A HALLUCINOGEN CALLED IBOGAINE HAS HELPED ADDICTS KICK HEROIN, METH
AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN. IS IT THE TRIP THAT DOES THE TRICK?

Ron Price needs his milkshake. It's 10 o'clock on a Monday morning
and the baldheaded, barrel-chested former bodybuilder is shuffling
around the kitchen of a posh rehab clinic in Tijuana, wearing
slippers and a blue Gold's Gym T-shirt. Price had been employed as a
stockbroker in New Mexico, but his training regimen left him with
debilitating injuries that forced him to undergo 33 surgeries in less
than a decade. His doctor prescribed Oxycontin, and Price quickly
became dependent on the potent painkiller. More recently, he started
snorting cocaine and chugging booze to numb the pain. Now, 53 years
old and three weeks into rehab, all he wants is a milkshake and to
crawl back into bed.

Clare Wilkins, the vivacious 40-year-old director of Pangea
Biomedics, pops the lid of the blender to check the consistency of
the concoction Price craves: peanut butter, soy milk, agave syrup,
hemp protein powder and a few scoops of chocolate-flavored Green SuperFood.

Oh, and a half-teaspoon of root bark from the tabernanthe iboga
plant. Taken in sufficient quantity, the substance triggers a
psychedelic experience that users say is more intense than LSD or
psilocybin mushrooms. Practitioners of the Bwiti religion in the West
African nation of Gabon use iboga root bark as a sacrament to induce
visions in tribal ceremonies, similar to the way natives of South and
Central America use ayahuasca and peyote. Wilkins is one of a few
dozen therapists worldwide who specialize in the use of iboga (more
specifically, a potent extract called ibogaine) to treat drug addiction.

Now she pours the thick, chocolaty liquid into a mason jar but agrees
to hand it over to Price only on the condition that he'll stay awake
and out of bed and interact with his fellow residents and the staff.
Price grudgingly agrees and takes a seat at the dining-room table.
Sunlight pours in through a sliding-glass door that opens to a
terrace with a sweeping view of the Pacific Ocean and the San Diego
skyline in the distance. "Ron, I remember when you called me [three
weeks ago], you were crying on the phone. You were so devastated you
couldn't leave the house," Wilkins says gently. "When you use, you
end up alone in a bathroom or something. You need a community. As
weird and misfits as we are, we need this sense of community. You
need to learn to deal with being in your body each day instead of
relying on the fucking ibogaine."

Ibogaine and iboga root bark are illegal in the United States but
unregulated in many countries, including Canada and Mexico. Wilkins,
though, is hardly alone in her belief that iboga-based substances can
be used as a legitimate treatment for drug addiction. Researchers at
respected institutions have conducted experiments and ended up with
hard evidence that the compound works-as long as you don't mind the
mindfuck. "All drugs have side effects, but ibogaine is unique for
the severity of its side effects," says Dorit Ron, a neurology
professor at the University of California-San Francisco. "I think
ibogaine is a nasty drug. But if you can disassociate the side
effects from the good effects, there is a mechanism of action in
ibogaine that reduces relapse in humans."

Now, using chemical variations, scientists have devised ways to make
ibogaine non-hallucinogenic. The trouble, say Wilkins and others who
have used ibogaine, is that the psychedelic journey carries the
secret to the drug's success.

It was Hunter S. Thompson who introduced ibogaine to a wide audience,
in the pages of Rolling Stone. The gonzo journalist was covering the
1972 presidential election, reporting what would eventually become
Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72. When Democratic
contender Edmund Muskie acted strangely during a campaign stop in
Florida, Thompson suggested that the candidate was taking ibogaine,
"an exotic brand of speed" that "nobody in the press corps had ever heard of."

"It is entirely conceivable-given the known effects of ibogaine-that
Muskie's brain was almost paralyzed by hallucinations," Thompson
wrote. "He looked out at that crowd and saw gila monsters instead of
people...his mind snapped completely when he felt something large and
apparently vicious clawing at his legs."

The notion of Ed Muskie on an ibogaine bender was absurd, and
Thompson knew it. Most experienced users say the drug is extremely
unpleasant when ingested in large doses, causing severe nausea,
vertigo, sleeplessness and visions that can be nightmarish. The
effects last up to 36 hours and the strain can be so great that some
users are bedridden for days after. "I only took one capsule of
extract. It was very weak, but it was still strong enough to make me
puke for six hours," says Dana Beal, a New York-based activist and
long-time lobbyist for ibogaine legalization. "I had my head in a
wastebasket or sink or toilet the entire time. It's aversive. I can
tell you from personal experience that I don't ever want to take it
again." While Hunter Thompson brought ibogaine into popular parlance,
credit for discovering the drug's medicinal potential is widely
attributed to a man named Howard Lotsof. Ten years before the events
that gave rise to Fear and Loathing, Lotsof was a junkie living in
New York. Having bought some ibogaine for recreational use, Lotsof
was astounded to find that when the hallucinogen wore off, he no
longer craved heroin. Days passed, and he didn't experience any of
the excruciating withdrawal symptoms associated with kicking a dope habit.

Lotsof, who died earlier this year of liver cancer at age 66, devoted
his life to making ibogaine available as an addiction treatment. He
experienced a significant setback in 1967, when the U.S. government
banned the drug, along with several other psychedelics. In 1970
officials categorized ibogaine as a Schedule I substance-on par with
heroin, marijuana and other drugs that by definition have "a high
potential for abuse" and "no currently accepted medical use."

Eventually Lotsof shifted his focus and began using ibogaine to treat
heroin addicts at a rehab clinic in the Netherlands. In 1985 he
obtained a U.S. patent for the use of ibogaine to treat substance
abuse. By the late '80s, doctors and scientists were confirming what
Lotsof knew: Ibogaine blocks cravings and withdrawal symptoms for
many types of drugs, and opiates in particular.

"Its effects are pretty dramatic," says Dr. Kenneth Alper, an
associate professor of psychiatry at New York University who
specializes in addiction research. "I've observed this firsthand, and
it's difficult to account for." Dr. Stanley Glick, a pharmacologist
and neuroscientist at Albany Medical College, was among the first
researchers to test ibogaine on rats. Glick hooked up the rodents to
IVs in cages with levers that allowed them to inject themselves with morphine.

"If the rats do it, you can be pretty sure that humans will abuse it
if given the opportunity," Glick explains. "It's really the
time-tested model of any human behavior."

Strung-out rats dosed with ibogaine stopped pressing the lever that
gave them morphine. Glick and other researchers have subsequently
replicated the morphine results with other addictive drugs, including
alcohol, nicotine, cocaine and methamphetamine. In the early 1990s,
Lotsof teamed with Dr. Deborah Mash, a neurologist and pharmacologist
at the University of Miami, to study the effect of ibogaine on
people. Mash was granted FDA approval to administer ibogaine in 1993
and was able to test the drug on eight people before the experiment
came to an abrupt halt.

"I was unable to get it funded," Mash says. "We had the rocket ship
on the launch pad, with no fuel."

A few months after the FDA gave Mash the green light, a committee of
academics and pharmaceutical-industry professionals assembled by the
National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA) concluded that the U.S.
government should not fund ibogaine research. Earlier that year a
researcher from Johns Hopkins University had found that rats injected
with massive doses of ibogaine suffered irreparable damage to the
cerebellum, the part of the brain that controls balance and motor
skills. According to Dr. Frank Vocci, former director of treatment
research and development at NIDA, the fact that ibogaine increases
the risk of seizures for people addicted to alcohol or
benzodiazepines such as Valium raised eyebrows as well. "The question
that was posed to them was, 'Do you think that this could be a
project that could result in, essentially, a marketable product?'"
Vocci recalls. "There was concern about brain damage, seizures and
heart rate. But it wasn't so much that the ultimate safety of the
drug was being damned, it was just felt that there were an awful lot
of warts on this thing." Mash and Lotsof soon parted ways, on
unfriendly terms. Lotsof sued his former colleague and the University
of Miami in federal court 1996, claiming that her research had
infringed on his patent. A judge eventually ruled in favor of Mash
and her employer, absolving them of wrongdoing. Lotsof went his own
way, mentoring fellow former addicts who opened ibogaine rehab
centers abroad. Mash opened a private clinic on the Caribbean island
of St. Kitts and administered ibogaine to nearly 300 addicts. "It
really works," Mash says now. "If it didn't work, I would have told
the world it doesn't work. I would have debunked it, and I would have
been the most outspoken leader of the pack. That's my scientific and
professional credibility on the line."

