It's Not an Illegal Drug if its for Cultural Purposes

Back when Beau and I were doing the "He drives, she reads aloud" thing I loved so much, we read two hysterical books called, The Sex Life of Cannibals and Getting Stoned with Savages by J. Maartin Troost. They were written by a (Dutch-born) American guy and his gf who spent years on obscure Pacific islands. She did life-saving development work. He...got high with locals and occasionally wrote about the surroundings. But in the end, he published a highly-successful series of books. So maybe I should shut-up and think about trying his method of writing instead of my own.

So obviously, a large part of the plot of Getting Stoned with Savages detailed just that. The author easily befriends the locals and they all frequently consume the narcotic of choice: kava. Beau and I had never heard of kava before, and in the book, the author initially described it in Vanuatu as roots of the kava plant chewed up by young boys then spit into shells to be drunk. The first time the author tried it, it tasted awful, but it really fucked him up. So of course, he was hooked.

Later in the book, when they move to Fiji, his only source of kava is markedly less...authentic. Now it is in powder form which the author turns his nose up at though begrudingly still consumes.

As you can imagine, Beau and I were intrigued. We're not drug takers, and Beau's occasional reoccuring smoking habit is a source of powerful tension between us, but the book was so entertaining, and the author made the experience seem so interesting, we always wondered.

One night, I was -HORRORS- out of rice, and had only realized it after I had already started preparing stir fry. I dashed to the car and drove to the nearest "dairy." In New Zealand, there is a dairy on nearly every major corner and always one in the thousands of mini strip malls that dot Auckland. Dairies are basically Ma & Pop shops, a 7-11 if it had a soul. Since the demographic of my neighborhood is heavily Indian/Sri-Lankan, I figured the local dairy would most likely have rice. Yeah, it's a stereotype, so what!

I drove up, and as I got out of my car, I saw a ginormous sign in the window with large black letters: KAVA SOLD HERE.

No way.

I entered the shop and was immediately hit with a plume of Indian spices. A dark, balding man approached me with a big smile. I self-consciously inquired about the kava and his face lit up. He reached over and grabbed a small, white pouch of powder. "Five dollars," he said.

Cheap high.

I then started asking him exactly how the whole process was done. He got excited and came from behind the counter and started motioning me toward the back of the store. "Come on, come on, I'll show you!" he said.

I hesitated. Isn't this the part in every C&I show I've seen, and I've seen a LOT of them, where the woman gets abducted? On the other hand, isn't this also how every one of my crazy adventures across the world has started out? Really friendly people, a language constraint, an interesting experience.

I followed him to the back where there was a curtain obscured a doorway. He pulled it back to reveal a tiny space with only a sink, a large bowl with murky grey liquid and a crate. A very placid, happy-looking man was sitting on the crate. He looked up and serenly greeted me. I felt weird.

There was already a silky-looking cloth tied to the faucet and the man, who now introduced himself as Mohammed, began showing me exactly how to strain the kava from the powder into an awaiting bowl. "Do you want to try some?" he asked.

Sure!

He took a tiny bowl and dipped it in the grey water and handed it to me. I looked up at both of them, "Um, all at once or sip it?"

"Whatever you like," they both shrugged.

I took the biggest swallow I could and made a face. It tasted like gym sneakers.

"Good?" Mohammed asked.

"Not really," I said. "Can I still drive home? Is it safe?"

They laughed. Of course it was safe.

After a few moments, I was starting to lose feeling in my tongue. I mentioned this. The men were unconcerned.

"The more you drink it, the less that will happen," said the man on the crate.

Erm, okay.

Honestly, I didn't feel much at all, maybe just a little.

So, I got my rice, my little bag of kava powder, and waved goodbye to the still beaming Mohammed, who told me he was always open very late so feel free to come whenever I needed something.

I got home and looked at the bag of powder. Being a work night, I wasn't going to have it then. It'd just have to wait til the weekend when I was going to see Beau, and of course, that's another story.

Prairie Dog Days

Life keeps truckin along, nothing too exciting, THANKFULLY. It always seems when you're at your lowest financially and emotionally that shit seems to snowball. I've had a few bad events, but nothing that will wipe me out. It's just forcing me to be even more of a hermit than usual.

The new job is kind of interesting. It's exam time and my main duty is to type them up to Very. Specific. Specifications. Overall, the professors are nice, except for one ol' curmudgeon who I seriously considered strangling and dumping his body in the ocean, but quickly realized that I might lose my temp job, so decided against it.

