January 25, 2004
Vilcambra, Ecuador
 

They say that the people in Vilcambra, Ecuador live longer than any other people on earth.  apparently there are many instances of folks living 120 years (which seems implausible, but hey... who knows) The lonely planet guide book says its because of the healthy lifestyle and the lack of fatty foods in their diet.  But i doubt it... i think it has something to do with drinking snake liquor.

I met this gringo in the town square here.  his name is mark and he's from alaska.  he's a wild man with a shock of curly black hair and a crazy laugh, like the laugh of someone that's locked up a good part of the year away from human contact.  we hit it off pretty much right away

so pretty soon mark gets to talking about this little joint a ways out of town.  they serve snake liquor he says... wants to know if i've ever tried it.  i haven't.

coral snake liquor, he goes on.  yeah, right... as in the poisonous kind of coral snake?  2nd most poisonous snake on earth?  yeah he says... that's the one.

this i gotta see.

so we go out for some dinner, and afterwards head down to the little shack that sells snake liquor.  and goddamn if there isn't actually a snake coiled up in the bottom of the bottle.  could be a coral snake... might be a milk snake.  i can't remember which one has which alternating bands of red black and white stripes.

two tall shot glasses are poured.  i briefly question the wisdom of drinking something that for all appearances has a dead poisonous snake in the bottom of it.  flirting through my mind is the question of what exactly, technically, it is that would be responsible for nullifying the effects of a deadly poison.  time?  alcohol?  perhaps simply the diluted concentration of poison to liquor.  maybe the snake shot its wad when it was caught and there wasn't really much left there to begin with.  what the hell... if people had died doing this, chances are i would have heard about it... my chances of surviving this are probably better than even. 

i cautiously slow my hand to ensure that mark downs his shot first, and no tricks are played.  and down the hatch it goes.

a blinding white rush comes over me as a searing hot monster roars  down my throat and into the pit of my stomach--where it proceeds to explode from the center of my being like a grenade in a trash can.  i have erred in my assessment of risk, i fear.  turning my head away from mark, i nearly wobble from my seat on the bar stool, and fumble to grip the edge of the bar.  i fight to regain my composure, briefly in doubt of whether or not i will retain consciousness.  turning back around after a second, through eyes still clouded by a thousand brilliant points of light, i see him grinning from ear to ear. 

"you can really taste the snake, can't you?"  he says.  i think he is laughing at my obvious condition.

the snake!  the snake?  i consider that for a second, though thinking is not coming quickly... i am severely mentally handicapped.

"what fucking proof is this stuff," i finally howl.

"ciento cincuenta," the wax-moustached bartender with the wide-brimmed leather hat replies...

150 proof!!  it certainly explained a lot... basically the equivalent of nearly pure alcohol with a rotten animal carcass at the bottom.  a memory of my first dorm party in my freshman year of college comes back, and the shots of everclear that my roommate Drew, who was considerably older than me, encouraged me to do.  i seem to recall an equivalent feeling of nausea and pain,  along with the distinct recognition that this was most definitely not an intelligent substance to be introducing into my body.  in effect, a poison which in quantities hardly greater than what i have already ingested would certainly spell the end of my short life.

the second shot is not nearly so bad.  i decide that knowing what to expect, and properly steeling oneself against the precise nature of the imminent physical assault is most of the secret to maintaining control over this dead snake, and the bit of its noxious spirit exorcised by the poweful, pure cane.

a third follows, but with a worried look the bartender with a warns us against further indiscretion.

"uno, no hay problema.  dos, esta bien.  tres, si, es possible.  pero, cuatro?  cuatro... no."

it is the first time in my life a bartender ever told me i'd reached my limit--and he seemed genuinely concerned for our safety.   i doubt a preoccupation over a bartender's legal responsibility for those drinking at his establishment figures much into the equation around these parts.  rather, nobody wants to deal with a dead gringo ... let alone two.  its most certainly a hassle, and it can't be good for business.

mark and i make it home.  the facts are undeniable.  jesse was driven home, and i was probably the one that drove her.  beyond that, there is no awareness or evidence of the rest of the evening. 

i live another day.

---------------------------------------------------

devoted canary reader yancy writes: