Shocking report reveals the foods that are most likely to be laced with nasty pesticides - and it's not all fruit and veg
Traces of the chemicals were found in herbs and spices such as dried basil, parsley and cumin, as well as dried beans, chilli and honey.
High levels of the substances detected can cause digestive issues, while long term exposure has been linked to cancer.
The European Food Safety Report report analysed data from 132,793 samples of a range of foods imported to Europe, including fruit and vegetables, and found that two per cent of those tested breached legal limits, which equated to 3000 products.
They found that 42 per cent of products contained some residual pesticide traces but these were deemed safe.
The European Union has strict rules on pesticides with just 0.1 micrograms per kilo of produce allowed.
The analysis found that the chemicals were found at unsafe levels in unprocessed products like, chillies, dragon fruit, cumin seeds and grape leaves.
Some foods, like chilli peppers, were found to contain shocking numbers of different pesticides — up to 37.
Processed products like dried beans and spices made up 10 per cent of unsafe products, the analysis found.
Ethylene oxide, a pesticide not approved in Europe, was detected in 40 samples. The chemical can cause headaches, nausea, diarrhea and difficulty breathing. Long term exposure has also been linked to cancer.
The report found that the biggest risk came from importing food from countries outside the EU.
The main countries from which non-compliant products were found were Turkey, India and Egypt. Although most of these consignments were stopped at the border.
Levels of pesticides on produce from these countries were found to be three times higher than in the Union.
The report also found a number of breaches in honey and rice products imported from outside the EU.
Testing of brown rice revealed that some products contained tricyclazole, propiconazole, imidacloprid, and chlormequat chloride—all of which are banned in the EU.
A 2024 systematic review published in the journal of Toxicology Reports found that high exposure to pesticides may be linked to increased risk of cancer, infertility and respiratory problems, but the effect is most likely in agricultural workers.
Pesticides used in agriculture can often leave detectable traces of chemicals in, or on, our food known as 'residues'.
According to the World Health Organisation (WHO), more than 1,000 different pesticides are used globally.
They are used in agriculture to control weeds, insect infestation and disease carriers like mosquitoes, ticks, rats and mice. They also enable farmers to protect crop quantity and quality.
Pesticide consumption has grown almost 60 per cent since 1990 reaching 2.66bn kg (5.86bn lbs) by 2020.
But the elderly, children and unborn babies are especially susceptible to the adverse effects of pesticides.
Late last year campaign group Pesticide Action Network UK (PAN UK) used Government testing data to show 46 pesticides with links to cancer had been detected on produce imports to Britain as of the end of last year.
They say that washing or peeling fruit and vegetables can potentially reduce exposure to pesticides as some residues that appear on the surface will be eliminated, particularly traces of soil which may contain harmful bacteria.
However they warn that this will not remove all pesticides used as some are 'systemic', meaning that they are actually absorbed by a plant when applied to seeds, soil, or leaves and the residues are therefore contained within the body of the produce itself.
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Daily Mail
8 minutes ago
- Daily Mail
First the 'magic potion', now the 'miracle pills'! Novak Djokovic drinks 'pyramid water' from Bosnia and travels with his own electromagnetic field: Inside the tennis icon's weird ways after his first-round recovery at Wimbledon
Novak Djokovic may have been down against Alexandre Muller after the second set of his first-round Wimbledon match, but he was not out. 'I went from feeling my absolutely best for a set and a half to my absolute worst for about 45 minutes,' Djokovic said after winning the clash in four sets to set up a meeting with Dan Evans. 'Whether it was a stomach bug - I don't know what it is, but just struggled with that. 'The energy kind of kicked back after some doctor's miracle pills and I managed to finish the match on a good note.' While the phrase 'miracle pills' might have given some who believe in the Serbian serial champion's tendency towards the dark arts pause, it's unlikely to ring true. On-court doctors are employed by the tournament and nothing they dole out to save a flagging player will trouble WADA. But more often than not, Djokovic has relied on somewhat unusual methods to remain highly competitive at 38 years old. Last year, Djokovic shocked SW19 by returning to Centre Court twenty-six days after undergoing knee surgery. Unorthodox is the word that befits Djokovic and his various beliefs, from pyramid water to a temple that keeps him calm, or the Bosnian mountain he abides by. Marginal gains is what Djokovic is all about and this latest rehabilitation will have been littered with quirky ways to return to fitness. Previously he has shown that he places trust in the healing power of trampolines, the use of meditation to fight off injury, the belief that you can make dirty water clean again with nothing but the strength of your emotions. The list goes on and on. There was the time Djokovic set an alarm on his phone so he would know – to the exact minute – when a year had passed since he last ate a piece of chocolate. Or the time he listened over and over and over to The Beatles and a Serbian rock band called Električni Orgazam to perfect the rhythm of his famed return motion. Or there is the faith he places in the healing power of 'pyramid water'. In a piece on the official Wimbledon website they detail the 'benefits of pyramid water'. Djokovic underwent a rigorous rehab in order to be ready to fight for an eighth Wimbledon 'Novak really appreciates the water from the pyramids. He can see it brings him benefits,' Sam Osmanagic, who announced to the world in 2005 that he had discovered the pyramids, said. 'When Novak comes here, he always gets supplies of the water.' Djokovic swears by it and he has not been quiet about his pilgrimages to the small city of Visoko in Bosnia, in order to 'charge up on the cosmic energy being emitted by the local ancient pyramids'. 'There is truly a miraculous energy here,' Djokovic said in 2018. 'If there is a paradise on Earth, then it's here.' Traditional medicine and routine practices of rehab do not appeal to Djokovic; his psyche and mindset has long been on a different level. Food is a key area for him. Specifically, the 'positive energy' that food can distribute. In his book 'Serve to Win: The 14-Day Gluten-free Plan for Physical and Mental Excellence', the Serbian superstar incredibly detailed how he believes that conversation is influential on the food we eat. In Djokovic's mind, negative conversation could well be harmful to the food, stripping it of its nutrients as well as its taste. During his rehabilitation now, as her has done for many years, Djokovic is positive in affirming his beliefs to his food before he eats. Wild, but it works for him. Djokovic explains: 'I believe that if you are eating with some kind of fear or worry or anger, the taste of the food and the energy you get from it won't be as powerful… What you give is what you get.' He is also obsessive when it comes to chewing, an action that must be focused on entirely. 'As I chew, the process of digestion is already starting,' he wrote. 'The enzymes in my saliva mix with the food, so that when it hits my stomach it's a fully formed piece of 'information.' As well as being informed by mental practices, Djokovic has invested in modern technology, sporting a Taopatch at the 2023 French Open. The patch, affixed to his chest, is a piece of wearable nanotechnology, with administers a version of acupuncture and light therapy. More recently, the star revealed during the Australian Open that he had been given a custom electromagnetic device designed to 'enhance metabolic function'. 'It's (an) energetic disc, (it) creates an electromagnetic field around it and (the) kind of secret is in this pattern,' Djokovic said of his new favourite toy in an interview with GQ. 'And so when you place it on a certain part of your body, place this part (the centre of the disc), for example, if you have stomach issues, which I do have often when I'm nervous, stressed before the match or indigestion issues, that creates heat. 'So then it starts enhancing the metabolic functions or it reduces inflammation in certain part of the body. 'A doctor that I know in Serbia, who is also an engineer, he created this disc for me and I have a bunch of those and I do carry it everywhere. 'When I fly in the plane, I put it on (my) head or somewhere. I shouldn't be having it on the body parts for too long, so like 20-30 minutes it does its work.' More often than not Djokovic is happy to expand on his beliefs, on food, on special water, on not getting vaccinated against Covid, and that was why his 'magic potion' spotted at previous iterations of Wimbledon became so intriguing. His bizarre Wimbledon drink habit became an even bigger story when he refused to reveal what was in the bottle, claiming it is 'magic potion'. 'Magic potion, that is all I can say,' he said, when pressed. His wife Jelena, who boasts quirky views of her own, even took a swipe at her husband's critics when it came to the 'potion' in question. 'This whole nonsense about making people speak about something they aren't ready because others are inpatient is absurd,' she said. 'Sit a bit in silence. Mind yourself more. Not everything you see is controversial. It could be private. Is that allowed?' The 'potion' has since been unveiled as Djokovic's SILA electrolyte supplement, which is available for purchase by the masses and contains, as per the brand itself, 'CoQ10, Vitamins C and B12 for cellular energy', and 'proprietary nanotechnology for maximum absorption'. The front row of his box on Tuesday evening were sporting SILA baseball caps, one assumes for maximum absorption of marketing. Normally in these weeks Djokovic is frequenting a nearby Buddhist temple. The Buddhapadipa Temple, on a leafy suburban street just minutes from the All England Club grounds, has been frequented by the reigning champion in previous years. Djokovic, an Orthodox Christian, once stayed next door to the temple and spent up to an hour a day using its four-acre grounds for meditation and to improve his focus. 'Many years ago he came to stay next door to the temple and every morning he meditated at the temple,' Venerable Piyobhaso, minster of religion at Buddhapdipa, tells Mail Sport. 'He preferred to come in the morning, from 30 minutes up to an hour. Sometimes he spent an hour beside the lake. He became friends with some members. 'Novak is a very friendly person. He always smiled and didn't mind having photos with the temple members. He said that meditation helps with his tennis.' Whatever Djokovic eats, drinks, prays to, believes in works; it works for him anyway. Because at 38 years of age, he is here, at Wimbledon, full of belief an eighth men's singles title is within his grasp.
Daily Mail
an hour ago
- Daily Mail
Desperate Keir Starmer tries to stabilise Labour by vowing to make NHS a six-day service… but what happens if you get sick on Sunday?
