If you have ever had to drink a glass of somebody else's saliva, you can probably sympathise with me.
I recently had to drink a whole glass of a dubious substance called sakau in order to follow my long-time rule: when in Rome, do as the Romans do.
Not everyone has the same philosophy.
Some travellers like to stick to what they know and never, ever drink the local water - let alone the local saliva.
Not me though. I am a sucker for punishment.
Over the years, I have brought back a variety of parasites and illnesses from overseas, all because I was too keen to sample the local goods.
My latest foray into foolishness occurred not in Rome, but in Kolonia, the capital of the island of Pohnpei in the Federated States of Micronesia.
Where's that, you ask? Well, I had to look it up in my travel guide before I went there, too, so I can tell you:
FSM is a collection of more than 600 islands spread over more than 2000km in the northern Pacific between Papua New Guinea and Japan.
It so happens, my guide told me, that Pohnpei has one of the world's more interesting beverages: sakau. This was not my reason for going there, but it was a added incentive.
Sakau is made from the roots of a pepper plant, is mildly narcotic and is not only legal but also a very social drink to have with Pohnpeian friends.
Sakau bars abound in Pohnpei. They outnumber alcohol bars two to one. Sakau drinkers tend to be very mellow, happy people whose worst habit is driving their cars home at painstakingly slow speeds.
My first (and definitely last) taste came courtesy of some Pohnpeians at a large dinner function. I was just beginning to eat my meal when a large bottle of dirty brown substance was plonked at our table.
"Have you ever drunk sakau?" asked the Pohnpeian head of the table. "Would you like to try some?"
When in Rome, so as the Romans do, right? Before I knew it, he had poured me a full glass. A very big glass, as I recall.
"How do you drink this? Is there some custom?" I asked as the other Pohnpeians zoomed in on me, smiling broadly, and just waiting to see my reaction on my first sip.
"You must eat before you drink and drink before you eat," the head man replied cryptically.
I picked up the glass and looked at it suspiciously. It did not look good. I sniffed it. It smelt nothing like a 1963 Grange Hermitage. I swilled it around in the glass. It was slow moving, like mud. Finally, I took a mouthful.
YUK!
It tasted awful. I have never tasted anything so foul. It was slimy like saliva and tasted like, well, you know what.
Oh no, I thought. I cannot possibly drink any more of this. But you must, said a little voice in my head. You cannot offend your hosts. You have to drink it.
And, somehow, I did, all the while trying to put on a brave face and slowly getting stoned while the Pohnpeians watched in amusement.
I had been warned that my lips would go numb and I would become more relaxed.
But nobody had alerted me about the bitter, lingering taste.
It must have taken me nearly an hour to drink it all, smiling as sweetly as I could, and taking a swig of beer after every foul-tasting mouthful.
I must have been happy about finishing it because I remember smiling a lot. It was like conquering Rome.
But you will never guess what happened next?
Somebody poured me another one!
First published in The Examiner, Launceston
©May, 1995 John Martin. All Rights Reserved
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