Ecuador: The Mystery Ingredient (cont.)

I scrutinized the river with fearful eyes. I could sense that there were lethal bacteria squirming happily in the green waters sparkling in the afternoon sun. I looked beyond the water surface and saw algae, fish, and other creatures, all certainly carrying unknown, un-curable maladies. All matter that breathed and lived around me became hazardous to my health, the colibri buzzing around the red bromelias, that looked cute minutes ago, was my now my mortal enemy.  The vivacious butterflies minding their own lazy business, the gregarious parrots flapping above my head, the monkeys playing in the canopy above, all seemed to be plotting how to infect me with their tropical parasites.

My brain started sinking into frightfully dark corners of my imagination. A rush of unclear, panicked thoughts were flying out of my head, dripping into Rio Curaray and mixing with the deadly bacteria CDC warned me about. Microscopic images of the microorganisms that could be now swimming joyfully in my blood stream appeared before my eyes. Did I just do something really stupid? I began to anticipate the onset of the inevitable horrid cramps, delirious fever, internal bleeding—and probably a disgusting skin rush to top it off.

Under the weight of these thoughts I dragged my sore feet to the sandy shore and collapsed on a rock. I looked up at the grandeur of the jungle, I inhaled the warm humid breeze, absorbed every chirp and buzz that was carried by the afternoon air. I admired the overwhelming beauty and the peacefulness of the jungle. After all, it might be one my last lucid moments for a while. I spent the rest of the day's trip closely monitoring my body, looking for the first sign of deteriorating health; and worn down from the sun and my panicked thoughts, I fell asleep, rocked gently by the canoe.

My next recollection was waking up in a Waorani kitchen that served as our sleeping quarters the following morning. It was a crisp lovely day, and to my astonishment I felt great.  Either my immune system was unbelievably strong, no Leptospira-infested animal peed in the water, or I had ingested one of those parasites that took a few weeks before wreaking havoc on my body.  I chose to believe the former, felt grateful (and lucky) to be healthy, and decided to enjoy the day. However, before I could leave the kitchen, a couple of Waorani women looked towards me and motioned for me to come towards them.

“Hacer chicha, hacer chicha,” said one of them.

Chicha again, great.

I figured at the very least it would be interesting to witness chicha paste preparation, so I followed the ladies to a spacious thatch-roofed room furnished with one bench, a few hammocks, a fireplace, and a huge wooden plate filled with boiled yucca roots. An old woman took a thick thistle in her hand and started pounding the boiled roots, slowly transforming them into a fine paste.  “Hacer chichi,” she kept saying, smiling and revealing a big black hole where a pink tongue was the only company to her bare gums.  A naked, round-bellied infant was holding on to her knee, occasionally dipping his pudgy hand in the mixture and helping himself to a big serving of the mashed roots. I observed the tribal cooking exhibition with interest, until I started getting dizzy from following the up and down movement of the chicha maker’s hand.

Following the example of the little boy, the old lady took a puree ball in her hand and threw it into her cavernous mouth. She started chewing like toothless people do, moving the paste around her mouth with a well-trained tongue, grinning towards me periodically until the puree fell out of her mouth onto a the pile of yucca paste from which it came. She did not seem to care, as she took another serving and shoved it in her mouth. She chewed it but never succeeded in swallowing, and a second time the food dropped out of her mouth.

After this mildly repugnant event was repeated a few times, I realized it was not an accident, but a deliberate chew-and-spit act. Eventually a couple of other women joined in the regurgitation fest and started to chew from and spit into the yucca paste pile that I learned later would feed the community for the next week or so.  Amused villagers followed my changing expression from curiosity and eagerness to learn to a pale, nauseous grimace. The chicha I had yesterday —was my lunch mixed with both jungle river water and indigenous old lady spit?

Later on, after a deliberately skipped meal and an invigorating walk around the community, I received the explanation for this unusual preparation procedure: the enzymes in the spit help ferment the root puree and turn it into chicha faster.

Page 2 of 2   Previous Page

All contents copyright ©2006 Pology Magazine. Unauthorized use of any content is strictly prohibited.