Sir Keir Starmer is attempting to stablilise his rocky Labour administration by launching a new 10-year plan for the NHS. In what has swiftly become the PM's worst week in office so far - after he was forced to shelve key welfare reforms - Sir Keir will outline a major health shake-up. The Government is promising to deliver 'a brand-new era for the NHS' and 'one of the most seismic shifts in care in the history of the health service'. The '10 Year Health Plan' includes plans for the creation of a 'neighbourhood health service' to ease the strain on hospitals. New neighbourhood health services will be rolled out across the country to bring tests, post-op care, nursing and mental health teams closer to people's homes. The aim is to give people access to a full range of services, leaving hospitals to focus on the sickest, with neighbourhood health centres opening at evenings and weekends. Labour is promising new health centres to house the neighbourhood teams, which will eventually be open 12 hours a day, six days a week within local communities. But the plans appear to be less ambitious than pledges by previous governments to make the NHS a seven-day service, which were left unmet. Jeremy Hunt, the former Tory health secretary, saw doctors begin the first all-out strike in NHS history in 2016 as he tried to introduce a seven-day health service. Ex-Labour PM Gordon Brown also promised new health centres that would open seven days a week for 12 hours a day, but saw his plans resisted by unions. Sir Keir will use a major speech on Thursday to unveil his vision for the NHS, as he seeks to shift focus away from several chaotic days in Westminster. This saw him U-turn on welfare cuts amid the threat of a major revolt by Labour MPs, as well as scenes of Chancellor Rachel Reeves crying in the House of Commons. Writing for broadcaster LBC ahead of the speech, the PM said the Government is now moving to its 'next phase'. 'A major programme of renewal and rebuilding that will transform the entire country,' he added. 'Once again making Britain a nation where you work hard and reap the rewards. A Britain you feel proud to live in once again.' The new health plan sets out how the NHS will move from analogue to digital, treatment to prevention, and from hospital to more community care. The 'status quo of hospital by default will end', according to the Government, with care shifted into neighbourhoods and people's homes. By 2035, the intention is that the majority of outpatient care will happen outside of hospitals, with less need for hospital-based appointments for things like eye care, cardiology, respiratory medicine and mental health. New services will also include debt advice, employment support and stop smoking or obesity services – all of which affect people's health. Community outreach, with people going door to door, could also reduce pressure on GPs and A&E, the Government said. Ahead of the speech, Sir Keir said it was time for the health service to 'reform or die'. 'Our 10-year health plan will fundamentally rewire and future-proof our NHS so that it puts care on people's doorsteps, harnesses game-changing tech and prevents illness in the first place,' he added. Health Secretary Wes Streeting said the plan would deliver 'one of the most fundamental changes in the way we receive our healthcare in history'.
The Guardian
an hour ago
- The Guardian
‘People pay to be told lies': the rise and fall of the world's first ayahuasca multinational
The first time Dalia* took ayahuasca nothing happened. The second time it changed her life. It was 2017, and she had joined a dozen strangers in a chalet outside Barcelona. Everyone was searching for something. For many it was a way out of misery: an escape from years of addiction, or a last-ditch attempt to survive crippling depression. Dalia, a therapist in her early 30s, hoped ayahuasca would help her process the recent death of her mother. 'I felt completely alone at that time,' she said. 'And I think in some form that's how everyone there felt.' The retreat, run by a wellness company called Inner Mastery, began with the two dozen participants talking about their expectations, before imbibing ayahuasca. The Amazonian plant brew, which contains dimethyltryptamine (DMT), a powerful naturally occurring psychoactive, induces an altered sense of self and reality. Users often report revisiting past trauma or repressed experiences. Within an hour of her first dose, Dalia began to yawn uncontrollably, then she felt cries escaping from her mouth. She vomited, and then the trip began. In what she would subsequently learn was a common experience, she felt as if a part of her was dying. She had several visions, but one, towards the end of her trip, conjured the anxiety around money that had haunted her for years. Money was just an illusion, she realised. She felt soothed. The next week, Dalia decided she wanted to train with Inner Mastery to help others have the same healing experience. The company offered training programmes for those who wanted to work with ayahuasca, but they cost thousands of euros. 'There was an energy that I connected to, and it told me to go ahead and pay the money,' Dalia said. Inner Mastery was a large organisation, with centres in 14 countries and regular events in many more. Retreats took place over weekends in centres across Europe and the Americas. More than 100 regular participants decided they not only wanted to take ayahuasca but train to administer it, and began building their lives around the company. 'It felt like joining a family,' Dalia said. She wasn't the only one driven by a sense of being part of a movement. Other members reported finding a community of like-minded people: spiritual seekers looking for meaning. 'Most people there were black sheep,' said Adrián*, another longstanding participant. 'Those on the outside who didn't question anything were like NPCs [non-player characters, the mindless figures in video games who can't think for themselves]. Everyone on the inside wanted to heal the world in some way.' The head of Inner Mastery was Alberto Varela, an Argentine entrepreneur, who founded the company in 2013. Often dressed in white, with a nest of grey curls behind his domed head, Varela would speak for hours from a throne-like chair, his voice slowly rising and falling. He described Inner Mastery as the first ayahuasca multinational. Having experienced an ayahuasca ceremony in Colombia, he came up with a formula more suited to a western market, stripping the ceremony of its religious connotations and rebranding it in the new age language of self-realisation. The only way to survive in a sick world, he said, was to turn inwards and heal yourself. Gone was the collective tradition, wherein members of a community would drink ayahuasca together; in its place came gatherings of strangers, all drawn in by the belief that ayahuasca could help them gain insight into their individual lives. At its peak in the late 2010s, Inner Mastery claimed to have more than 130 staff running 1,000 retreats for 30,000 customers each year. It had a training academy, a media department, a travel agency, a dedicated streaming service and later its own cryptocurrency. Its retreat centres, about 20 sprawling villas rented or owned by Varela's network of companies, eventually became communes where dozens of Inner Mastery employees-cum-followers could live – for a fee. Like all new recruits, Dalia helped cook meals for retreats or cleaned for little or no pay. 