Clare Wilkins is one of Howard Lotsof's proteges. Born in South
Africa and raised in Los Angeles, she got hooked on heroin at the age
of 20 while majoring in Latin American studies and psychology at
Cornell University. Drug use led to depression, and she dropped out
her senior year. She'd been trying to get clean using methadone for
eight and a half years when her younger sister learned about ibogaine
via the Internet. Wilkins, then 30 years old and employed as
bookkeeper, read up on the subject, started saving up and in 2005
shelled out $3,200 for a session at the Ibogaine Association, a
clinic in Tijuana.

The trip-in both senses of the word-changed her life. "I received a
direct message that I was washed in love," Wilkins says of her first
encounter with the hallucinogen. "That the universe in its entirety
is full of love and that courses through us and was there for me.
There was this soul body, this light body that had no beginning and
no end. My fingers had no end, there were atoms coming in and going
out. "It got me off of methadone completely," she says. "My sense of
shame about my addiction was washed away without having to practice
with a therapist and talk, talk, talk."

The experience was so profound that she elected to stay on at the
clinic as a volunteer. Confident and chatty, with long brown curls
and a disarming smile, Wilkins feels she has a knack for guiding
patients through their ibogaine-induced spiritual awakenings.

"On ibogaine all your walls come down," she says. "You can't lie. You
get an opportunity to look at yourself honestly and see how you
respond. My role is to be there as a comfort. People compliment me by
saying, 'You knew exactly when to hold my hand.'"

In 2006 Ibogaine Association director Martin Polanco offered Wilkins
a full-time job. She'd heard rumors that he was considering selling
the clinic in the coming year, and on a whim she offered to buy the
operation from him outright. "It was one of those 'Can I put that
back in my mouth?' moments," Wilkins recounts with a laugh. "I didn't
have the money, I didn't even have a car." Wilkins borrowed $3,000
from her mother for a down payment, changed the clinic's name to
Pangea Biomedics and made monthly payments to Polanco for the next
year and a half.

Having paid off the $65,000 debt, Wilkins' first order of business
was to relocate. Tijuana residents-and rehab clinics in
particular-have been terrorized during Mexico's ongoing drug war.
Late last month gunmen stormed a clinic and murdered 13 people,
execution style. (The mayhem wasn't random; drug gangs operate such
facilities as safe havens for their foot soldiers.) Wilkins' primary
concern, however, was noisy neighbors in the duplex, not narco violence.

"We'd hear cell phones ring through the wall, and ranchero
music-you'd hear everything," she recalls. "You'd try to go into a
guided meditation and hear someone hammering a nail."

Wilkins now rents a lavish four-bedroom home on a hill overlooking
Tijuana's upscale Playas neighborhood. Amenities include a hot tub,
weight room, fireplace and veranda with panoramic views. Safety was
not overlooked: The subdivision is gated, and security guards inspect
every vehicle that enters. Stays at Pangea aren't cheap. For the
standard 10-day detox, Wilkins charges $7,500, travel not included.
She employs a staff of 10, including two Mexican physicians, a
paramedic, a masseuse/acupuncturist and a chef. The chef, Wilkins'
sister Sarah, is a recovering addict who credits ibogaine for kicking
her drug dependence.

Aaron Aurand, a live-in volunteer, feels the same way. "I did eight
months of court-ordered inpatient treatment before I came here," says
Aurand, a native of Spokane, Washington. "I got more therapy here in
five days than I did in that entire time. Lots of junkies don't want
to look inside themselves. With this, you'll get shown." In addition
to ibogaine, Clare Wilkins emphasizes nutrition. The clinic's pantry
is mostly organic and gluten-free and boasts a cache of vitamins and
supplements that patients gobble by the handful.

"The body has its own framework and can heal itself if you remove
harmful substances and balance the systems. We do colon cleanses and
liver cleanses even before they get the ibogaine," Wilkins explains,
pointing out that there are practical reasons for the former: "You
get people who come in here-especially opiate addicts-who are clogged up."

To date, Wilkins says, she has treated more than 300 patients.
"Sixty-two percent of our clients are chronic pain patients," she
says. "You're not talking IV [heroin] addicts or crack addicts.
You're talking grandmas on Oxycontin."