The best part are my co-workers, who are the most amazingly motley crew in age, ethnicity, and attitude. There's the sour but witty ginger gal; the strangely apathetic yet hard-working young Maori woman; the tiny, silly Filipina; the barely-audible, ethereal-voiced older white Kiwi woman; and the highly-detailed yet easily confused and gullible Vietnamese woman. And me, the smart-ass, goofy American with the ever-changing hair (I just re-dyed it back to brown because I'm so damn broke I couldn't keep up with the blonde highlights -- *sniff*).

In my usual way, I immediately befriended the Filipina and Vietnamese women by speaking their own languages to them, even going so far as to sing the folk song Katakataka in its entirety to the the former. My smart-assiness fit in well with the ginger gal and anyone could get along with Miss Ethereal. The Maori woman, though, is a tough nut to crack.

When I started the job, I had already been carrying a stupid cold for over a week, so figured I wasn't contagious anymore. Still, it was pretty damn embarrassing to be new at a job and find yourself bellowing phlegmy coughing fits every 15 minutes and snorting buckets of snot into dozens and dozens of tissues. Also, I sounded like a 75 year-old Lucky Strikes smoker with lung cancer -- and this is me after feeling much better!

When 2 days later, Miss Ethereal came down with a wicked cold, I felt like a complete fucking jerk. But when you're a temp, sick days aren't an option. I had gone to great pains not to touch anyone and washed my hands with OCD-faithfulness. Still, what an ass.

Another week went by and though I was feeling even better than before, I would still find it hard to breathe when I exerted myself and would get chest pains. The worst part? About 1/2 deaf! My ears were hopelessly clogged. I waited it out for a couple days, then gave in and bought ear drops. God, ear drops SUCK! Squeezing a slimey liquid into your ear and then encouraging it down the canal is one disgusting feeling. Another 3 days went by. Still deaf. I could tell it was becoming annoying to my co-workers, who working in one large room, were used to just shouting to each other. I lived like a prairie dog, occasionally catching something that sounded like my name on the wind and then promptly popping up from chair, head above my cubicle, head swiveling around for the origin. Then I would usually have to walk over to the person so I could actually comprehend what they were saying.

I realized I would have to see a doctor, but was concerned since having no residency, health care costs were a major issue, and I was, as usual, low on cash. My co-workers surprised me in their sweetness -- all of them simultaneously started either calling their own GPs (general practitioner) or searched on their computers for a cheap, local one. Withing minutes, various printouts and notes were being pushed my way, until we found one not too far from my house that charged just $40 for a "casual patient." A few hours later, I was off, squirming about missing the several hours of work from my paycheck, but knowing it was necessary.

The medical centre was like walking into a Cambodian rural clinic. It wasn't exactly...dirty...but had a run-down, dirtiness about it. It was packed with some scary looking people and several screaming babies. Many people did not speak English, which made me think this is where immigrants (like me) came for cheap health care. I was told the doctor was running "a little behind" which made me wince. I was right too -- I would sit in my chair, my clothes soggy from the downpour outside, for well over an hour waiting for my turn.

When I got in, I was greeted by a Filipina who must have been pushing 100 years old. I explained to her about my 2 week+ cold and she immediately launched into a scolding rant while I listened, as best I could, with jaw agape. Who goes to the doctor for a cold unless it gets to this point anyway? After a short exam, she started scolding me again, telling me I was on the verge of developing pneumonia. PNEUMONIA. Great. JUST great. Look, give me the prescription and let me be on my way. Lecturing just pushes my homicidal button.

I finally got out of there and made it to the tiny pharmacy where 2 people I recognized from the waiting room were already there. One girl, talking to the pharmacist, was holding up a heavily-bandaged finger, where I caught part of her conversation: "...and every time I tell someone it happened because I got bit by a pig, they start laughing at me."

I burst out laughing.

The girl whirled around, where next to me, the other woman was chuckling too, though a bit more furtively than I. I laughed harder.

"HOW did you get bit by a pig?" I asked. I mean, back in the bush where I lived and pigs were either raised or hunted wild, I get it. But in Auckland?

Apparently she had been at some sort of petting zoo and got chomped there. Still funny.

So, it's been several days since I started taking my antibiotics and...well, my ears are still plugged, I still occasionally cough, and I still can't exert myself too much. But there's some hope -- every once in awhile when I yawn one ear will pop deliciously open for a brief 1-2 seconds before clomping closed again.

sigh