by Scott Ritter – originally published on his Substack
Scott ritter is a former US Navy Intelligence official, now writer, historian, geopolitical analyst, arms control specialist, military expert.
All links to previous Gospa News article or video have been added in the aftermath
When I was travelling to Israel on a regular basis back in the mid- to late-1990’s as part of my duties with the United Nations, I was always struck by how closely many Israelis identified with the United States. On national holidays, many Israeli motorists would fly two little plastic flags from the windows of their cars—one the blue and white Star of David, and the other the Stars and Stripes. “We see ourselves as little America”, my Israeli host would explain when I pointed this out.
I know—I was caught up in the middle of this power dynamic, and ended up being accused by the US government of spying on behalf of Israel. The charges were eventually dropped as unfounded and politically motivated, but the sentiment behind the accusations was real—a significant part of the US defense, intelligence and security establishment of the United States viewed Israel as a threat.
Collaboration and cooperation ongoing between the US and Israel
Because Israel was a threat. This doesn’t mean there wasn’t collaboration and cooperation ongoing between the US and Israel—while I was in Israel, the hotels were full of CIA officers, US military officers, and State Department diplomats who were on official business.
But there was a Chinese Wall separating the US and Israel, and interactions were governed by strict protocols that kept this wall up at all times. After I left the United Nations, I worked for a while as an on-air analyst for NBC News.
I also signed with a New York City speakers bureau, Greater Talent Network (GTN). And it was these two experiences which exposed me to the level to which pro-Israeli interests had infiltrated every aspect of American media and information management.
I was approached repeatedly by NBC producers who would hand me their business cards—not the NBC ones, but rather their AIPAC cards (the American Israeli Public Affairs Committee, a literal front for the Israeli government.)
AIPAC called the shots for influential Senators and Congressional Representatives, and Senate and House staffers
GTN networked me directly with AIPAC, as well as its affiliate entities that had taken root in American academia and the think tank industry.
Through these networks, I was brought into a secretive world of backroom connectivity with the US Congress, where AIPAC called the shots for influential Senators and Congressional Representatives, and Senate and House staffers openly collaborated with employees of various US government agencies to set policy.
I was offered a great deal of money by Paul Wolfowitz, who at the time of the pitch was the Dean of the Johns Hopkins University Paul H. Nitze School of Advanced International Studies (SAIS), if I would join the team.
All I had to do was get onboard with the notion that Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction. I declined Wolfowitz’s offer, and walked away from the AIPAC cabal.
Unfortunately America’s elected representatives have not shown such moral clarity or loyalty to the Republic they ostensibly serve.
We live in an age where the Israeli Prime Minister openly brags about having bought the US Congress.
Pro-Israeli operatives spent $30 million to evict Thomas Massie from the US Congress
Where AIPAC brags about spending $100 million to accomplish just that. Where pro-Israeli operatives spent $30 million to evict Thomas Massie from the US Congress because he dared challenge the surrender of American sovereignty to Israel.
Where the US Secretary of State has openly declared that criticism of Israel is grounds for being denied a visa into the United States. Where Israeli politicians openly advocate for the suppression of free speech in America.
And where the Chinese Wall that separated US and Israeli interests is being torn down by a compliant Congress, all the while the mainstream media, which long ago surrendered its independence and integrity to Israeli interests, remains silent.
The surrender document that signals the capitulation of the Constitutional Republic formerly known as the United States of America to a new entity which could more accurately be called the United States of Israel is the 2027 National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA), in particular Section 219 of the House version, and Section 1217 of the Senate’s version.
Secretary of Defense to designate an Executive Agent (EA) to expand and accelerate deeper integration of Israel into US institutions.
Section 219/1217 directs the Secretary of Defense to designate an Executive Agent (EA) to expand and accelerate deeper integration of Israel into US institutions. The EA authority would take precedence over the authority of the other DoD Component heads per DOD Instruction 5101.01, meaning that the EA would be able to overrule determinations by other DOD agencies such as the Defense Technology Security Administration (DTSA) on Israeli access to US technology.
This new EA would end direct Congressional oversight with supervision by the Secretary of Defense. There would be no Congressional confirmation or ability for removal of an executive agent by Congress.
In short, it is the surrendering of the constitutional duties of Congress to a politically appointment agent of the Executive branch of government.This is not what the founding fathers had in mind when they wrote the Constitution.
Section 2191217 integrates American and Israeli research and development programs in a way which makes the United States dependent on Israel’s provision of specific technologies, thereby granting Israel a significant amount of leverage over future American policy and infrastructure, entangling defense supply chains of Israel and the United States across government, private and academic sectors, blurring the lines of territorial integrity and political sovereignty.
Section 219/1217 targets defense related procurement and acquisition processes so that it will be impossible for future Administrations to separate Israeli technologies or agreements from major defense procurement programs, holding DOD Program Executive Offices and Program Managers hostage to the inclusion of Israeli-origin technologies in US systems. These procedures make moot current “Buy-America” provisions, and give Israeli companies access to intellectual property for weapons systems they are directly competing against.
Section 2191217 grants the EA the authority to re-allocate the funding and focus of the Defense Department by prioritizing the integration of Israel into the US’ national defense structures. It is literally subordinating the totality of the most sensitive aspects of US defense to Israel, outside the purview of Congressional oversight.
