Costa Rican Firewater

Costa Rican Firewater

by Ken Goree

         “Here, Señor Goree, take this,” said Don Juan.  “No do not bite yet.  We all bite together.”  The short Costa Rican man, reached up to hand me a tender blue-green leaf he had stripped from a shrub.  He then continued handing out leaves to the rest of our group, children and adults.  With a flourish Don Juan held his leaf aloft and proclaimed, “Uno, dos…and for the Americans, three.  Now we eat together.”  He then put his leaf into his mouth and motioned for the group to do the same. 

         A shower of masticated green pulp sprayed instantly in all directions.  A chorus of spitting, retching and other assorted sounds of disgust accompanied this.  Don Juan and I continued to placidly chew our leaves as the group of twenty around us spat the gooey remains of some mysterious Costa Rican plant into the bushes. 

         “Mr. Goree, are you going to swallow that?” one of the children asked.

         “I will if he does,” I said, jerking a thumb in the direction of Don Juan. 

         “Si, of course I will Amiga,” Don Juan said and made a demostrative affair of swallowing.  “It is very healthy for you.  This plant is why I am so, strong, smart and oh so muy guapo!”

         “How long is it going to take to work on me,” I asked.

         “Oh, sadly, I fear you started much too late in life for that, Señor.  It will not hurt you, and it will definitely get rid of worms, if you have any.”

         “How long does this taste last?” my daughter asked.

         “Until you are eighteen,” I said.  “And, if you kiss a boy, he’ll taste it, too.”

         “Dad!”

         “Only until you replace it something else, Chica.  Try this,” Don Juan told her.  He kicked at the ground and uncovered a root just under the surface.

         “Dad, what is it?” Carly whispered to me when Don Juan was turned to talk to another child. 

         “I think it is ginger root.  Do you want me to try it first?”

         “Uh, huh.”

         I scraped away the surface of the root with my pocketknife and cut loose a piece of its light amber interior.  The aroma of ginger became strong.  After taking a bite to make sure it was really ginger.  I cut off a piece and handed it to my daughter. 

         “Watch out, it’s spicy,” I told her.  She seemed satisfied with a nibble.

         “Come, My Friends.  I have many more plants to show you.  And my cooking cows; you must see my cooking cows.”

         As the tour of Don Juan’s Organic Farm continued, we saw the cows that cooked.  The cows didn’t really do the cooking, but the end product of their cud chewing did provide the gas that was used to cook the dinner.  Each day a boy from a neighboring farm would shovel the cows’ end product into a biodigester.  This biodigester was an enclosed tank, with a 5000-gallon capacity.  The boy would open a valve to release excess pressure.  Then he would open a hatch and shovel in the dung.  He would then add enough water to keep the “stew” moist.  At one end of the enormous tank was a hose fitting.   A hose ran from the fitting to the house.  Don Juan explained that the flammable gas produced as the dung decomposed, was piped to the house and used for everything natural gas would be used for in the United States. 

         “Wait,” Richie said, “My mom cooks with gas.”  The same notion had struck me, and I knew something the kids didn’t know yet.  We were going to be having dinner with Don Juan. 

         “Eeeew,” Richie and I chorused.

          Eventually the sounds of disgust died away; the same way the tide goes out, surging in and out but eventually fading away all together.  The excitement over the gassy cows finished and we moved on rather quickly.  The next thing that Don Juan showed us was a small tree.  All over the branches hung what looked like papaya-sized pineapples. 

         Don Juan pulled one of the fruit down and explained, “These are Noni Fruit.”  He held the object up and continued, “The scientists, they are experimenting.  They say this fruit will help stop cancers.”  The group went silent, and became focused.  One of the fathers that was along had lost a daughter to a brain tumor, the year before.  Don Juan did not have specific information, but everyone in the groups listened intently to every syllable. 

         “Try it?” Don Juan questioned.  After the earlier taste test, there were very few volunteers from the crowd.  I stepped forward, as did one other father.  Don Juan held the fruit toward me, “Go on.  Push your finger through.  The flesh, she is soft.”  He was right.  The skin of the fruit gave way easily.  I dug my finger in and pulled out some of the cool pasty flesh.  I placed the teaspoon-sized glob on my tongue and restrained the urge to gag. 

