SITIN SAM'S SPICE

Pulque – Epi. 52

Podcast

Podcast Summary:

This podcast blends tales (today about Pulque), fiction, and real-world exploration. Here’s the rundown:

Epic Rippers: Stories that f*&k. Raw, adventure travel stories. These non-fiction audio journals offer life lessons and stirring thoughts.

Sips and Shorts: Stories and interviews about drinks from around the world that have shaped culture and society.

The Library: Dive into “The Coin Chronicles,” an exclusive fantasy audiobook series. Each episode reveals a chapter of this epic saga of Gods, humans, and the coin that rules them.

Episode 49 Notes: Pulque

In a blood-drenched jungle, a priest’s faltering blade sends a bad omen into the world and seals his people’s fate. A mysterious virus ravages the land as silver-clad invaders crave gold and Maya, the goddess of Pulque. Pulque is one of the first types of Tequila. Maya’s intoxicating essence seduces priests and conquerors alike. But she has other plans beyond seduction. As empires crumble and fevers burn, Maya reveals herself – a love’s betrayal repaid in sores, death, and a divine reckoning. paired a drink (Kava root) with an anxiety inducing sport (bungee jumping.) Both would go on to become popular in the rest of the world. Kava root would ease the minds of the constantly anxious. Bungee Jumping would let daredevils get the rush they needed.

Transcript of Podcast:

*Note – This is the full episode and containers spoilers. You can always listen to the podcast above.

Pulque – The First Tequila

The first slice across his neck didn’t kill the boy. The child gagged and choked on his own blood, the blood turning pink and foamy where the deep gash was. His eyes widened in terror, and he didn’t understand the searing pain in his throat. He looked at the priest, choking, his eyes begging for help.

The priest looked down at the boy, seeing the fear. The knife swipe had opened the child’s throat. The high priest wanted to look away, repulsed by the loose skin vibrating with each shocked breath. The priest’s and the boy’s senses were dull. That was the only good thing. Hopefully, he didn’t feel much pain. The priest plunged his knife into the sacrifice’s heart. With a final twitch, the boy stopped moving. He prayed to the woman he loved, Maya, that the boy did not feel pain, despite his foolish mistake. He smelled her sweetness on the wind and hoped that everything would be okay.

Blood drained down the altar. It dripped into the trench, which wound around the pyramid and then into the heart of it. He rose and prayed. Those below chanted in response. It was a hot day, and the boy’s blood stuck to his hand and the hilt of the blade. He tried not to think about it.

The sacrifice was an omen. They were deciding what to do about the invaders. Should they befriend them or fight? Atl wanted to fight. He beat his chest. The rocks and shells around his neck rattled as he watched the sacrifice bleed out on the altar above him. The way the blood pooled would determine what they’d do. The gods would send a message. 

The high priest stood and spoke to Atl and the rest of those gathered. They would befriend the new people who wore silver on their bodies. They would load up treasure chests with gold and greet their guests as friends. 

The other priests stood at the altar off to the side, behind the high priest. They saw his mistake. The ambitious would use his flaw as leverage. He could almost see the end. The gods would punish him. They were ruthless. They were also loving. 

But none loved the way Maya loved. He thought of Maya everywhere he went. She surrounded him. It was an unhealthy love for a priest. It was his secret. In the hot jungle, when the air clung thick and wet to his skin, he dreamed of being in Maya’s arms. So he went to her and lay with her. He told her his secrets and whispered his heart into her ear. She listened and held him, taking away worry and pain. 

Maya did this for many men. She did this for Atl, even though he was in love with someone else. Maya did this for Pedro too. Maya greeted them with open arms and wrapped her lovers up in delicate hands and a sweet, mind buzzing embrace. 

Maya took them all. Each one of them. From the high priests to the Spaniards. She spread her love because long ago love had betrayed her. Love shattered her into hundreds of tiny pieces. The bits of her could never go together again. They were scattered throughout the jungle. Part of her was near the temple. Part of her was in the gardens in the village. Part of her was in wild, remote regions that no one would ever explore. She was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. 

She’d lost herself to love, which is why she gave it up so freely. It meant nothing to her anymore. Yet, love meant everything to them. So, she wielded it like a weapon. 