At a time when the majority of the American people are waking up to the horrific crimes committed by Israel against the people of Palestine, and the role played by Israel in getting America involved in permanent wars in the Middle East, Section 219/1217 will permanently tie the United States to Israel, making the US Department of Defense and, by extension, all of the American people, complicit in these crimes.
The Greater Israeli Project in the Middle East is floundering.
The Greater Israeli Project, which seeks the territorial expansion of the Israeli State in the Middle East at the expense of Israel’s neighbors, is floundering. Israel itself is going through an existential crisis because of its permanent state of war.
I have previously written that the relationship between Israel and the United States is like that of a parasite to its host. Section 219/1217 would codify this status as law.And in doing so, destroy the Constitutional Republic.
Congress has specific duties and responsibilities demanded of it by the Constitution.Surrendering these responsibilities to a foreign nation is not one of these duties.
If Section 219/1217 becomes law, Israel will have permanently attached itself to the American enterprise.
Right now, we have a Congress which has considered criminalizing and criticism of Israel.This, or course, is an affront to the very notion of free speech.By making Israeli security and US security indistinguishable, as would happen if Section 219/1217 becomes law, the inevitability of the criminalization of speech critical of Israel is assured.
The 2027 NDAA is America’s last stand.Remove Section 2191217, and we have a chance at survival.Turn Section 219/1217 into law, and we have lost the Republic.
I swore to defend the United States of America, a Constitutional Republic.
I will never serve the United States of Israel. And neither should anyone who calls themselves an American.
by Scott Ritter – originally published on his Substack
William Scott Ritter Jr. (born July 15, 1961) is an American former United States Marine Corps intelligence officer, former United Nations Special Commission (UNSCOM) weapons inspector, author, and commentator.
Violence has accompanied humanity throughout recorded history, leaving behind countless mysteries that still puzzle archaeologists today. Advances in forensic science, DNA analysis, and modern imaging techniques have solved some ancient crimes. Still, many remain stubbornly unsolved despite decades of research. From carefully arranged mass graves to murdered kings and frozen victims whose killers were never […]
Nearly a century before the Vietnam War, the United States undertook one of its first military interventions in East Asia. It was not a full-scale campaign, and it lasted only a single day. Its opponent was not a modern army but the indigenous Paiwan people of southern Taiwan. Yet the expedition exposed a problem that would become familiar in later conflicts: the limits of military power against an elusive enemy fighting on its own terrain. Known as the Formosa Expedition of 1867, this little-remembered operation ended in an embarrassing defeat for the United States Navy.
United States Marines and sailors attacking the Paiwan natives of southern Taiwan. Credit: Wikimedia Commons
In 1935, two chemists at Tokyo’s Imperial University synthesized a new molecule and unwittingly launched one of the strangest narratives of the psychedelic age. Toshio Hoshino and Kenya Shimodaira were working on a family of compounds known as the tryptamines, which occur widely in nature and have a range of intriguing biological properties. The neurotransmitter serotonin, which among other things regulates mood, cognition, and social behavior, is a tryptamine. So are many psychoactive drugs, although this would only be discovered later on. The Japanese scientists had recently completed the world’s first laboratory synthesis of a molecule called bufotenine, which is produced by toads and certain species of mushrooms. Now, via a sequence of reactions, they engineered a close chemical relative. Diagrams of the two tryptamines looked nearly identical, each represented by two angular rings and a tail, resembling microscopic organisms; the only difference lay in the shape of the head. Such tiny changes in chemical structure “can lead to radically different consequences, like a railroad’s switch points,” as the writer and organic chemist Primo Levi once wrote. The new molecule’s name, following scientific convention, would be 5-MeO-DMT.
Hoshino and Shimodaira published their findings in the Bulletin of the Chemical Society of Japan, leaving no explanation as to why they had conducted these experiments. The early 20th century was a time of wide-ranging exploration in organic chemistry, with researchers synthesizing new compounds to assess their pharmacological potential or better understand the reactions by which one substance could be transformed into another. Many of these compounds had no evident utility, such as 5-MeO-DMT, which for decades was thought only to be a product of the laboratory.
This changed in 1959, when the molecule was isolated from a shrub native to Brazil. Not long afterward, 5-MeO-DMT was detected in Anadenanthera peregrina, a leguminous tree from the Caribbean and South America. For thousands of years, Indigenous communities had been harvesting its slender bean pods to prepare snuffs called cohoba or yopo, which were typically inhaled using hollow bones or bamboo shoots—the earliest known use of psychedelics in the New World. “With this powder they lose consciousness and become like drunken men,” Christopher Columbus observed in the 15th century. The Spaniards regarded such practices as demonic and sought to eradicate them as they colonized the region. After witnessing a yopo ceremony in the Andes, where the snuff was dispensed from a snail shell with a spoon carved from the bone of a puma, one missionary reported, “They summoned the devil.”
The rich biodiversity of the Amazon also yielded other hallucinogenic snuffs containing 5-MeO-DMT. These were prepared from trees in the nutmeg family and were known, in some local communities, as “semen of the sun.” In the early 1950s, a distinguished Harvard scholar named Richard Evans Schultes had documented the snuffs being used for “witchcraft, divination and the diagnosis of illness” by the medicine men of more than half a dozen tribes, describing the effects as “virulently potent.” Schultes expressed incredulity that such a widely used substance had gone unstudied for so long. “It makes one wonder how many more narcotic plants, up to now obscured by better-known ones, still wait to be discovered,” he wrote. These snuffs were only later found to contain 5-MeO-DMT.
