Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
with the picture of a scorpion on the label. Pointing to a bottle on the shelf, I ordered one
from the barman. “Oh no no no, senhor, that you can't have senhor, that is death in a bottle,”
he laughed loudly. “That will kill you for sure senhor.”
“No, really, I would really like to try one,” I argued.
“But senhor, this is one hundred and fifty proof liquor,” returned the barman. “This is only
for the locals who know this poison.”
“I still want to try some,” I returned, not giving in.
“I tell you what senhor. I will pour you a little in a glass, and I will add some soda to it,
but you have only one drink, OK?”
“Alright,” I sighed, “only one drink.”
It felt like razor blades coursing its toxic way down my throat. I tried in vain to suppress a
cough and hacked uncontrollably. A few of the locals heard me and smiled; they had seen
this all too often. I offered the glass to Herman who sniffed it and wrinkled up his nose in
disgust. “God, I couldn't drink that if you paid me!”
“Let me smell,” said the girl. “Oh yuck, that is disgusting; how can you drink that?”
“Watch,” I replied, and tossed the rest down dramatically. I offered the empty glass to the
barman, “I hardly tasted that, how about one more?”
I was surprised at the little resistance the barman put up this time, and my glass was soon
charged with some more scorpion poison. Sipping the noxious drink, I began relaxing and
started smiling a lot more, joking with my two friends and the locals around me. We heard
the sweet sounds of Latin music wafting in from the adjoining room and wandered off to
investigate the discotheque. One of the sailors from another boat dragged Paula onto the
dance floor where they danced energetically.
Soon, a lovely local girl came smiling up to Herman, and she too grabbed him by the arm
and dragged him self-consciously to the dance floor. I retreated to the safety of the bar and
resumed my “tasting” of the scorpion poison.
After I had downed another scorpion sting or “Pitoor” as the locals called it, I clumsily slid
off my stool and lurched towards the general sound of the music from the discotheque. The
locals sitting at the bar nudged one another with smirks. I noticed with alarm that I had
to walk leaning up against the wall in the passageway in order to remain upright. When I
finally got to the dance floor, I was met with a sea of whirling, tanned, young dancers all
gyrating about totally gripped in the thick passion of the earsplitting music, and all were
wearing “happy masks.”
