In 1986, a psychologist named Paul Rozin did something special with a group of toddlers.
He sat them at a table one by one and brought them a plate of dogs he said
He asked them if they wanted to eat it. (
In fact, it is peanut butter with the aroma of blue cloth cheese. )
He then did the same with a sterilized locust. Sixty-
Ersatz turd was happily dispatched by 2% of children under the age of 2;
Older children always refuse two plates.
His point is to learn to be disgusted.
Culture is our mentor.
We were told that the horse meat was disgusting, but the chicken eggs were not disgusting.
The small chicken is delicious and the cricket is disgusting.
As I believe, nothing is inherently disgusting, it's all a kind of thinking about culture, and I do it a lot during my travels, I felt the need to put my money in my mouth and put my mouth where it didn't want to go.
I ate the sea elephant meat buried in the Arctic beach "fermented" for a month, a raw fish eye and its accompanying muscle tissue, duck tongue, reindeer bone marrow, brain, fin-like limbs,
Yes, I am one of those pesky travelers who brag about the disgusting food they have lived (
I'm coming now-uppance.
I'm going to make it bigger.
Time, in a small village in the Amazon of Ecuador.
I'm here to cover an anthropologist named John Barton.
Barton studied a tribe called achula, known for their skills in blowing guns --
Making and their long
Competition with the head before-The shrinking chuer(
If you have ever seen an authentic South Beauty, you may have seen a person with a skinny head. )
Barton's base is conrambo, and four people arrive from time to time along a fast Muddy River
No hotel, no restaurant, no shops.
You eat everything they hunt.
I quickly understood that there was a huge difference between tasting something very unattractive and living on it, a huge canyon.
If he tries, anyone can suppress his disgust and let him swallow a fish eye or a rotten sea elephant.
It's totally another thing to eat enough of this to live.
I stayed here for five days.
I'm not doing very well.
My problem now is my knee.
It is the knee of a rodent, kneeling quietly in a bowl of oil broth.
Earlier today, the knee was caught by a happy, hairy hound --
In the early hours of the morning of the rainforest, large rodents, gambling, and caves, until our owners happened and plugged in full of lead bullets. (
Blow guns are only used for animals such as birds and monkeys, and they will be scared away by the gun. )
The knee is one of the wonders of nature and is a busy meeting point for tendons, bones and cartilage.
Nevertheless, Marvel does not exactly describe my current state of mind.
Extreme mental discomfort is getting closer and closer.
The Hunter and the chef are sitting opposite me.
Their generosity is heartbreaking.
I have to wash the dishes.
I have to use my teeth to separate those annoying things, to extend my tongue into its cracks and sticky holes, to extract any vague chewing, and then
I leaned over to scout what was in Barton's bowl.
He hurt his ankle.
As schoolchildren around the world know, the problem with the ankle bones is that they are attached to the foot bones.
The foot bone is attached to the toe bone and toe, and there are those dirty little rubber pads on the bottom of the foot.
No matter how good the taste of the meat is, the experience is tarnished by the act of spitting out horrible unchewy things to your fingers.
Barton was not afraid.
He had the whole thing in his mouth.
He stopped sucking and applied chewing gum for long enough, saying: "The foot pad is a good source of fat.
"He is enjoying rodent rat soup, as only one person who has eaten steamed tap fish fetus and live palm beetle can enjoy.
There was a pile of tiny bones on the ground next to him.
I'm done with the broth.
Delay will betray my antipathy.
I managed to find a couple of fairly normal pocketslooking flesh.
I tend to chew these things slowly if needed until my host is tired of sitting here to take care of the manioc gardens.
The problem with this strategy is that cooked meat is not the kind of thing you want to hang on your tongue for a long time, and it is absolutely necessary to die in order not to suffocate.
It's not that bad. it's just very powerful.
Like the taste buds, waving white flags.
In short, it has no taste of chicken.
I found myself chewing with my mouth open, hoping that my host would treat this as a lovely cultural feature rather than trying to bypass the tasting part of my meal.
I beg Barton to take my meat. (
Our host can't speak English. )
He is a kind person, which makes me sad.
The man in the House made a comment and Barton translated it as "She doesn't like to eat" and he saw Westerners without children who don't know how to shoot.
Some Westerners may not like to eat.
"She had a good breakfast . "
It was a good breakfast in fact, but I didn't eat much.
Someone shot my leg. (
It's a little leg today. )
InFlorida, I had crocodile meat before, but someone, bless him, had taken it personally and removed it before it appeared. (
Please see the "terrible things that cannot be chewed" above ". )
I try to pretend that the leg is another kind of thing, a kind of bland comfort.
After a few wrong starts-
My brain was visibly shaken and gave me "orange rough ".
Barton insists that most of the daily intake of achula is not from meat.
They come from chicha, a mild alcoholic drink, with blurred nutrition and watering. Mango mud.
Achores drink up to four gallons a day.
If you like chicha, you can have a good time in inConambo.
I can try it in about an hour.
Barton's friend Isaac is holding a minga, a work party for the villagers who helped Isaac's family dig into the new manioc plot.