A tall, bespectacled man who wore a pith helmet in the jungle, Schultes was considered the father of modern ethnobotany, a field that studies the traditional uses of plants. He was also one of the world’s foremost experts on psychedelic rituals in an era before they had captured mainstream attention. In the 1930s, he had uncovered the ceremonial use of psilocybin mushrooms in southern Mexico and identified the source of an ancient Aztec sacrament as the seeds of a native morning glory vine, which contained a chemical cousin of LSD. He went on to live in the Amazon for a decade, documenting thousands of medicinal plant traditions while researching alternative rubber sources for the US military. The only provisions he carried were instant coffee and tins of Boston baked beans.
Even then, Schultes recognized that incursions from the wider world threatened the survival of Indigenous knowledge. “Time is running out,” he once warned. “The Indians’ botanical knowledge is disappearing even faster than the plants themselves.” Yet capturing this knowledge, as an outsider, was a formidable endeavor. In addition to navigating remote and inhospitable regions, ethnobotanists had to draw on scattered records from disparate disciplines—botany, anthropology, archaeology, plant chemistry, pharmacology, history, geography and sundry other tangential fields of the sciences and arts,” as Schultes put it. There was always the risk that in selecting and piecing together this information one might draw false conclusions.
A misleading narrative about psychedelic toads took hold, involving not only the wrong molecule but the wrong species entirely.
In the 1960s, while Schultes was continuing his ethnobotanical research, 5-MeO-DMT was detected in numerous other plants around the world, including a type of grass that could cause grazing sheep to convulse uncontrollably, a phenomenon known as “staggers.” Then, in 1964, the molecule showed up in an animal for the first time, detected in the skins of Sonoran Desert toads, a species that had formerly been of interest only to the occasional herpetologist. This breakthrough was thanks to an Italian chemist named Vittorio Erspamer. Earlier in his career, Erspamer had discovered the neurotransmitter serotonin—a pivotal moment in the field of neuroscience, laying the groundwork for understanding chemical signaling in the brain. His lifelong interest was pharmacognosy, or the study of drugs from natural sources; by the end of his career, he would identify and name more than 60 new compounds, including from octopuses, shellfish, and sea anemones, and twice be nominated for the Nobel Prize. “Land and sea are populated by a miraculous variety of creatures, representing the outcome of the tremendous biosynthetic work carried out by Nature over hundreds of millions of years,” he once wrote.
No animals captured his attention like amphibians, which he described as “an inexhaustible mine of active compounds.” In his laboratory, which was decorated with pictures of frogs and toads, Erspamer and his assistants minced the skins of different species with scissors and exposed them to a variety of tests: gas and paper chromatography, X-ray fluorescence analysis. Colleagues from around the world sent him samples by airmail, and in the early 1960s he received 21 Sonoran Desert toad specimens that had been skinned and dried in Arizona. (At the time, the species was classified as Bufa alvarius, a name that remains in widespread use despite being formally changed in 2006.) The findings were striking. All toads produce bufotenine, but this was the only species among some of the most chemically diverse animals in the world that contained 5-MeO-DMT.
Erspamer’s study was published in a technical journal in 1965, just as the psychedelic revolution was getting started. At around this time, a small cohort of psychonauts began using synthetic 5-MeO-DMT, alerted by its discovery in South American snuffs, but it would be decades before anyone in this milieu realized that the same molecule could be obtained from a North American toad. Knowledge of psychedelic toads was fractured across niche academic disciplines, and even Erspamer appears not to have been aware that 5-MeO-DMT had hallucinogenic properties. But over the next two decades, something remarkable happened: A misleading narrative about psychedelic toads took hold, involving not only the wrong molecule but the wrong species entirely. Although 5-MeO-DMT can produce experiences of overwhelming intensity, often interpreted as encounters with ultimate truth, the history of toad smoking is riddled with false leads and misinformation.
In 1956, a psychiatrist named Howard Fabing co-authored a study in Science, the prestigious academic journal, about the effects of a purported hallucinogen. Like many others in his field, he had become fascinated by drugs that appeared to evoke states of psychosis, inspired by the discovery, the previous decade, of LSD. People had reported overpowering hallucinations after consuming tiny doses of acid, as the substance would become known in psychedelic culture. “My field of vision fluctuated and swam like an image in a distorted mirror,” its creator, a Swiss chemist named Albert Hofmann, recalled of his first trip (during which he somehow wobbled home from work on his bicycle). Accounts like these, Fabing wrote, had “precipitated the whole field of biochemistry into a new look at the brain.” Psychoanalysis had long been the dominant paradigm for treating mental illness, but now another possibility was arising. If certain compounds could seemingly induce the symptoms of insanity, then perhaps insanity was a result of faulty brain chemistry—and could thus be treated with psychiatric drugs.