         “Mmmm!” I said, nodding to the father next to me.  Most of the kids started to move forward until the gurgling sound of a barely controlled vomit geyser was heard from the father by my side.  Thankfully, the rumbling sounds eventually faded without the actual appearance of vomit.  I don’t think Margo’s dad, Brian, is going to trust me ever again. 

         I still have trouble describing the taste, to this day.  A blend of soured milk, rotted crab entrails, egg salad sandwiches and the scent of sixth grade boys after the last recess on a hot, late, spring afternoon.  There was something else too, but I couldn’t identify it.  The really amazing thing was, not only did the taste not fade away; it seemed to intensify, with time.  I eventually started chewing up raw black pepper berries, straight from the plant.  It was a slight improvement.

         “Hey, Evan,” I called.  “Come here.”

         “Ya, what for?”

         “Smell my breath,” I said, and breathed into his face.  “Hmmm…I guess the pepper didn’t help, huh?” I said to another parent as we watched Evan flop around on the ground, clawing at his face. 

         “No, I guess not.  What are you going to do if the smell never goes away?”

         “I guess I’ll have one more tool in my kit for dealing with misbehaving students in my class next year, won’t I?”

         “I guess you will.”

         Next, we all gathered in an enormous tin roofed carport.  The kids used a press to squeeze sugar cane, and everyone took a taste.  It was all right, I guess.  The sugar addicted kids, who had been going through withdrawal symptoms for the five days we had been in Costa Rica, lapped it up like it was the nectar of the gods.
         “Other than kids with cuts on their hands playing with poison dart frogs, not much else happened between the sugar cane shed and Don Juan’s outdoor kitchen.  I don’t think there is an anti-toxin, but we did a lot of crossing our fingers for the next half hour.  Don Juan said we’d know by then if we need the medical examiner to drop by. 

         The kitchen was a delight.  It was a huge open-air cabana built out over a ravine.  The kids, and most of the parents spent some time making the tortillas for our dinner.  Then as we were finishing that up, Don Juan exclaimed, “You parents!  I think you made the kids do all the work today.  Now you have to help get the firewood.”  First of all, eating that noni fruit was work, and who needs a fire?  We were in the warm tropics, for crying out loud.  The cows do all the cooking.  Remember?  I kept my mouth shut though, because I was sure that little Costa Rican leprechaun was up to something interesting.

         We all dutifully followed Don Juan back out to the sugar cane shed.  “See all of this firewood?” he said pointing to stacks along each side.  “Do you know what kind of wood this is?”  Don Juan began to recite the different types of wood that were stacked around us.  “Do you know what burns the hottest, in this shed?  Do you Señor?” he said pointing at me.

         “Uhh…, no.”

         “This burns hottest,” he said holding up a sugar cane stalk, one of the stalks the kids had squeezed the juice out of earlier.  “But not like this, like this!” he said and produced from behind the stacks of wood what had once been a two gallon apple juice bottle.  It now contained a mysterious clear liquid.  Several parents nodded knowingly, me being one of them.  Next, a tray of shot glasses was produced.  Don Juan filled the glasses and walked around the circle of parents.          

         “Sure,” I said when a glass was offered to me.  “One shouldn’t hurt.”           Of the twelve of us, one mom didn’t drink, because she is allergic to alcohol.  Everyone else tried the Costa Rican moonshine.  Two of the dads said, “I don’t drink, but I’ll give it a “shot.””  One of those two dads, left with an extra quart jar of the “firewood,” that night.  Don Juan was right.  It was hot.  I think my stomach lining is still on fire.

         Shortly after this, a happy group of parents (some happier than others) returned to have a lovely dinner.  In our absence, only one child was cut chopping dinner ingredients.  Happily, there was no need for professional medical treatment.  The small strip of duct tape that I keep handy in my backpack did the trick. 

         The evening with Don Juan wound down quickly after dinner.  The parents stumbled back aboard the bus and made the short trip back to the hotel, in Fortuna, where we were staying.  A quart jar full of some mysterious clear liquid made a final quick trip through the over 21 crowd, and then 12 very happy and sleepy parents led their children back to 12 tile floored rooms for a well deserved night’s rest.