It's not everyday you
stumble across an illegal distillery. Rarer still to be given a tour
and a tasting.
I was in the remote
sub-Tropical region close to Facunda Vela. A man had fallen from a
horse and we went to offer assistance. He had cracked his spine, but
was going to recover if he laid still in bed for a few months (which he was never going to do). But my thoughts soon turned elsewhere; something was tickling my nostrils – the
unmistakable smell of alcohol.
We had unwittingly arrived at an
illegal sugar cane spirit distillery. The super-strength liquor is
known as trago; the same poison I'd been force-fed at La Fiesta de laVirgen de Merced.
We were deep in the jungle. There were no roads (only rocky tracks), no electricity, no shops, no running water. This was the heart of darkness.
So I started sniffing around
the distillery fully expecting to hear a "nada que ver aqui, rayo de sol." But no, bizarrely, the owner happily
gave us a tour of operations. He even demonstrated the dark art of
trago making.
First up the raw sugar
cane is sliced in half down the middle. It was fed into a very
agricultural looking press, powered by an old generator and saggy
belt-drive. I was amazed at how much juice this sticky plant
contained, it poured out and we had soon filled a bucket.
The raw sugar cane
juice is an unappetising grey/brown colour. I was given a mug to
drink. Tasting notes, it was very sweet, but muddy and unpleasant with a faint note of red diesel.
The next part of the
process was no less appealing. Fermentation took place in a large pig trough. The flies were thick in the air and the sugar cane bubbled
and popped volcanically. The entire mixture looked just like raw
sewage. Oranges floated in the mix; although I'm not sure how they were supposed to impart any flavour.
Next I was shown the
distillation machine. This looked even more agricultural than the
press. They weren't distilling any trago that day so I didn't get to
see it working.
With the tour over it
was time to taste the trago. I was poured a very generous measure
into a filthy cup. Thoughts of blindness and liver failure briefly
crossed my mind but only fleetingly, it was too good an opportunity
to pass up. I knocked back what must have been a quadruple measure by
British standards (or what my Welsh friend Alex used to call 'quads' (but then he also pronounced toast as tost so I'm not sure what to believe anymore.))
The experience of neat
trago goes something like this. First the tongue burns, then the
throat burns, then the esophagus burns, then the stomach burns... and the stomach
doesn't stop burning for at least two hours. The warmth of the spirit
radiates like a coal furnace in the gut. Within minutes of quaffing
the fire juice your heart is pounding and your head becomes
pleasantly light. All of a sudden strange things start to make sense, like taking all your clothes off and chasing the wooly monkeys through the jungle with a sharpened stick.
Once I'd been found in the jungle and reunited with my clothes it was time for the final part of the production. The finished product is
stored in large plastic barrels and sold to the nearby communities
for one dollar a litre. It hardly seems possible alcohol this
powerful can be sold so cheaply. The Indian community loves to
celebrate with trago and it is seldom drunk responsibly. The culture is
to drink until you pass out. Driving through the paramo (the Andean dessert above 3,400 metres) I've seen borrachos passed out by the roadside with their dogs waiting patiently beside them.
The Indian way to drink
is very communal. I know because I had first hand experience in a monster session lasting from 9pm until 4:30am. The Indians drink from a single cup which is constantly
refilled and passed around a circle. The person being offered the
trago can refuse it and hand it back to the server who must down the
glass. Of course, revenge is swift and the trickster can expect a
double-measure in return.
Back at the distillery and a donkey was being
loaded with two large plastic barrels filled to the brim with trago.
My host was about to do the rounds like a twisted milkman. The donkey didn't look very
happy, but then I suppose they never do.
I was feeling a bit light-headed and had a cramped, bumpy truck ride to the nearest village to contend with.
I was feeling a bit light-headed and had a cramped, bumpy truck ride to the nearest village to contend with.
Oh, and in case you're wondering, I can still see and I've not turned yellow.
Hi Tom,
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