'It was normal to work from the morning until 4am or 5am the next day, when the ayahuasca sessions usually finished. It was relentless. We barely slept,' she said. But she was buoyed up by their sense of mission. 'We were building something incredible.' The popularity of the retreats and their link to mind-altering substances inevitably attracted speculation. Some people called it a cult. 'It was something we used to laugh about,' Dalia said. 'The word cult was just a way to discredit anyone taking a different path or trying to change the world. Once you see it like that, many people, myself included, end up thinking: 'So what if it's a cult? I don't care. It's doing me good.'' But over time, Varela began to draw criticism for the way he ran the business. His staff were underpaid and overworked, his manner overbearing. He built a hierarchical organisation that made him rich, while many of his employees went into debt with the company. He promoted ayahuasca as a panacea for all suffering, and despite having no training, practised a confrontational and sometimes cruel form of therapy on vulnerable people with serious trauma. Traditional practitioners and healers protested he was bringing their practice into disrepute. Ayahuasca was not something you could roll out on an industrial scale with minimal oversight, they said. Accidents would happen. Before spirituality, Alberto Varela's passion was business. Born to middle-class parents in Santa Fe, Argentina, in 1960, he believed himself to be exceptional from a young age. As a teenager he eschewed drugs and alcohol. His only vice was work, he claimed. At 17, he started a clothing company. By the time he was 30, he was married with three children, but after his wife left him, he realised he needed to make a change. He signed up for sessions with Osvaldo Gordín, a life coach and marketing expert. The two men became followers of Osho, the leader of the Rajneesh movement, who was known for rejecting asceticism in favour of material abundance and accumulating a fleet of 93 Rolls-Royces. Together, Varela and Gordín started a marketing consultancy. It was the early 90s, and Argentinian society was flirting with a new culture of success that valued wealth and conspicuous consumption. Varela excelled in this world. 'It's incredible,' he later wrote. 'People pay to be told lies, and they are happy to believe them. How easy it is to control, dominate, lead and manipulate a man!' By 1999, Varela had followed his ex-wife to Spain, where she had moved with their three children. He took ayahuasca, or yage as it is also known, for the first time a year or so later when visiting the mountains outside Bogotá, Colombia. He claimed the Indigenous shaman, or 'taita', saw special qualities in him. When he returned to Madrid, he launched an alternative medicine centre, positioning himself as a western conduit to Indigenous ayahuasca rituals. Varela had spotted a lucrative opportunity. Meaning 'vine of the dead' in Quechua, ayahuasca has been used by Amazonian Indigenous groups for centuries. In shamanic cures and initiation rituals, for which the guides undergo long apprenticeships, the plant brew is believed to aid communication with ancestors, spirits and gods. Interest in ayahuasca began to grow in the west during the late 20th century, fuelled by disenchantment with conventional mental health treatments, and a growing western appetite for altered states and new spiritual experiences. By the mid-2000s, Varela was starting to offer ayahuasca ceremonies alongside reiki and meditation at his Madrid centre. Soon he was expanding to other parts of Spain. Those who met him around this time were struck by his drive. 'He was intelligent, observant and very hard-working,' said Hugo Oklander, a fellow Argentine and early collaborator. But Oklander could see his ambition had no limit. 'I don't think it was possible for him to ever be satisfied.' Ayahuasca had been used under the radar in therapeutic settings since the 1980s. 'The police didn't even know what it was. You could bring it into the country without any issue,' said Manuel Villaescusa, a psychologist who has worked with ayahuasca for two decades. But Varela wanted to reach a much larger market. He bought full page ads in alternative health magazines, promoting ayahuasca as a cure for a range of ailments, according to Villaescusa. The attention brought customers, but also scrutiny. One local news crew ran a story based on claims Varela was leading a cult. In December 2008, Spanish police raided a villa in an upmarket suburb of Madrid, interrupting 21 people, three of them children, who were reportedly watching a porn film while they waited to take ayahuasca. Forty kilos of the plant were seized, and Varela, who was identified as the leader, was arrested on charges of crimes against public health. 'It was a bombshell,' Villaescusa said. 'Ayahuasca had been tolerated for 20 years and then suddenly not only are the police raiding a ceremony but the story appears in every newspaper in the country, and the first contact the Spanish public has with ayahuasca is associating it with some kind of [alleged] sex cult.' Varela went to prison for 14 months. By the time he came out, he was determined to expand his plans for an ayahuasca business. 'Like criminals who prepare bank robberies while they're locked up, I planned my own heist,' he later said. 