Some people come for "psycho-spiritual" purposes. Ken Wells, an
environmental consultant from Santa Rosa, California, with a neatly
trimmed gray mustache and wire-frame glasses, says he underwent
conventional counseling for depression for 15 years before trying
ibogaine as a last-ditch effort to save his crumbling marriage.

Three days after taking ibogaine for the first time, Wells compares
the experience to "defragging a computer hard drive." He experimented
with psychedelics decades ago in college but says ibogaine is like
nothing else. "It was outrageously powerful," Wells says. "It was
like the inside of my eyeballs was an IMAX screen. It was
all-encompassing, just a multitude of images, like 80,000 different
TVs, all with a different channel on-just jillions of images, shapes
and colors."

Did the experience help him find what he was looking for? "I think
I'm different," he says. "But I don't know." It's easier to track
ibogaine's effect on hardcore addicts. Wilkins, who keeps tabs on
former clients, estimates that one out of every five stays off his or
her "primary substance" for six months or more. Tom Kingsley Brown,
an anthropologist at the University of California-San Diego who
describes his area of study as "religious conversion and altered
states of consciousness," recently began recruiting Pangea patients
for an independent assessment of ibogaine's long-term efficacy. Brown
follows up monthly with opiate addicts during the year following
their ibogaine treatment, to gauge whether their quality of life has
improved. "People I've interviewed at the clinic have had really good
results, especially in the first month or so," reports Brown, who has
enrolled four study subjects to date and hopes for a group of 30. "We
know ibogaine interrupts the addiction in the short term, but what
we're really curious about is: Does that translate into long-term
relief from drug dependence?" Participants in Brown's study fill out
questionnaires that ask them to rate the intensity of different
aspects of their trip, on a scale of one to five. "People have been
circling a lot of fours and fives," Brown says. "One of the things
we're trying to look at is if the intensity of the ibogaine
experience correlates with treatment success. I strongly suspect
there's some sort of psychological component. I doubt it's just a
biological phenomenon."

Some scientists beg to differ. Foremost among them are Deborah Mash
and Stanley Glick.

"The hallucinations are just an unfortunate side effect," Glick
asserts, explaining that ibogaine works on the brain like a "hybrid"
of PCP and LSD. "Part of the problem is that when you go through this
thing, it's so profound you've got to believe it's doing something.
In part it's an attempt by the person who's undergoing it to make
sense of the whole thing." Generally speaking, Glick's research on
rats has shown that ibogaine "dampens" the brain's so-called reward
pathway, reducing the release of neurotransmitters like dopamine,
which cause the highs associated with everything from heroin to
sugary foods. The compound has also been proven to increase
production of GDNF, a type of protein that quells cravings, and to
block the brain's nicotinic receptors, the same spots that are
stimulated by tobacco and other addictive substances. In other words,
ibogaine doesn't work in any one particular way or even on one
specific part of the brain, and it's these multiple "mechanisms of
action," researchers say, that make it so effective for so many
different types of addiction. People who've taken ibogaine say it can
have the unintended consequence of temporarily turning them off a
substance other than their drug of choice. Lauren Wertheim traveled
from her hometown of Omaha, Nebraska, to a rehab center called
Awakening in the Dream House near Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, and used
ibogaine to kick her meth habit.

"Ibogaine resets all your [tolerance] levels to zero, like you've
never done drugs," she says. "Even coffee-the first cup set me off
like a rocket launcher. That's when I was like, 'This stuff is for
real.'" Mash, the researcher from Miami, is convinced that ibogaine
works long-term because it is stored in fat cells and processed by
the liver into a metabolite called noribogaine that possesses
powerful detoxifying and antidepressant properties.

"If you gave somebody LSD or psilocybin and they were coming off
opiates or meth, they'd go right back out and shoot up," Mash says.
"There's evidence that it's not the visions that get you drug-free;
it is the ability of the metabolite to block the craving and block
the signs and symptoms of opiate withdrawal and improve mood."