Fabing’s interest lay in using psychedelics not as therapeutic agents but as tools for understanding how a healthy mind could malfunction. This was seen as especially urgent in the 1950s, when around half the hospital beds in the developed world were occupied by patients with schizophrenia and other mental disorders. “The stakes are high,” Fabing wrote. Scientists had begun revisiting anthropological accounts of hallucinogenic rituals—iboga ceremonies in Central Africa, peyote cults in the American Southwest. The term “psychedelics” was not yet in use; instead, such substances were known as psychotomimetics, reflecting an underlying belief that they induced not illumination but madness. Intriguingly, many of them shared a chemical structure with serotonin.
This line of inquiry had led Fabing to bufotenine, the tryptamine relative of 5-MeO-DMT that Hoshino and Shimodaira had originally synthesized. Besides occurring in most toad species, bufotenine was known to occur in fly agaric mushrooms, the iconic red toadstools of fairy tales, and thought to be the origin of the Norse berserker legend, involving warriors who reputedly consumed the mushrooms and entered such frenzied states that they were invincible in battle—the root of the phrase “going berserk.” Separate accounts from Siberia described nomadic herders using fly agaric in shamanic ceremonies, taking pains to prolong its psychoactive effects. “The urine of persons intoxicated with fly agaric is not wasted,” an anthropologist noted in 1901. “The drunkard himself drinks it to prolong his hallucinations, or he offers it to others as a treat.”
Fabing hypothesized that schizophrenia might arise from the abnormal production of bufotenine in the brain, possibly instead of serotonin. To explore the compound’s effects in more controlled settings, he and a colleague injected subjects with escalating doses and monitored their reactions. One man experienced a bodily numbness that he described as “a pleasant Martini feeling.” Another became light-headed and reported visual hallucinations. “I see white straight lines with a black background. I can’t trace a pattern,” he exclaimed. “Nowthere are red, green, and yellow dots, very bright, like they were made out of fluorescent cloth, moving like blood cells through capillaries, weaving in and out of the white lines.” Based on the results of this experiment, the scientists concluded that bufotenine had hallucinogenic properties similar to LSD.
This finding, published in a reputed journal, would later cross disciplinary lines and be picked up in the rush to solve a major anthropological mystery. Across Mesoamerica, archaeologists had unearthed a preponderance of toad artifacts, including detailed depictions of the parotid glands (located at the top of the neck) in which toads produce their defense toxins. Each of the great civilizations—the Olmecs, the Mayans, the Aztecs—had left behind extensive toad artworks: sculptures, altars, friezes, ceramics. There were middens of toad bones in what appeared to be ritual contexts, sometimes comprising thousands of skeletons. What significance had these ancient societies ascribed to toads?
Women in ancient Rome used toad secretions to murder their husbands; 16th-century Italian chemists laced salts with toad toxins for poisoning the food of enemies.
In the 1970s, amid surging popular interest in psychedelics, a compelling academic theory arose: that toads had been used as ritual intoxicants, much like psilocybin mushrooms or ayahuasca. It was well established that Indigenous cultures across the region had performed healing or shamanic rituals with psychedelics. Of the psychoactive plants identified worldwide, close to 90 percent were native to the Americas, with more than a dozen psychedelic traditions documented in Mexico alone. Fabing’s research had suggested that bufotenine, which occurs inmany species of toads, was hallucinogenic. The pieces of the puzzle all seemed to connect.
There was also an obvious candidate species: Bufa marinus, more commonly known as the cane toad, a lumbering, fleshy creature that can grow up to ten inches in length and weigh as much as six pounds, a little less than a typical newborn baby. Cane toads were native to Central America, dwelling in marshlands and swamps. They corresponded to many of the archaeological depictions of toads, with bulging parotid glands, and their bones were frequently excavated during archaeological digs. It wasn’t long before researchers were confidently asserting that there had been a psychedelic cane toad tradition in Mesoamerica. “The Olmecs had a predisposition for consuming toads,” one scholar wrote in a book about the region’s archaeology. “Consumption of these toads produces hallucinations.”
* The dark art of toad poisoning seemingly made a return in May 2022, when a Russian oligarch whose firm had called for an end to the invasion of Ukraine died after visiting a shaman who served him a “hangover cure” prepared using toads. Three other senior executives at the company have since died in mysterious circumstances, presumptively at the behest of the Russian government, including a former chairman who fell out of a hospital window.
Yet the theory had a glaring weakness. In addition to bufotenine, the cane toad produces an array of other chemicals, several of them acutely toxic. Its glands secrete two classes of compounds, bufogenin and bufotoxin, that can be lethal to humans even in tiny doses. Similar molecules are found in the skins of many toad species around the world and have long been used for preparing poisons. Women in ancient Rome used toad secretions to murder their husbands; 16th-century Italian chemists laced salts with toad toxins for poisoning the food of enemies. At English country fairs in the 17th and 18th centuries, charlatan doctors hawked medicines by feeding live toads to hired assistants, who fainted or became delirious in front of onlookers, only to revive upon swallowing whichever concoction was being advertised. The assistants survived by lining their mouths and stomachs with oil or by consuming large meals in advance. They became known as “toadies,” a word that has drifted from being associated with charlatanism to its modern definition: a sycophant or obsequious helper.*
The driving question for proponents of the psychedelic cane toad hypothesis thus became how precolonial Mesoamerican cultures might have isolated bufotenine from these deadlier defense toxins. In the early 1970s, an American graduate student named Timothy Knab went searching the Mexican countryside for a healer, or curandero, who could provide an answer. Knab eventually came across an elderly man in the mountains of Veracruz who claimed to remember a potion that had not been used in decades. The man ground the glands of 10 cane toads into a paste, added lime water and ash, then boiled the mixture overnight. This was stirred into corn beer, filtered, mixed with cornmeal, and left for several days to ferment before being heated to drive off the remaining moisture. The result was a hardened doughlike substance. The curandero refused to consume it and only reluctantly consented to dose Knab, who recorded the experience in dissociative terms. “Profuse sweating is noted along with a sudden increase in heartbeat,” he wrote. “The heartbeat becomes continuously harder and stronger. A pronounced chill sets in with twitching of the facial and eye muscles. A pounding headache and delirium shortly follow the onset of twitching.” For several hours, he lay in front of a fire, sweating and unable to move.
