The Ultimate Raconteur
Italy, not far from the Swiss border. Zonka, a little village in the mountains. Huge stone houses with wooden balconies running around them, facing the steep slopes covered with trees. Most were empty. The rooves were thick slates, as grey as the walls. Magnificient. One of these houses belonged to K, the guy with the grey hair and beard who was leaning over me when I was shouting to God and the ceiling, the first time I took Ayahuasca. I found myself entrusted with the noble task of picking up flowers to ornate the room where the ceremony would take place in the evening. Ayahuasca. We called it Daime. Santo Daime. The room was big and wide. We were thirty or forty people feeling at ease, forming the circle. There were no wallpaper, no plaster, just stone and wood. To go to the toilets, we had to get onto the wooden balcony, walk up to its extreme end, and sit facing the mountains. When your poo was done, it dropped 20 meters below, between the trees. Better not to feel dizzy. It is no...