Pedro lusted after her with such intensity that he couldn’t concentrate today. He could taste her on his lips, that sweet, mind numbing Maya. Their commander was talking about meeting the locals. He was distracted by the buzzing flies sticking to his sweating skin. It was irritating, and he yearned for Maya’s touch to help him forget. Pedro came a long way to be here. He left the place he was born, a little city on a hill. His house was sunbaked and small. He lived there with his parents and three siblings. Waking up brought freedom from that cramped space.

In the morning, he could look over the fortified walls and see the river far below. Mist rose from it. The stony landscape rolled for miles around him. Wool and leather traders pulled rickety wooden carts into the city. They brought news of the region. They spoke of wealthy cities where even the poor wore colorful, soft clothes. People did not herd their pigs through the muddy dirt streets, like they did here. 

People lived in the shadows of cathedrals. Philosophers strolled the streets in front of the university, wearing open-toed leather sandals. They spoke of problems that only the wealthy could afford to think about. Such things as finding purpose in life. Making meaning. God and the role of some in society. In a city like that, it was easy to forget how the rest of the world lived, and that what was uncommon for them wasn’t the standard for all.

They extrapolated their lives as ideals for all to live by. They thought they were the apex predators of society. But having money doesn’t make your ideals better. Wealth made their hands and minds as soft as the dates they bought from Persian traders.

The Aztecs and Spaniards Meet

Well, today Pedro would get to know what it was like to be a trader. He was handpicked to meet an approaching convoy of locals. Pedro and the others walked up the beach from their boats. They left behind the tents they had pitched on the sand and met the locals at the edge of the jungle. 

They were half naked and wore necklaces of rocks and shells. They spoke in a language Pedro did not understand. Mules pulled a large cart laden down with chests. Inside the chests was gold.

Alt didn’t like the arrivals. They had large, pointed things at their waists, and the silver they wore looked to be armor. The group gathered in front of them now did not wear helmets. They were here to say hello. When they brought out the gold, he saw the lust in their eyes. It was the same lust that appeared when they passed around Maya.

Alt didn’t like one of the arrivals in particular. He had an arrogant look about him, and he was always lusting after Maya. Alt shoved him in anger, and the man they called Pedro drew that piece of thin metal at his side and cut Alt’s arm. 

It bled fast and clean and terrified Alt. These visitors had weapons made of things that they could not fight against. The boy Pedro was sent away for his actions. He looked over his shoulder at Alt when he left, rage burning in his eyes. They both wanted Maya. Only one could have her. 

Maya reveled in the fight. She wanted them stupid and hurting each other for her sake. It brought her peace. It completed her. They had stood by when her mother mutilated her. They left the 400 bits of her where they lay, and it was her lover who gave her a second life. Had it not been for him, she never would have spread across the jungle floor. These people, the visitors and her people, would pay. 

It was a week later before Alt had a fever, and by that point, he couldn’t remember who had gotten sick first. The fever turned into chills, despite the jungle heat. They brought such intense aches that he couldn’t get out of bed. 

He went to the high priest, who looked on through dazed eyes, confused with what he saw. He threw prayers into the wind. Alt saw brown clay bottles in the priest’s pack and thought of Maya’s dark skin. It felt like only she could save him. He yearned for her.

The high priest was yearning too. Had he misread the omen? Would he need to make another sacrifice and see what the gods said? For the first time in a long time, the high priest didn’t know what to do. All he wanted was Maya. When times were bad she was there, his lips and her skin meeting. He needed that now more than ever.  

After Alt’s fever came little red dots that swelled, filling with fluid. The pustules covered his body. They itched in an agonizing way. Others got the mysterious disease. By the time Alt’s pustules popped, his entire family had it. He vowed to survive, despite the discomfort. His love for Maya kept him going. 

The city filled with the sick and dying, and Pedro didn’t want to get close. Smallpox had overwhelmed them. But they were laying siege to the city in search of more gold. All Pedro wanted during this time was Maya. It was the only thing that made life here tolerable. The city was a cesspool. People died faster than they could bury them. Their infected corpses clogged waterways and drainage systems. The visitors had brought an unknown enemy with them and benefited. 