In a seeming blow to the theory, Knab reported no hallucinations from this experiment. But his account, which he presented at an anthropology conference in Mexico City, stirred the imagination of another young scholar. Alison Kennedy was the heiress of a wealthy Palo Alto family who would later adopt the alter ego Queen Mu and launch an influential cyberculture magazine called Mondo 2000, a futuristic mash-up of technology, psychedelics, and arts writing. Before all of this, Kennedy was an anthropology graduate student with an interest in Mesoamerican iconography; this had led her, almost inevitably, to the question of toads. She turned her eye to the artifacts of the Olmecs, who died out around twenty-five hundred years ago and are considered the first major civilization in Mesoamerica. Jaguars featured prominently among their artworks, which many researchers had interpreted as a sign of mythological significance. But Kennedy concluded that this had been a case of mistaken identity. Many of the artworks weren’t jaguars, she argued. They were toads.
In support, she presented dozens of illustrations, focusing on what she described as “the attributes of toadiness”: downturned mouths, inward-facing forelimbs, glandular swellings. She became drawn, like so many others in her field, to the idea that toads had been used in psychedelic ceremonies.
To account for the toxicity of the toads, Kennedy proposed a solution that reads like science fiction from the magazine she later founded. In addition to toads, the Olmecs had left behind depictions of many other animals, including ducks, which have highly efficient livers. Perhaps ducks had been used as bio-processors, feeding on toads and metabolizing their poisonous compounds so that humans could safely consume them. Kennedy drew attention to Olmec figurines of people wearing what appeared to be duck-billed masks. These masks would have provided protection from “venom spatters” as putative toad shamans “stood at their toad altars lancing the parotid glands,” she posited. This relied on the assumption that ducks could eat toads without being poisoned themselves. To investigate further, Kennedy visited a zoo in Texas, where she and the head aviculturist flung some cane toads into a duck pond. The ducks had been reared in captivity and were “toad-naive,” as Kennedy wrote, yet they pursued the toads with avidity, juggling their soft bodies before gulping them down. Kennedy described this behavior as “singular and apparently wholly instinctive.” Duck bills have neither nerve endings for sensing toad toxins nor blood vessels for absorbing them; the juggling movements were conceivably an adaptation for rinsing poisons into the water. Two of the duck species in the pond happened to be native to Mexico, home of both the Olmec culture and Bufa marinus. Here, at least, was proof that ducks had an appetite for the toads.
Now Kennedy took her suppositions even further, reexamining the literature on a famous Olmec site where thousands of toad skeletons had been excavated. The ruins featured an elaborate system of water channels hewn from some three hundred tons of rock, running between a sculpture of a jaguar (or possibly a toad) and an enormous stone receptacle in the shape of a duck. The main channel drained into a series of smaller pools too shallow for human bathing; confounded researchers had guessed that they were for unspecified “ritual use.” With a flourish, Kennedy now presented her final claim: That this complex hydraulic system had been designed as an integrated bufo-culture station, including both spawning grounds for toads and a captive population of bio-processing ducks. These bold ideas won her a prize at an anthropology conference in 1979, but there was one problem: No one had taken the obvious next step and tested whether the duck livers were in fact hallucinogenic. For all the scholarly attention it had garnered, the mystery of the psychedelic toad remained unresolved.
In the early 1980s, after reading about Fabing’s bufotenine study, a British artist named Adrian Morgan began a series of personal experiments with toads. These included “licking poison glands, rubbing animals against my forehead, and in one instance collecting venom with blotting paper . . . and then eating the paper,” he reported. Disappointingly, Morgan experienced no hallucinations from these tests, which seemed only to aggravate his research subjects. “One specimen of green toad showed its disgust by leaping from an open window into the celery patch below me,” he wrote. “It was never seen again.”
One spring, Morgan visited a forest outside London and came upon two dead female toads in a pond. He took them home, where he pounded their skins and poison glands in a mortar. Then he snuffed the residue and took notes in an increasingly jagged hand:
3:41 p.m. First quantity ingested into right nostril. Within one minute, nostril strongly anesthetized.
3:49 Sneezing violently, profuse sweating of forehead.
4:03 Fleeting pain at temples.
4:05 Salivating strongly.
4:15 Thick saliva at back of throat causing tendency to gag.
4:32 Feeling very tired.