Similar concept to Amish barn
Chicha with marathon-
Drinking in the Square-dancing.
I have two ideas for chicha.
On the one hand, it is a drink.
Drinks are your friends in the food place.
It was Tecate that washed away menudo, and it was the sake of the wine swiof that made the huge clam neck tolerable.
On the other hand.
We are talking about a drink fermented with human saliva.
The ahu woman chewed the cooked dummy into the needed mashed potatoes
Potato texture, then spit
Spray their bulging cheeks into the chicha urn.
Although I know, percentage
It is wise that we are talking about a small part of the mixture and it is difficult for me to accept the idea.
I have 1. 1 to myself: when spiel found the list of ingredients, I found a way to say no.
"You can't say no," said Barton, who threw the body of his ankle to a cramp dog.
"Just not finished.
"Barton and I sat on an open-air stool --
Walled platform for the living room of asIsaac.
The people in the house were talking and blowing darts.
A pair of black horns
He wore glasses on his face.
Like someone stepped on it, a shot was violently smashed, although no one here had such shoes.
The floor is dirty but tidy.
The government has decorated parrot feathers and jaguar skulls after vaccinating children.
In the corner, a little girl held a chicha tea party with her doll, only knowing that the tinychicha bowl was made of a howler monkey voice box, the tenderness of this scene
Isaac's wife and mother kept moving to provide several bowls of chicha for 10 orso guests.
Chicha is the backbone of achula society.
Just like the ankle bone and the knee bone, you will feel the pressure that cannot be changed.
The Eucharist of tea, theManischewitz, Kava
Kawa living in achu.
It appears in every ceremony, every visit, every meal.
The desire of a achula woman depends largely on her skills in chichabrewing and services.
Isaac's mother dipped a pottery bowl into the urn of the egg wine --hued liquid.
There's something thin at the bottom of the bowl, waving how-
When she walked across the floor to our bench.
Her hand was coated with a sticky yellow liquid with spots of manioc fibers.
The sidewalk outside frat house popped up on Sunday morning, which was unpopular.
Barton said with a bowl: "It's Miller time . ".
He warned that in 10 minutes she would come back and take the bowl and hand it over to someone else, most likely me.
Rejecting a bowl of chicha, or even putting it down, is considered an irreparable rude act. (
In the crazy example of following the form of etiquette, there is a ceramic bowl at the bottom that supplies chicha, so that drinkers cannot delegate the next without spilling the contents. )
Refusing to be interpreted as bluffing and triggering a ceremonial performance: "No, really, I shouldn't.
"Yes, yes, I insist.
There is a disaster for tourists, and the host never flinch.
This means I have 10 minutes to convince myself to get rid of my inner disgust and compete for space between the pin worm and the native.
Anyway, I told myself that my mouth was full of Salva.
What's more, I didn't buy it myself.
I myself also noticed a huge and disturbing difference between oral hygiene practices around the Amazon basin and around the basin in our home bathroom.
I told Barton it was not a problem of disgust.
This is a problem with gum disease.
Barton wiped manioc mucus from his beard.
He believes that smart chicha drinkers should not worry about their saliva.
They were troubled by the Giad and amoeba in the unfiltered river.
It was at this time that Isaac's mother got up from Barton and filled the chicha bowl and put it in the overflow and gave it to me.
The first thing that hits you is the smell.
Fruit and stench, a breath of winenight bus.
I put my lips on the edge of the bowl and bumped --
Paste of Manioc pulp.
I hold my breath and drink.
The taste is not bad either.
This is chalk, sweet wine, indifferent.
But it's not about taste.
This is about disgust.
Did you throw things in the toilet and have to roll up your sleeves to get it back, that's how I feel right now.
I'm the only one to stick.
I'm going to lift the lid, go straight in and squat down in the toilet.
Once the level of chicha has dropped significantly, Isaac's mother will stand up and refill the bowl.
I was disappointed and surprised myself.
I come from a tribe that eats Viennese sausages.
I should be able to cope. But I can't.
I can't drink this bowl of chicha.
An idea was born.
I asked Barton to take my bowl and rummage through my backpack looking for unbreathable cellophane: raspberry-
Chocolate merchant Joe's Energy Bar
The room was suddenly quiet.
As we all know, foreigners have a variety of world wonders in their backpacks: sugar bags, earplugs, contact lenses. (
The concept of plastic-assisted vision is not easily absorbed.
I remembered the story of a tribal man who pointed to a baby bottle nipple and asked, "Can I put a piece of this in my eyes too ? ")
The energy bar makes rounds.
A few men sniffed.
Only Isaac took a bite.
At first he chewed hard and then suddenly stopped to give an alarm as if someone had sneaked behind him and pointed a gun at his head.
His eyebrows were arranged together like curtains.
His lips are abstract and beating.
He stood up, grabbed the pillar of the roof, and spat hard.
He coughed again, arrghs, hawks, and vomited.
Every few seconds he will look back at me and his face will go from disgust to confusion to back.
After a minute, he took the energy bar back, and now the taste is gone, he grinned and shook his head at the unfathomable taste of foreigners.
From my point of view, the next bowl of chicha has been licensed.
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