'When I got out, I would multiply by 1,000 the energy I put into this before I went to jail.' Varela's release from prison coincided with the financial crisis in Spain and a surge in anger at politicians. He capitalised on his newfound fame and styled himself as a guru persecuted by repressive authorities. He published a memoir, then a free magazine, which he distributed in Madrid's vegetarian restaurants and yoga studios. Its content was a mix of new age therapies and self-promotion. Most of its early covers featured Varela's adult children and their modelling careers or world travels. In 2011, the year after his release from prison, Varela spent several weeks at a commune called Budas Factory near Seville, run by a self-declared guru called Fulvio Carbone. The commune hosted a series of in-person courses promising enlightenment, reportedly costing upwards of €1,500. Varela was accustomed to casting himself as a leader, but at Budas Factory, 'the 'Master' had met someone from whom he could learn', wrote Rafael Palacios, a mutual acquaintance of the two. That same year, a Spanish nonprofit dedicated to exposing cults claimed Budas Factory used fasting and aggressive group therapy sessions to make participants more susceptible to manipulation. Carbone disbanded his organisation after being caught on a hidden camera claiming an aloe vera cream marketed by his organisation could cure cancer. By the time the commune closed, Varela was working on his own plans. After the bad publicity that came with Varela's arrest, once he was released from prison, Spain's small community of ayahuasca practitioners tried to reason with him. 'We tried to persuade him to stop using aggressive marketing and adopt a more ethical approach to participants,' Villaescusa said. But Varela declined. 'He was convinced that he had been chosen to bring ayahuasca to the world, and that we were cowards for not working in the open.' In 2013, Varela bought a popular Facebook group for ayahuasca users for US$4,000 and started advertising himself as the 'first westerner granted authorisation to use ayahuasca' by Indigenous experts in Colombia. Within months he had hundreds of thousands of followers around the world, centred on his Facebook community, which he called Ayahuasca International. For anyone in Europe searching online for more information about the Indigenous brew, Varela's organisation was usually the first they would see. At this point, there was no company yet, just an idea. Varela went on a whirlwind promotional offensive, organising conferences and workshops on ayahuasca and personal development across Europe and Latin America. By his side was his compatriot Oklander, who had spent several decades in Asia exploring meditation, body work and other therapies only to conclude that few could really help people. He hoped ayahuasca would be different. While Varela managed the Spanish-speaking world, Oklander oversaw international expansion, flying to different cities every weekend to promote the newly launched company. Perhaps Varela's most lucrative innovation came in late 2013 with the School of Ayahuasca, a training academy for those who wanted to administer the brew themselves. These 'facilitators' were a low-cost alternative to traditional shamans. Training cost €150 a day, and often added up to several thousand euros before new recruits could begin to work for the company. Trainees earned a commission by finding new customers. One former member compared it to working for a telemarketing firm. 'The aim was to sell, sell, sell,' he said. In practice, it functioned like a multilevel marketing scheme. 'The School of Ayahuasca operated to indoctrinate people and entrap them. They went into debt with the company,' said Oklander, who after co-founding the company later turned whistleblower. 'It was machiavellian.' Cristian Alcalá came into contact with Inner Mastery in 2015 when he picked up a friend from one of its retreats in Spain. 'There was something different about her. She just seemed to sparkle,' Alcalá said. He was intrigued and decided to take up a role as a handyman in one Inner Mastery centre in Spain. Not long after he began, Varela offered to send him to train at the company's base in the Colombian jungle, where it sourced the plant brew. Alcalá had no money to pay for his ticket, but Varela brushed this aside. 'Don't worry, I'll pay for you, and when you come back, you'll bring some ayahuasca with you,' he told him. Alcalá said yes immediately. 'At 35 I had never even left the country and suddenly they were putting me on a plane to go to Colombia to take ayahuasca with local shamans,' he said. After two weeks in the jungle, he returned to Spain with 40 kilos of ayahuasca disguised as a product to treat wood. (Ayahuasca's legal status varies between countries. DMT, the psychoactive alkaloid found in the plant, is included in the United Nations convention on psychotropic substances. But the ayahuasca brew itself is not under international control.) Soon Alcalá was leading ayahuasca ceremonies. He spent the next four years running retreat centres in Mexico and Italy. 'They gave me the opportunity to see myself as something else,' he said. By 2016, the company had opened centres in Spain, Italy, Germany, the Netherlands, Ireland, Mexico and Uruguay. Employees ran retreats and sent profits back to Varela in Madrid. A single weekend retreat could make up to €40,000, Oklander said. The company also developed other revenue streams, like offering trips to Colombia, additional psychoactives or selling ayahuasca directly online to customers. Varela bought supplies cheaply, paid employees little, and usually in cash, and declared little or nothing to tax authorities, according to Oklander. 'It was incredibly profitable,' he said. 'Like drug smuggling lite.' Varela structured the organisation like a multinational conglomerate: services were contracted to subsidiaries under a holding company, limiting financial and legal liability. Nothing was in Varela's name. 'That was part of the strategy. The idea was you could never see the whole thing,' Oklander said. The bigger Inner Mastery got, the more criticism it drew for its high prices, understaffing and cost-cutting. At one overcrowded weekend retreat priced at about €450, instead of buckets, customers were given plastic bags to be sick into, one review complained, resulting in a room of people hallucinating around 'puke landmines'. Some staff members began to fear it was putting participants in danger. Ayahuasca sessions entailed loss of control, physically and emotionally, and it could get frightening and messy. 'In our team meetings there was a lot of emphasis on the wellbeing of the participants and the team, but in practice it became clear that the expansion of the company was above that,' Adrián said. In its rush to enter new markets, Inner Mastery held events wherever it could, packing tripping participants into yoga studios or hotel conference rooms under the supervision of inexperienced facilitators. At one such retreat in a dance studio on the outskirts of Cologne, around 2016, one man had an adverse reaction to the brew and started acting aggressively, pacing around the room in circles. Fearing he might hurt someone or himself, Adrián tried to calm him down. Eventually, the man went outside to sleep in his car. When Adrián went to check on him a few hours later, he was gone. 