You say in your broken dialect of the Blue Drip trip that you are now ready to take a qourd. But the shaman says the time to pick freely has passed, he starts chanting while unseen players in the trees play strange instruments. You find yourself swaying in time with the chanting. Your eyes glazed and staring at the gourds, he is swirling them faster and faster. Someone leans close to you and blows something into your ear. Psssk! A sharp ringing brings you down, a unknown tribal drug of 34 herbs enters your bloodstream fast like a serpents strike. Now free of its powder blockage, the tube now whistles as the blower draws it away. A bleeting whistle.
Did that even just happen. Suddenly you are heavy and can barely move. The worlds getting darker and darker. The only light comes from the blue skinned shaman's words. I a older tongue then the scattered bits of this talk you know. bubbles of oily light and at its edge the gourds twirl in a colored smear. You reach out and grab one...