No sooner had we arrived in the village of Pampansa — reachable by only canoe or prop plane — than we found ourselves at the home of the local bigwig, a courtly gentleman named Oscar, passing a ceramic bowl of chicha around a big wooden table. Among the Shuar, chicha is traditionally prepared by women and drunk — at least in its more alcoholic variety — by men. When I say “prepared,” what I really mean is chewed: loudly and smackingly, right out in the open, and expectorated into an orange plastic barrel, the kind football players dump over the coach’s head at the end of the game. Oscar’s three young wives stood just behind him, munching on yucca root as unobtrusively as possible, which was plenty obtrusively, in my opinion.

Image Credit... Holly Wales

Martin had offered to spare me from the welcoming committee this time around, but I declined. I sampled chicha the year before, after all — the tiniest possible siplet, but still — and I came out of the experience intact. How much worse could the second time be?

Incomparably worse, as it turned out. Oscar proudly filled the bowl to the rim before passing it to my cousin, declaring his chicha to be the best in the region. As decorum requires, Martin nodded politely at our host and downed the bowl’s contents in a single burbling gulp. Oscar and the others grinned appreciatively, refilled the bowl and thumped it down before me. The chicha we had the year before, in a neighboring village, was practically scentless; this stuff smelled like an old man’s false teeth. I stared at it and whimpered.

Why did I put myself into such a position, not once but twice in as many years? The only answer I’ve come up with has less to do with ways of the jungle than with the ways of the suburbs. Even as a child, I prided myself on my politeness, my ability to put any hospitality-giver at ease, perhaps because life at home was often tense. The result would be admirable if it weren’t so absurd: a compulsive urge to be the perfect guest. Some part of me actually seems to seek out nightmarish host-guest scenarios, if only to demonstrate my MacGyverish skill at emerging unscathed. I’m sure Mom never guessed where it might lead, but a lifetime of social conditioning can’t be unlearned on a whim, and neither can a morbid fear of conflict. I was going to drink that chicha if it killed me.

My mother and cousin had gotten me into this jam, but it was Jenny Graham, from eighth grade, who finally got me out. At the height of my panic, as I sat with the reeking bowl in front of me, feeling the tension around the table start to curdle, a bolt of inspiration came to me: hadn’t I tasted spit countless times before? What was chicha drinking, after all, but French kissing once removed?