá goes to another awá,” my guide said, smiling.
I smiled too—and thought:
From shaman to practitioner—everywhere, it’s the same.
Those who carry others’ burdens must also have a place to lay them down.
Plant Medicine—Knowledge, Presence, Precision
My guide took me deep into the forest, machete in hand, showing me different plants, stems, roots, fruits, and barks. Each has its properties, and all are used by the awá as medicine.
Just like in Chinese medicine, this isn’t about a single herb—it’s about prescriptions, combinations, relationships.
The awá bonds with both the person and the spirit of the plant—that’s where healing unfolds.
He showed me plants used for diabetes, skin issues—and even some reportedly used in cases of blood cancer.
Consciousness-Altering Plants—and a Note of Caution
I gently asked how they view plants that alter consciousness—like ayahuasca, which has become popular in Western retreats.
My guide was clear:
Ayahuasca is used—but only in very specific, serious cases.
It is not a drink for the curious, nor a shortcut.
In Bribrí tradition, it is only used when the soul can no longer be reached by other means—when it is fragmented, blocked, lost.
During the ceremony, the soul disconnects from the body, and the awá enters into direct contact—an incredibly vulnerable state.
“You really need a shaman who knows what he’s doing.”
I smiled inwardly.
I recognize that—from my own field.
There is no quick fix.
Simply consuming without context, relationship, or responsibility can be more than ineffective—it can be dangerous.
Even in Chinese medicine we select herbs with care, in combination, tuned to the person. Treatment is never standard. It’s always a process. A relationship. A responsibility.
Because both knowledge without intuition—and intuition without knowledge—can be dangerous
Cacao — a Divine, Feminine Ceremony
Cacao holds a sacred space in Bribrí tradition—but it’s not handled by the awá.
Cacao belongs to women.
Held by female healers, cacao ceremonies serve to cleanse the spirit of everyday weight—stress, tension, stagnation.
I immediately thought:
This reminds me of Shen in Chinese medicine—our spiritual presence, our calm, our clarity.
These ceremonies always take place at night, as my guide explained:
“Night is the time of purification.
When the moon shines, the spirit can be cleansed.”
Cacao also marks transitions—for instance, after birth. The woman drinks warm, bitter cacao to cleanse her spirit and reconnect with her body. And the newborn receives a welcome blessing:
With cold cacao, the baby’s head is gently washed.
“It’s a welcome gift. From the divine. Cacao is sacred,” my guide said.
There’s a legend too: Tsuru’, Sibú’s wife, was a divine female spirit who transformed into the cacao tree to give humans a source of nourishment, healing, and comfort.
Cacao carries the feminine power, nature’s blessing, and Sibú’s love—all in one
A Humble Thank You
It was a remarkable day.
Not only because it was warm, humid, and lush—but because something within me clicked.
I felt I was exactly where I was meant to be—even if I glimpsed only a small part of something immense.
I hope to return one day.
And with better Spanish, perhaps speak with my guide’s cousin—the awá who lives and practices in the village.
Maybe even attend a full cacao ceremony.
It would be an honor.
But already, I carry a deeply transformative experience—with great respect.
I was acutely aware that this isn’t something to “consume”—
and I have no intention of commercializing what I was privileged to witness.
I moved mindfully, asked permission before taking photos—and deliberately avoided photographing people.
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