'I was really worried he could be driving around Cologne in the midst of a psychotic episode,' Adrián said. At another retreat, a woman became paranoid after taking ayahuasca, fearing the organisers were planning to attack her while she was under the influence. 'She just fled. She jumped over a wall of the house and ran off, without her shoes, her phone or anything,' Dalia said. Later that night police arrived at the retreat after the woman had turned up at the station, practically naked, claiming someone had tried to steal her organs. Within Inner Mastery, losing control was often interpreted as a necessary step in each person's 'process'. Soon after joining the organisation as a trainee, Dalia was encouraged to take yopo, a snuff and powerful hallucinogen, which the company was adding to its menu of psychoactives on offer at retreats. 'We were encouraged to try it as trainees. Really, we were guinea pigs,' she said. Almost immediately after the snuff was blown up her nostril, Dalia felt as if she couldn't breathe. She remembers screaming for help before blacking out. When she came round, someone told her she had stopped breathing, and a doctor employed by Inner Mastery had resuscitated her. The doctor told her it was a good thing. 'You had an incredible process, the best of everyone,' he told her later. The next night, the same doctor pushed Dalia to take ayahuasca. 'You were calling for your mother last night; you have to speak to her,' he told her. 'Take a high dose. A really high dose.' She did as directed, and in the hours that followed Dalia lost all sense of herself. The next day, when she woke up, her clothes were soiled and her head bruised, apparently from falling. At first she felt ashamed, but like many in the organisation, Dalia learned to see her shame as a product of her own resistance to change. 'No one said: 'You were on the verge of dying.' Quite the opposite, I was told I had the best trip of all and they congratulated me.' Varela frequently emphasised his connection to Colombia, where Inner Mastery owned a property and sourced its ayahuasca. With the profits he made, Varela said he was supporting the Indigenous community in Putumayo that he claimed had authorised him to work with the sacred plant medicine. But in 2015, representatives of the Cofán Indigenous community denounced him as an impostor. Varela had falsified his authorisation and used it to promote his business, they said, and they had seen none of the money he claimed to be collecting on their behalf. Anyone attending Inner Mastery retreats was putting their life and health in 'serious risk'. (The complaint was echoed in an open letter signed by 100 academics and anthropologists, who claimed Inner Mastery had taken advantage 'of the ignorance, credulity, good faith and vulnerability of many people'.) Varela denied the accusation. He said the Cofán community had tried to blackmail him for a share in Inner Mastery's profits, and after he refused, were taking revenge. His lawyer threatened to sue them for libel. Inner Mastery conferences in the US descended into shouting matches as staff faced down Indigenous protesters who claimed the company had appropriated ayahuasca for profit. Varela increasingly saw himself as under attack, claiming he had received threats to his life. 'Twice armed men came to my hostel in the Colombian jungle to kill me,' he later told a Spanish journalist. 'The reasons are complex, but in short it's because I'm white and Argentine, and mixed up in a spiritual shamanic world in which I dared to take the medicine out of its ritual and cultural context to spread it across the world in combination with psychotherapy.' Varela devised his own form of psychotherapy. Before his first arrest in 2008, he had been accused of practising therapy without a licence, he told Dalia. 'And so he called it 'anti-therapy' or 'not therapy' to avoid any issues,' she said. All work should be carried out in groups, Varela insisted, 'because the ego can lie better in private'. He would use 'chaos' and 'confrontation' to 'unmask the lies and beliefs we hold about ourselves'. In psychedelic-assisted therapy, 'integrations', or sessions held after taking hallucinogens, are a common practice to help participants understand their experiences. But Varela often seemed to use his 'anti-therapy' to lead participants to his own predetermined conclusions. 'He would push ideas and thoughts on to people,' Dalia said. A common theme was telling people to break up with their partner. 'It was dressed up as a way to help people be free, but really it was quite twisted.' Through the training academy, new recruits would learn to replicate Varela's method. The confrontational approach could be unsettling. In one promotional video from 2016, a woman lies face up on a mattress. Around her is a circle of onlookers. Her limbs are pulled in different directions by the four people closest to her. She wails, her eyes closed, while they tell her: 'You're a bad sister.' 'I hate you.' 'You deserve to die.' In another, a young woman wearing only a bra sobs in a circle of sniggering onlookers, before storming out. In the next scene of the video, she is shown embracing Varela. Dalia had suffered physical abuse as a child, and so when Varela told her she needed to stop identifying with the pain of her inner child, it made sense. But his methods could be cruel. One day, when she started to cry, he mimicked her, wailing theatrically and repeating: 'Look at her, the little hurt girl. Let's all cry like her!' On his cue, others joined him, forming a circle around her, laughing while she sobbed. As the company grew, so did the number of accidents. On a rainy March day in 2019, a 31-year-old Hungarian man arrived at a hospital in the Dutch city of Eindhoven looking for help. It was early morning and he was displaying signs of confusion, the police report later noted, but he was not admitted. He left the hospital, only to reportedly return a second time before being sent home again. He was found dead at the bottom of an apartment building soon after. Police concluded the man had probably died by suicide. They found DMT in his bloodstream and learned he had just attended a retreat in a nearby town called Eersel in a property owned by Inner Mastery. A few weeks later, police raided the house and arrested several employees of the company. 