Though they don't question its effectiveness, both Mash and Glick
believe it's unlikely that ibogaine will ever be widely accepted in
the United States. It's not just that ibogaine makes people
hallucinate. It can be fatal. Since 1991 at least 19 people have died
during or shortly after undergoing ibogaine therapy. Alper, the NYU
professor, examined the causes of death in the fatalities, which
occurred between 1991 and 2008. His findings suggest that ibogaine
itself was not the culprit; the patients died because they had heart
problems or combined the hallucinogen with their drug of choice. (By
way of comparison, a study published last year by the Centers for
Disease Control and Prevention found that between 1999 and 2006 more
than 4,600 people in the United States died from overdoses involving
methadone.) "It's knowing who to treat and who not to treat," Alper
contends. "None of [the 19 fatalities] appear to have involved a
healthy individual without pre-existing disease who didn't use other
drugs during treatment. Two deaths occurred when they took ibogaine
in crude alkaloid or root-bark form-they didn't know what they were
taking or how much."

Three of the deaths occurred at Clare Wilkins' Tijuana clinic. She
says two involved patients who had cocaine in their systems and the
third victim had a pre-existing heart condition. Wilkins says she's
now more selective about her clients and requires that they undergo a
drug test. "The learning curve has been difficult at times, but
people need to know this can be safe," Wilkins says. "We have to show
people how far we've come." Some of the scientists, however, think
they've found alternatives that will make the risks-and the
tripping-associated with ibogaine unnecessary. Mash has devised two
ways to isolate the metabolite noribogaine and administer it: a pill,
and a patch similar to the nicotine variety. She hopes to begin
testing the products on humans by the end of this year. "It has all
the benefits without the adverse side effects-including no
hallucinations," Mash says. "I spent a lot of years really pushing
ibogaine as far as I could, both in preclinical and clinical studies.
But everything that I've learned in course of 18 years of working on
ibogaine has convinced me that the active metabolite is the drug to
be developed." Glick, meanwhile, teamed up with a chemist named
Martin Kuehne from the University of Vermont to create and research a
chemical called 18-MC (short for 18-methoxycoronaridine) that mimics
ibogaine's effect on a specific nicotinic receptor. Just like
ibogaine, 18-MC appears to work wonders on drug-addicted rats.

"Cocaine, meth, nicotine, morphine-we did the same studies with
18-MC, and it worked as well or better than ibogaine," Glick says.
"We also have data that it will be useful in treating obesity. In
animals, it blocks their intake of sweet and fatty foods without
affecting their nutrient intake." Glick and his cohorts have yet to
determine whether their synthetic ibogaine has psychedelic
properties. The rats, after all, aren't talking. "You look at an
animal given ibogaine, and you can't tell if they're hallucinating.
But they look positively strange," Glick says. "You give them 18-MC
and you can't really tell. But we hope when it gets to people, it
won't produce hallucinatory effects."

The first human testing of 18-MC is scheduled to begin later this
month in Brazil. But scientists there won't be studying its effect on
addiction. They'll be investigating the drug's potential as a cure
for the parasitic infection leishmaniasis, an affliction similar to
malaria that is common in tropical climates. Through pure
coincidence, 18-MC is chemically similar to other drugs that are used
to treat the disease.

The Americans jumped at the chance to test their product in South
America. Although 18-MC has shown promise and no observable side
effects in animals, not a single pharmaceutical company has shown
interest in developing it as an anti-addiction product.

"We're fortunate we have this other disease apart from addiction
where we know it can be tested," says Kuehne, a veteran of big pharma
who worked for Ciba (a predecessor of Novartis). "Pharmaceutical
companies don't like cures. Really, they don't-that's the sad thing.
They like treatment. Something for cholesterol or high blood pressure
that you [take] for years and years, every day. That's where the profit is."

Further complicating matters is the fact that 18-MC has proven
difficult to manufacture. Obiter Research, a company based in
Champaign, Illinois, that specializes in synthesizing experimental
chemicals, spent nearly two years refining the process before
successfully creating about 200 grams of the substance-just enough to
send to Brazil to be administered to human subjects. "Imagine a
Tinkertoy Ferris wheel," says Bill Boulanger, Obiter's CEO and a
former chemistry professor at the University of Illinois. "It's like
taking that apart, then trying to use half of the parts to build a
fire engine. Ibogaine is a natural product, and sometimes Mother
Nature does a better job than the lab."