Midway through, colors briefly appeared richer and moving objects left trails in his vision, like speed blurs. Morgan described these sensations as “only slightly psychedelic” and concluded, “The experience was not pleasant.”
Yet the notion of hallucinogenic toads persisted, cropping up in stranger contexts still. While Morgan was pursuing his investigations, stories of psychedelic cane toad use began surfacing in Australia, of all places, where the animals had been introduced in the 1930s to control pests on plantations. The toads had gone rogue, consuming native frogs, birds, insects, small marsupials, even Ping-Pong balls and cigarette butts flicked toward them at pubs—almost everything except the swarms of sugarcane beetles they had been imported to feed on. Australia’s plague of beetles had been compounded by a plague of toads.
This was possible in large part because toads are opportunistic and superbly adaptable creatures. They are residents of the gutter, the verge, the ditch. They can hunker down when times are bad and burst to life when conditions favor them. They are capable of producing millions of eggs. In their present form, toads have existed for at least 30 million years, enduring all kinds of planetary upheaval, from ice ages to the rise of humans. Released onto a new continent, the cane toads marauded unstoppably.
For all the scholarly attention it had garnered, the mystery of the psychedelic toad remained unresolved.
In the 1980s, 50 years into the invasion, an Australian filmmaker named Mark Lewis began working on a satirical documentary, Cane Toads: An Unnatural History, which Werner Herzog later declared to be his favorite film of all time. Hundreds of millions of the animals had taken up residence across Australia’s east coast, expanding their occupied range at a rate of more than 15 miles annually. Researchers dubbed the toads “an amphibian weed.” Streets were slicked with flattened toad carcasses, which emitted a fishy aroma. Bands of vigilantes went after the animals with cricket bats or swerved deliberately to run them over, but the toads continued their relentless spread.
During his research for the film, Lewis picked up on a rumor that people were getting high on the toads. He ended up speaking by phone with a man who claimed to have been in prison, where the inmates “would race to grab a toad if it found its way inside the compound,” Lewis told me. His source was unwilling to appear on camera, so Lewis hired an actor to deliver the lines. “You use a little quantity at first, then larger,” the man mumbles in the film, which identifies him as a “cane toad drug abuser” from the town of Mullumbimby. He makes a reference to Carlos Castaneda’s writings, saying how users of peyote would “see the world through the consciousness of the cactus. “With a weak laugh, the man adds, “The toad’s the same.”
The documentary also features a detective from Queensland who attests that people in “hippie communes” have been tripping on cane toads since at least the 1970s. “When heroin and other drugs weren’t freely available, the next best alternative was to go out and get a cane toad, “the detective explains. These toads would be boiled down in billycans to produce a sludgy brew, which the hippies purportedly drank. “From what I’ve been told, they had fantastic color hallucinations, “the detective says. “It warped their sense of time.”
Australians have a certain reputation for toughness, but even the hardiest among them would likely have been poisoned by the bufotoxins in this recipe. Yet Lewis also heard about a more plausible mode of ingestion. A local narcotics squad was said to possess a jar of confiscated dried cane toad skins that could be “shredded and put into a hookah or a pipe and smoked,” apparently causing intense hallucinatory effects. At one point during his research (“to see what all the fuss was about”) Lewis rolled a small quantity with tobacco into a joint. “I smoked it, and the only result was that I got a bad headache,” he told me. “I would not recommend that kids try this at home.”
Dubiously sourced accounts followed of Australians who died after drinking toad tea and a man supposedly being imprisoned in South America on toad-licking charges.
But in 1988, the year Lewis’s film came out, a moral panic began that swept the concept of psychedelic toads into popular culture. “I feel partly responsible,” Lewis told me decades later, sounding mystified. This strange sequence began with media reports in the United States of Australian hippies “forsaking traditional drugs for cane toads, which they boil for a slimy, potentially lethal cocktail.” Later that year, a doctor at the Haight Ashbury Free Clinic, a San Francisco drug treatment facility established during the Summer of Love, jokingly mentioned the “rare 1960s practice of toad licking” during a lecture. Afterward, the clinic was inundated with calls from reporters around the world, wanting to know about “crazed hippies licking toads in the mountains,” as the clinic’s director later recalled. Staff assured the journalists that there was no evidence of toads being licked in the United States, but the idea, like some invasive animal, took on a life of its own. At a conference on crack cocaine the following year, the Berkeley police chief announced that toad licking was a “problem that comes up from time to time.” An official from the Drug Enforcement Administration was quoted saying that cane toad secretions were “in the same (legal) category as heroin or LSD.” Bufotenine had indeed been listed as a Schedule I substance in 1967—even though, at the time, there had been virtually no reports of anybody using it. Citing the DEA, news articles now declared toad licking “the latest way to hallucinate.” (One headline: ”A Desperation High: Crack? Coke? Croak!”) The DEA official later clarified that he had said nothing about toad licking, but the phrase continued spawning fresh rounds of coverage until, as Scientific American later put it, “reality imitated fiction.”