'We tried to stop him, because we don't want people to leave in the middle of the night,' an Inner Mastery spokesperson told Dutch reporters after the case became public. There were risks involved in retreats, they added, but the organisation had followed its protocols to protect its customers. Varela's only response to the deaths was to say that people who take ayahuasca do so at their own risk. Within Inner Mastery, responsibility for accidents was often placed on participants, said Dalia, who was working for the company in Spain when word spread that someone had died at a retreat. Another former Inner Mastery member was more blunt, telling me that those who had bad reactions were directly to blame: 'They are not going to therapy, which they need. They are not ready to face what ayahuasca or other substances bring to their psychology after being consumed. So it may end up very badly for the person, including killing themselves or jumping from a window.' In October 2019, three Inner Mastery employees – the manager, master of ceremonies and the person who prepared the ayahuasca – as well as the company itself, were investigated for their role in the Hungarian client's death. Eventually, the prosecutor's office dropped manslaughter charges, but charged the three with drug offences for supplying ayahuasca. According to witness statements, which contradicted Inner Mastery's initial statement, the Hungarian man had taken iboga, a powerful psychoactive whose effects can last up to 48 hours, then later ayahuasca. Inner Mastery had begun offering iboga alongside ayahuasca and other psychoactives a few months before the accident. Taking iboga and ayahuasca in the same retreat significantly increases the risk of an adverse reaction, said José Carlos Bouso, scientific director at The International Center for Ethnobotanical Education, Research, and Service (ICEERS), a nonprofit that supports psychedelic therapy. Separately, a second man died at another retreat in the Netherlands six months later, after combining the plant brew with other unnamed substances. At trial in 2022, two Inner Mastery workers were convicted for transporting, providing and processing ayahuasca and sentenced to 100 hours' community service and a suspended two-week prison sentence. The case involving the death of the Hungarian man finally went to trial in January this year, where the court held one Inner Mastery employee responsible for possession and supply of ayahuasca and 'ignoring the health risks of DMT'. A second employee and Inner Mastery itself will face the same charges at a trial set for September. Former members of Inner Mastery say the company initially gave participants forms to list any history of psychosis or other drug use that could conflict with ayahuasca. 'But the main problem was people lied,' Oklander said. Facilitators often had little or no medical or psychological experience. Oklander said he was regularly called in to deal with difficult cases. One time he was woken in the middle of the night after a woman in apparent psychosis began scratching her arms, drawing blood. 'I took her to a shower and got under the freezing cold water with her, and held her. That worked,' he said. At some point, staff began conducting brief interviews to screen participants, but a small minority of participants continued having psychotic episodes. 'If you do it well, it's very, very safe. But if it's done wrong you multiply the risks of an accident,' said Villaescusa. Bouso agreed. 'Ayahuasca on its own is quite safe, physically. What you have to be aware of are the psychological effects.' More than 800,000 people across the Americas, Europe, Australia and New Zealand took ayahuasca in 2019, according to Bouso's organisation. In a report, it found that between 2010 and 2022, of the 58 deaths linked to ayahuasca, many involved other substances, pre-existing health conditions, or other circumstances. Within Inner Mastery, it was difficult to express reservations. Varela would make a person feel ashamed for asking questions, and 'that was the end of the argument', Oklander said. The two fell out, and Oklander brought a civil suit against Inner Mastery for unpaid wages in 2019, which he won. He also made a criminal complaint to police, saying he'd been an 'unwitting participant' in tax fraud and crimes against public health. In his complaint, he included messages from senior company leadership to employees, which threatened to 'immediately fire' anyone who didn't send profits back to the company's headquarters in Madrid. By the early 2020s, negative attention was growing, and Varela started locking the gate to the company's headquarters outside Madrid, where he lived. In the early days of the organisation, Varela had emphasised the anti-hierarchical ethos of the company. But over time, he seemed more and more focused on his own profile as a leader. 'Little by little, he started wanting to be everyone's master,' said Alcalá, the handyman turned retreat centre manager. Varela's writings and hours of talks betray a dark obsession with weakness. He wrote constantly about 'slavery', 'domination' and 'control,' seeing society as divided between dominant and submissive people. In 2016, Varela published a blog post about the power imbalance between men and women. He described 'feminine energy' as 'a wave that emanates from a woman and heads toward a man, drowning him, rendering him useless, humiliating, breaking him, and stripping him of almost all power'. There have been several accusations of sexual abuse against members of Inner Mastery over the years. Last year, one woman told Spanish TV that she suffered abuse at a retreat. She alleges that when she was in a semi-conscious state, having allegedly been pressured into taking ayahuasca, several people touched her inappropriately. In a separate incident, the company said it fired an employee after he sent explicit messages and photos to clients. Other accusations centred on Varela himself. One anonymous account – on a blog set up to collect testimonies of alleged victims of the organisation – accused Varela and a collaborator of encouraging women to masturbate in front of them to overcome sexual repression. In March 2020, a few days after Covid-19 was declared a pandemic, Varela appeared in a video, naked from the waist up in a dimly lit room, to chastise viewers for reacting with fear as the virus spread. After taking ayahuasca he had a vision, he explains: 'I created the coronavirus.' Or rather, we all did, through our fear. The real risk is not physical, but spiritual, he said. For the company, the retreats were more important than ever. But when lockdowns made them impossible soon after, Varela turned to another idea. All staff were instructed to sell tickets to his online talks. Stuck at home, Dalia began cold-calling people, but struggled to make sales. She found little sympathy from her superiors in the company. 