“I’m definitely going to shit myself,” I told my friend, as I stuffed a pair of pants into my rucksack. We were in her apartment in Bogotá, readying ourselves for an overnight stay in Colombia’s Cordillera Oriental mountains, where we were to participate in an ayahuasca ceremony. The pants sat nestled among my carefully chosen stash of essentials: three packets of Ritz crackers, a jumbo bag of ketchup-flavoured crisps, two bottles of water, baby wipes and a sad-looking apple.
My mum’s parents’ lives have always been an open book, thanks no doubt to Nana’s razor-sharp memory. I know that they met when Grandpa volunteered to life-save Nana in their youth group swimming club.