In 1989, two teenagers were hospitalized in New Mexico after licking toads, which they had read about in the papers. The following year, two men were admitted to an emergency ward in Canada, bewildered and vomiting, after reportedly scraping the back of a pet cane toad and eating its secretions on crackers; the tabloids later claimed that one of the men had committed suicide after being discharged. Dubiously sourced accounts followed of Australians who died after drinking toad tea and a man supposedly being imprisoned in South America on toad-licking charges. Hungry for copy, journalists pressed experts for comment. “It gives them a kick like alcohol,” an Australian herpetologist professed, of the toad users. In a foretelling of toad mythmaking to come, it had become difficult to tell fact, conjecture, and fabrication apart. “This is a case of media feeding on media,” a reporter who covered the story would later reflect. Psychedelic toads, as a 1993 journal article titled “Misuse and Legend in the ‘Toad Licking’ Phenomenon” described it, had become an “informational epidemic.”
Meanwhile, the television drama L.A. Law ran an episode involving a retiree accused of toad licking, and Beavis and Butt-Head licked toads on MTV. (“Tastes like chicken,” Beavis remarked.) Psychedelic toads also captured the attention of lawmakers: A state representative in Georgia cautioned his colleagues about “the extreme dangers of toad licking,” while a representative in South Carolina proposed sentencing offenders to community service at zoos. The men appear to have been speaking in jest, but Canadian police were serious when, in 1991, they urged officials to ban imports of cane toads and outlaw them as pets, citing “the deaths of several Australian drug users.” Before long, Australia also passed laws against psychoactive toad use, listing bufotenine as a controlled substance. Toad licking had become so ingrained in popular consciousness that three decades later, while I was working on this book, people continuously brought it up as a point of reference. Yet the hype about cane toads obscured a crucial detail. As the anthropologist Wade Davis, who became drawn into solving the mystery, would later write, “An animal venom that contained no hallucinogenic agent but that did contain lethal poisons was not likely to inspire a new drug craze.” A satirical film had broadcast rumors that snowballed into full-blown hysteria about cane toads, but there was still no evidence that they were psychoactive at all.
Kimon de Greef is a journalist from South Africa and the author ofThe Ego Trip, an investigative nonfiction book about psychedelic toads. His work has appeared in The New Yorker, New York, The New York Times, The Guardian, Guernica, National Geographic, and other publications. He has coauthored a book about abalone poaching and holds a conservation biology master’s from the University of Cape Town.
During the medieval period and early modern Japan, decapitation was a common method of execution for criminals and defeated enemy warriors. During the feudal period, particularly under the Tokugawa shogunate (1603–1868), beheading became a standard execution method for many serious crimes.
Decapitation was also common on the battlefield. During Japan's long era of civil wars, especially the Sengoku period, warriors routinely took the heads of defeated enemies and presented to the victorious lord. For criminals or rebellious warriors, the heads were displayed publically as a warning and deterrent to others.
A Japanese block print depicting the decapitation of violent Chinese soldiers. Circa 1894. Credit: Museum of Fine Arts
Scattered across Florence, in the narrow streets, is a curious architectural feature that many visitors walk past without noticing. Set into the walls of grand Renaissance palaces are tiny arched openings, barely large enough to pass a bottle through. These openings, known as buchette del vino or “wine windows,” were originally created to sell wine directly from aristocratic estates to ordinary citizens. While they were born out of economic necessity in the 16th century, these small windows gained renewed importance during periods of epidemic disease, helping Florentines conduct business while minimizing physical contact.
Long before the first commercial oil wells appeared in North America, Chinese engineers had already mastered the art of drilling deep into the earth. In the salt-producing region of Zigong in China's Sichuan Province, workers were sinking wells hundreds of meters deep using techniques that would not become common in the West until many centuries later. These remarkable salt wells not only transformed the economy of inland China but also helped inspire the drilling methods that fuelled the 19th-century oil boom in the United States.
Not all forms of communication are based on speech or writing. Just as the Inca encoded information in strings and knots known as quipus, and the inhabitants of the Marshall Islands created intricate navigational charts from sticks and seashells, the Aboriginal peoples of Australia developed their own sophisticated means of transmitting information across vast distances. Known as message sticks, these small carved pieces of wood, rich in symbolism, served as important tools of communication between different communities.
An early 20th century Aboriginal message stick, almost a meter in length, made of extremely dense hardwood, and with ochre coating message on both sides. Credit: Carter's
A remote village in north-western China, on the edge of the Gobi desert, is said to have been founded by Roman soldiers. According to this controversial theory, the village of Zhelaizhai in China's Gansu Province was established by Roman legionaries who were captured after a disastrous battle, carried across Central Asia, and eventually settled on the far eastern edge of the known world. While most historians remain sceptical of the claim, the story has become one of the most fascinating legends linking the ancient civilizations of Rome and China.
Somewhere in the hills of Virginia, the United States, according to an enduring legend, there remains buried a vast fortune in gold, silver, and jewels. The location of this treasure is obfuscated by a cipher first made public some 140 years ago. Whether the treasure is real or an elaborate hoax, the Beale Ciphers have fascinated treasure hunters, cryptographers, and historians alike.
The story first became public in 1885 through a pamphlet titled The Beale Papers. According to the pamphlet, a man named Thomas J. Beale led a group of about thirty adventurers from Virginia on a buffalo-hunting expedition to the American West in 1817. During their travels, they allegedly discovered a rich deposit of gold and silver somewhere near present-day Colorado or New Mexico.