'Whenever I brought it up, they would respond in the same way: 'You're not committing. You're full of resistance. You're sick.'' After three years of relentless work and spending about €10,000 on training courses, Dalia began to lose faith in the organisation. For one thing, she seemed stuck on an endless training cycle. 'Later I realised it was because they knew I had money,' she said. 'There was a clear interest in delaying my authorisation.' As Dalia's suspicions about Inner Mastery grew, she came across ideas Varela had passed off as his own in the canon of other spiritual thinkers, from Krishnamurti to Eckhart Tolle. 'You start looking into it and you realise he has taken a potpourri of things. Some of them may be quite powerful. But they are not his ideas.' As the pandemic wore on and profits took a nosedive, Varela announced that its employees had become spoiled. From now on, they would all be self-employed and pay their own social security contributions. Varela also encouraged his employees to move into the communes. Dalia considered leaving everything and joining the commune, but at the time she was looking after her elderly father. 'They pressured me, saying that caring for him was a prison,' she said. Dalia no longer trusted Varela. 'He said it was beneficial to your process to live in the centres, that it allowed you to devote yourself, but what it really allowed was him to charge each person €400 every month for a shared room.' Finally, she sent a message to a group chat saying she was leaving. She was told her back pay would be given in the company's own tokens, which can only be spent on more Inner Mastery retreats. Adrián had experienced a similar moment of clarity when he finally had the opportunity to visit the company's base in Colombia a few years earlier. Travelling to the jungle was a prize dangled in front of all employees, and the prospect of the trip had helped Adrián to ignore his increasing doubts over the company's treatment of its staff. But when he arrived, he realised that the lush tropical jungle he had seen so many times in promotional videos was not as remote as it seemed on social media. A few metres away from where participants took ayahuasca, a busy highway abutted the property. For Adrián it was the final straw. This sleight of hand seemed to betray something fundamental about the organisation's priorities. The company had once felt like a family to Adrián. Now, just like Dalia, he had come to think it was all about making money. As allegations against Inner Mastery became harder to ignore, police began investigating the company. Complaints against Varela had been growing for years. In 2021, a mother claimed he had brainwashed her daughter. 'I know that he speaks in her ear while she is high and makes her do what he wants,' she told a TV crew after neighbours protested outside the group's headquarters. Varela's business practices rebounded on other practitioners using hallucinogens. In 2022, Spanish police set up a taskforce to deal with cults and opened a hotline. After a tipoff, reportedly from a local evangelical pastor, dozens of officers stormed an isolated lodge in the mountains of northern Spain and searched for signs of 'neoshamanic' cult activity. Feathers, drums and a bamboo pipe were displayed for the police camera and four people were arrested. The next year, a judge dismissed the case, ordering that police return the seized ayahuasca to its owners. 'If they had done this to Varela, who is exploiting people, I'd understand,' the group's leader told a Spanish newspaper after his arrest. 'But I'm just a medicine man who doesn't care about money.' '[Inner Mastery] was a very organised operation, which stands in contrast to most other groups offering ayahuasca, which usually involve only four or five people and don't operate outside their local areas,' said Marcos Quinteiros, a deputy inspector with the national police. 'There are no precedents in Spain of an organisation like this.' In July 2023, police officers in riot gear carrying battering rams raided one of the Inner Mastery villas outside Madrid. Officers across the country simultaneously raided five other retreat centres, surprising some of their suspects as they performed ayahuasca ceremonies. Police arrested 18 people and confiscated €24,000 in cash, 1kg of mescaline and 60kg of the dark, viscous ayahuasca brew. Varela was one of those arrested. At the time, he had just been diagnosed with a brain tumour, and had been focusing his energy on making a series of documentaries that recounted his achievements and featured followers praising him effusively. He died in October 2023 as the investigation threatened to destroy the organisation he created. His 17 co-accused face charges including criminal conspiracy, crimes against public health and practising medicine without a licence. The case is still being investigated by courts ahead of trial. At the time of his death, Varela was also facing charges of sexual assault. Inner Mastery continues to advertise ayahuasca retreats across 13 countries in Europe, down from more than 40 at its peak. The company still promotes itself on social media, but its website now carries a disclaimer: 'We are not a religion or a cult.' Varela is notably absent from the literature, and some retreats are advertised under alternative company names. Inner Mastery did not respond to requests for comment on its operations or to a detailed list of accusations against the company and Varela. Slowly, over months and years, Dalia has rebuilt her life. She now sees that the more she gave to Inner Mastery, the more she lost touch with her life outside the organisation. 'I'm shocked looking back at the level of self-deception,' Dalia said. 'It was like a form of hypnosis where I convinced myself [Varela] knew what he was doing, and that we were part of something much bigger that was going to help awaken the world and bring about a real transformation.' One thing she does not regret, though, is using ayahuasca. She felt that its influence had helped her resolve personal difficulties that had remained after years of therapy. Dalia now works as a therapist herself, occasionally working with ayahuasca independently. Sometimes those who try it solely out of curiosity leave with little new insight, she said. But over the years, Dalia has come to believe it's often most effective for people who are already in crisis. 'I've seen the most radical transformations in those who are suffering most.' * Some names and identifying details have been changed Listen to our podcasts here and sign up to the long read weekly email here.