Boulanger is convinced there's money to be made from 18-MC. With
Obiter, he plans to patent the manufacturing process and secure
intellectual-property rights. He and two partners also created a
separate company, Savant HWP, in hopes of eventually opening
addiction clinics across the United States that administer 18-MC in
conjunction with conventional rehab techniques such as 12-step programs.

"One part is resetting the trigger that's saying, 'Oh, I've got to
have it,'" Boulanger says. "That's helping the people fight
withdrawal, and that would be part of the whole operation. But it's
just one facet. It's got to be holistic. Just handing out a pill and
sending them on their way is a bad idea." The notion of
hallucination-free ibogaine, however, rubs the drug's diehard
supporters the wrong way.

"With methadone they just removed euphoria from opiates," says
Dimitri "Mobengo" Mugianis. "This is the same process they're doing
now-removing psychedelic and visionary experience. Ibogaine works.
What are they trying to improve or fix? It's not broken, and they're
spending a great amount of time and money to fix it."

A former heroin addict, Mugianis is an underground ibogaine-treatment
provider. He kicked his habit with the help of ibogaine administered
at Lotsof's clinic in the Netherlands. The experience was so
extraordinary that Mugianis was inspired to travel to Gabon to be
initiated into the native Bwiti religion and trained by local
shamans. He says he has performed more than 400 ritualistic
ceremonies on addicts, most of them in New York City hotel rooms,
using ibogaine and iboga root bark.

Despite his strong belief in the power of ibogaine, Mugianis does not
see it as a miracle cure for addiction.

"The 12-step approach really helped in combination with ibogaine," he
says. "I say it interrupts the physical dependency, because that's
what it does. There's no cure. It's not a cure. It allows you a
window of opportunity, particularly with opiate users."

Efforts are afoot to legalize-or at least legitimize-ibogaine in the
United States. Convincing doctors and elected officials to support a
potent, occasionally lethal hallucinogen can be a tough sell. That
pitch becomes doubly difficult when some of the ibogaine enthusiasts
themselves inspire skepticism.

One of ibogaine's most outspoken advocates is Dana Beal. An eccentric
character who helped found the Youth International Party (more
commonly known as the Yippies) in the 1960s, Beal sports a bushy
white mustache that inspired a New York Times reporter to liken him
to "a Civil War-era cavalry colonel." Beal travels the country giving
PowerPoint presentations touting the benefits of ibogaine and medical
marijuana.

In June 2008 he was arrested by police in Mattoon, Illinois, and
charged with money laundering. He was carrying $150,000 in cash in
two duffel bags, money he claims was going to finance an ibogaine
clinic and research center in Mexico. Beal maintains his innocence
and is free on bail as the case heads to trial.

It's folks like Beal, says pharmacologist Stanley Glick, who keep
ibogaine and 18-MC from being embraced by the medical mainstream.
"Some of my colleagues, as well as funding agencies, lump us together
without really considering the data," Glick says. "There's a lot of
baggage that comes with ibogaine, some of it warranted, some of it
unwarranted. It's really a stigma. Drug abuse itself has a stigma,
and unfortunately so does ibogaine. It has really hurt the science."

Beal shrugs off the criticism, arguing that grassroots activism is
the only way to ensure that politicians will endorse ibogaine.
Besides, he adds, the government stopped funding ibogaine research
long before he was arrested. "[The scientists] think if they stay
away from us activists, NIDA will bless them," says the self-styled
rabble-rouser. "NIDA is not blessing them. They're washed up and on a
strange beach. How will they get FDA-approved clinical trials without
activists? Explain to me a way that works, and I will do it."

Earlier this year Beal contacted the legislative offices of Missouri
Congressman Russ Carnahan. The St. Louis Democrat is the sponsor of
the Universal Access to Methamphetamine Treatment Act, and Beal aimed
to persuade him to earmark federal dollars for ibogaine research.
Asked about Beal's proposal, Carnahan spokeswoman Sara Howard
explains that the legislator thought it unadvisable to specify any
substance, particularly an illegal one. "It's Schedule I, so it falls
outside the categories [included in the bill]," she says.

Beal jokes that the best advertisement for ibogaine might be an
episode from the 11th season of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit in
which a heroin addict who needs to testify in court is administered
ibogaine to make his withdrawal symptoms disappear overnight. "Maybe
Congress will watch SVU and say, 'Maybe we should check this
out-wow!-it works for methamphetamine too?'" he says sarcastically.

