T A B L E_T A L K Going to London? Find out what you should and shouldn't see in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk ___________________ Cruise the Amazon in your mind with a little help from BarnesandNoble.com ___________________   R E C E N T L Y Ryoanji reflections By Don George At a Kyoto temple, a simple plot of sand, rocks and moss makes visitors stop -- and see (12/14/98) Dirty laundry By Tanya Shaffer A simple request forces a Western woman to face her prejudices (12/11/98) The Virgin king By Don George An interview with Virgin Group founder Richard Branson, one of the most remarkable -- and successful -- mavericks in the history of business (12/10/98) Miming Mexico By Diane Weipert A street artist unmasks the hard realities of daily life in Guanajuato (12/09/98) The cruise cocoon By Zachary Karabell A guest lecturer on a luxury Aegean voyage asks: Is this any way to see the world? (12/08/98)   Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives     Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		THE YUCKIEST FOOD IN THE AMAZON | PAGE 1, 2, 3 - - - - - - - - - - He got the ankle. The thing about ankle bones, as schoolchildren everywhere know, is that they're attached to foot bones. And foot bones are attached to toe bones and toenails and those filthy little rubbery pads on the bottom of the foot. No matter how good a meat may taste, the experience is indelibly marred by the act of spitting ghastly unchewables out into your fingers. Patton is undaunted. He has the entire thing in his mouth. He stops sucking and gumming long enough to say: "The foot pads are a good source of fat." He is enjoying his rodent soup in the way that only a man who has been served steamed tapir fetus and live palm beetles can. A hail of tiny foot bones accumulates on the ground beside him. The knee awaits. I've finished my broth. To stall any longer would betray my revulsion. I manage to locate a couple of pockets of reasonably normal-looking flesh. My inclination is to chew these slowly, forever if need be, until my hosts tire of sitting here and go off to tend the manioc garden. The problem with this tactic is that boiled rodent flesh isn't the sort of thing you want to have hanging around your tongue for any longer than is strictly necessary for purposes of not choking to death. It's not really that bad, it's just strong. As in overpowering, as in taste buds passing out and waving white flags. It doesn't, in short, taste anything like chicken. I find myself chewing with my mouth open, hoping my hosts will take this for an endearing cultural peculiarity, rather than an attempt to bypass the tasting portion of my meal. I beg Patton to take my meat. (Our hosts speak no English.) Kind soul that he is, he relieves me of the knee. The man of the house makes a comment, which Patton translates: "She doesn't like to eat?" He has seen Westerners who don't have any children, who don't know how to shoot a rifle. Perhaps there are Westerners who don't like eating. "She had a big breakfast," fibs Patton. It was in fact a big breakfast, but I didn't do very much having. Someone shot an alligator, and I had some leg. (It's a leg sort of day.) I have eaten alligator meat before, in Florida, but someone, bless him, had taken it upon himself to remove the scales before cooking it. (See "ghastly unchewables," above.) I tried to pretend that the leg was something else, something bland and comforting. After several false starts -- Melba toast? lettuce? -- my brain, clearly shaken, presented me with "orange roughy." Patton maintains that the bulk of an Achuar's daily calories do not come from meat. They come from chicha, a mildly alcoholic, vaguely nutritious, watered-down manioc mash. Achuar men drink up to four gallons a day. If you like chicha, you can live well in Conambo. In about an hour, I will get to try it. Patton's friend Isaac is hosting a minga, a work party for the villagers who helped Isaac's family dig a new manioc plot. It's similar in concept to the Amish barn-raising, with marathon chicha-drinking taking the place of square-dancing. I am of two minds about chicha. On the one hand, it's a beverage. In the land of scary food, the beverage is your friend. It's the Tecate that washes down the menudo, the swig of sake that makes the giant clam neck tolerable. On the other hand. We are talking about a beverage fermented with human saliva. Achuar women chew boiled manioc into the desired mashed-potato texture, and then spit-spray the contents of their bulging cheeks out into the chicha urn. While I know that, percentage-wise, we're talking a tiny fraction of the mixture, I'm having difficulty embracing the idea. I have a little agreement with myself: When spittle finds its way onto the ingredient list, I find a way to say no. "You can't say no," says Patton, tossing ankle carcass to a cringing, harelipped dog. "It's just not done." N E X T+P A G E | Chicha is served, and something awful happens - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Become a Salon member. Click here.