A plaque at the Old City Cemetery in Lynchburg, Virginia, where a dig was officially authorized. Credit: Virginia Hill
More than two thousand years before modern engineers bored tunnels beneath rivers and seas, ancient writers told of an astonishing passage hidden beneath the waters of the Euphrates. According to these accounts, a brick-lined tunnel ran beneath the river at Babylon, linking the city's two halves and allowing people to cross unseen below the current. If the story is true, the Euphrates Tunnel may have been the world's first underwater tunnel—a feat of engineering centuries ahead of its time. However, no trace of the structure has ever been found, leaving historians to wonder whether it was a genuine marvel of ancient engineering or another one of history's enduring legends.
In the summer of 1953, a stray dog stepped off a freight train at the railway station of Campiglia Marittima, a small town in Tuscany, Italy. Nobody knew where he had come from or how long he had been wandering. Mirna, the daughter of the stationmaster Elvio Barlettani, fell in love with the dog and persuaded her father to let her adopt him. Barlettani reluctantly agreed because rail regulations strictly forbade employees from adopting dogs. Barlettani named him Lampo, the Italian word for “lightning.” It was a fitting name. Lampo was energetic, intelligent, and seemingly incapable of staying in one place for long.
Jerónimo de Ayanz y Beaumont was a Spanish polymath who was far ahead of his time. Centuries before the Industrial Revolution, this Spanish nobleman was designing steam-powered machines, diving suits, submarines, ventilation systems, and dozens of other inventions. But Ayanz was far more than an inventor. He served as a soldier, administrator, artist, musician, and engineer during Spain’s Golden Age. His remarkable versatility earned him a reputation as one of the great polymaths of his era. Yet despite receiving patents for dozens of inventions and successfully testing many of them, his achievements remained largely forgotten for centuries.
In 1905, a little-known journalist named Edgar Wallace was determined to make his first novel impossible to ignore. The book was The Four Just Men, a thriller about a group of vigilantes who take justice into their own hands when the law proves inadequate. The novel would eventually become one of Wallace's most famous works and launch a long-running series. Yet its initial publication is remembered less for its literary success than for one of the most spectacular marketing disasters in publishing history.
On 9 October 1917, during the Third Battle of Ypres, a battalion of Australian soldiers entered a place known as Celtic Wood, near Passchendaele in West Flanders, Belgium, to attack German positions. Most were never seen again. Of the 85 men to raid Celtic Wood, just 14 made it back to their lines. The rest vanished without a trace. The fate of the lost battalion has remained one of the greatest enigmas of Australia's Great War.
The windswept plateau in central Wales, near the village of Sennybridge in Powys, was once home to a thriving Welsh-speaking farming society whose roots stretched back generations. During World War 2, this community was evicted to make way for what is now the third largest military training area in the United Kingdom. The disappearance of Mynydd Epynt remains one of the most controversial episodes in modern Welsh history.
For many Welsh people, Epynt stands alongside the flooding of Capel Celyn as a symbol of a community sacrificed in the name of a greater national cause. The slogan “Cofiwch Epynt” (“Remember Epynt”) continues to appear on walls and roadside signs across Wales, ensuring that the story is not forgotten.
The 'Cofiwch Fynydd Epynt' (Remember Epynt Mountain) mural, in Llanrug. Credit: Daily Post
The design and working principle of a windmill or a wind powered machine haven’t changed much since they first appeared in Persia some 1,200 years ago. All windmills contain vanes or sails exposed to the wind, which causes them to turn. The rotary motion is then used to do work, such as grind grains into flour or pump water.
In 1868, French engineer Ernest Sylvain Bollée came up with a new design that made his windmill look and work radically different from a traditional windmill.
In the late 18th century, no man in Edinburgh seemed more respectable than William Brodie. By day, he was a successful cabinetmaker, a member of the city council, and a deacon of the Incorporation of Wrights and Masons, one of the most prestigious tradesmen's guilds in Scotland. But by night, Brodie led a secret life as a burglar and thief, moving through the dark streets of the city with the same keys and skills that had earned him the trust of its wealthiest citizens.
His extraordinary double life eventually ended at the gallows. A century later, Brodie’s life inspired one of literature's most famous tales of dual identity: Robert Louis Stevenson's The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
On October 19, 1906, a modest 70-foot sailing vessel slipped into San Francisco Bay. Compared with the large steamships and ocean-going vessels that crowded the harbour, she appeared unremarkable. Yet the small ship had attracted a small crowd that day, for she had just accomplished one of the greatest feats in the history of exploration.
The vessel was Gjøa, and aboard her were the Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen and six companions. After a voyage lasting more than three years through the frozen waterways of the Canadian Arctic, they had become the first people to successfully navigate the Northwest Passage—a route that generations of explorers had sought, and many had died trying to find.
Roald Amundsen arrives at Nome aboard Gjøa, dated 31 August 1906. Credit: Wikimedia Commons
In the frigid waters of the Canadian Arctic, nearly 100 meters beneath the surface, lies a ship seemingly untouched by time. Despite the passage of more than a century, she is more or less intact, except for a gaping hole in her starboard side. Two of her masts still rise from the seabed.
The ship is Breadalbane, the world’s northernmost known shipwreck, and also one of the best-preserved wooden ships ever found in the sea. She lies approximately 1,000 km south of the North Pole.
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