In truth, ibogaine's effectiveness against meth has already helped it
gain acceptance abroad. Lawmakers in New Zealand, where
methamphetamine use has skyrocketed in recent years, recently tweaked
the nation's laws to allow physicians to prescribe ibogaine. Dr.
Gavin Cape, an addiction specialist at New Zealand's Dunedin School
of Medicine, says the nation's doctors are so far reluctant to wield
their new anti-meth weapon.

"[There are] no true controlled studies to give evidence as to its
safety and effectiveness," Cape says. "There is a strong advocacy
group [in New Zealand] for ibogaine, and it may turn out to have a
place alongside conventional therapies for the addictions, but I'm
afraid we are a few years away from that goal."

Last month dozens of ibogaine researchers, activists and treatment
providers gathered for a conference in Barcelona, where topics
included safety and sustainable sourcing of ibogaine from Africa. Dr.
Kenneth Alper was among the attendees who gave a presentation on the
benefits of ibogaine to the Catalan Ministry of Health. The NYU prof
believes ibogaine's most likely path to prominence in the United
States will be as a medication for meth addiction, for the simple
reason that doctors and treatment providers have found that small
daily-and thus drug-company friendly-doses seem to work better for
meth addiction than the mind-blowing "flood doses" used on opiate
addicts. Alper says no one thought to try non-hallucinogenic
quantities of ibogaine until recently. Ibogaine treatment providers
tend to have been former ibogaine users, and most assumed that the
introspection brought on by tripping was key to overcoming their
addictions. "That's just how it evolved," he says, noting that the
large doses do seem to work best for opiate detox. "You're talking
about a drug that has been used in less than 10,000 people in the
world in terms of treatment. It's not surprising that's how it evolved."

"The visions have some psychological content that is salient and
meaningful," Alper adds. "On the other hand, there is no successful
treatment for addiction that's not interpreted as a spiritual
transformation by the people who use it. It's the G-word. It's God.
We as physicians don't venture into that territory, but most people do."

Clare Wilkins draws the same parallel between conventional rehab
programs and ibogaine, but she's quick to emphasize that there are
distinct differences. For one, her program is never court-ordered.
Those who seek out ibogaine come of their own volition.

"People are really over the whole model of 'I'm an addict, and I'm an
addict for life unless I do these 12 steps,'" she argues. "Even
though it works for a lot of people, there are a lot of people who
come to us and say it doesn't work. We have to listen to them. Our
approach is allowing them to go in and find themselves, which is what
the 12 steps preach anyway. They're hungering for a spiritual experience."

Recently Wilkins has been experimenting with small daily doses of
ibogaine for people with heart conditions or other health problems
that make the "flood dose" unadvisable. The non-hallucinogenic
regimen seems successful, she says, citing the case of Ron Price, the
former bodybuilder, in particular.

Price first came to Tijuana for ibogaine in 1996 and has been back
six times, including his October stay. "Every time I feel like I'm
getting out of control, I come here," he says, his voice a gruff
mumble. "The very first time, I had a bit of visuals. It's supposed
to take six months to get off methadone. With this it was one day. It
was incredible. I haven't had a craving for methadone since then."

That first time, Price took a "flood dose," enough to keep him
tripping for hours on end. During this stay, Wilkins started him off
with a tiny dose and gradually increased the amount he ingested each
day. At the same time, she was weaning him off Oxycontin.

"We reduced your Oxy dose from 240 milligrams to 120 milligrams, in
what, two weeks? That's rock 'n' roll!" she says encouragingly. "He
was fantastic," she adds proudly. "He developed a routine in his day.
He was getting up and watering the garden, and not staying in bed and
watching TV. He was walking the dog and wanting to go out-he was
eager to go home, not scared."

Now, seated at Pangea's kitchen table, Price reflects on what has
been most helpful during his time in Mexico. The ibogaine lessened
his cravings for drugs and alcohol, he says, but eventually the
effect will wear off. "It's no magic thing," he says pensively. "It's
creating good habits and creating a support system. Ibogaine just
strips you of the cells and walls you build up for yourself. It
allows you to go to AA meetings-which I'll do when I get home. It at
least gives you a fighting chance to make your own decision."