The high priest prayed for the sick and dying but it seemed to do know good. Whatever decimated them came from the gods as a curse. Had he loved Maya too much? Had he brought this on his people by failing to kill the boy with the first strike? It didn’t matter anymore. People were dying and the only one he could rely on through the horrid visions of puss popping pustules and throats seizing shut with infections, was Maya. 

The Spaniards Conquer The Aztecs

Pedro finally marched into the city months later with the rest of the Spanish army. They lusted after gold. They dreamed of a life much different from the poor Spanish city on the hill they had come from. The killing was easy. Those the disease didn’t claim were demoralized. Pedro had permission to kill or enslave all. He enslaved many. He decided to kill the boy who had fought him at the first meeting. The one they called Alt. They let the priests live. 

The high priest should have known that failing to kill the boy with his first strike was a bad omen. But his love for Maya clouded his judgment. When the Spaniards came in heavy silver armor, carrying sharp metal swords and slicing people apart with them, he thought of Maya. He prayed to Maya to spare him. The Spaniards spared him. Maya did not.  

Maya, the unfortunate goddess who faced the wrath of her lover. She fell in love with someone her mother did not approve of. After pursuing the love in secret, her mother punished her by butchering her into 400 pieces. Distraught by her death, the lover spread her remains through the jungle so she could live again. 

Maya did live again. She lived through a plant that the Aztecs lusted after. The maguey plant took 12 years to mature. When it reached that point, the Aztecs would cut it open and bleed the heart of 600 liters of sap. 

Not only had humans failed to hide her when she chased after true love, but they stood by during her murder. Now they cut her heart open and bled her of her essence. But their mistake was thinking she gave the sap of her heart as a gift. They thought this liquid was gold. It fueled their priests. It built their cities and spread through all during ceremonies. 

In reality, Maya gave the sap as a trap, and she had almost won. 

The sap, once harvested, is fermented in vats for 7 to 14 days. It reaches an ABV of 2% to 7%. This mild intoxicant became an addiction for the Aztecs and strict rules cropped up to protect the drink and ensure an ample supply fell into the right hands. Hands like the high priest. Hands like their concubines and royalty. And hands like the hands of the Spaniards when given to them as a gift upon their arrival in this new, strange land. 

What is Pulque?

The drink was called pulque and it tasted sweet on all the men’s lips. Many think the Spaniards came for gold, but there was another form of gold they sought. It was liquid gold. Pulque. And who is alive to say the addiction of Maya didn’t drive men to fight and kill for her? 

After the decimation of Tenochtitlan, in search of this gold, they built bars, pulquerias throughout South America. After the conquest of his city, the high priest spent his days here, consuming Maya, consuming Pulque until it killed him. The Spanish saw that this liquid gold could make them lots of money. They saw the appeal. They saw how addicting it was.

But Maya was a cruel goddess. She wanted the Aztecs to pay. She wanted to wipe them from the planet for failing to defend the greatest thing in the world—love. In her mind, creatures incapable of protecting the best within humans didn’t deserve to live. Her gift of pulque was bound to that region only. 

The sap ferments and spoils fast. It doesn’t last more than a few days. Transporting it to other parts of the world is impossible. It was a drink made by an angry goddess to enact revenge on people who gave up on love.

So, after her excruciating death at the hands of her mother, for giving in to the signs of her heart, Maya took her anger out on humans. She turned them against each other. She made them kill for her. She converted them into drunks, all while pretending to be a gift. 

And isn’t that the way of things? Some of the worst curses come wrapped as beautiful gifts. 

Pulquerias eventually fell out of favor. They were associated with drunkenness and criminality. The drink died with the Aztecs, replaced by a stronger, more shelf stable drink that didn’t ferment as fast. 

Maya finally got her rest. Until today, anyway. Where those interested in the 2,000 year old drink make pulque in small batches. These are boutique operations. But, who knows, perhaps if the world turns far enough away from love once more, Maya will return.

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Champagne – Epi. 55

Podcast

Podcast Summary:

Drink Me A Story blends tales (today about Champagne), fiction, and real-world exploration. Here’s the rundown:

Epic Rippers: Stories that f*&k. Raw, adventure travel stories. These non-fiction audio journals offer life lessons and stirring thoughts.

Sips and Shorts: Stories and interviews about drinks from around the world that have shaped culture and society.

The Library: Dive into “The Coin Chronicles,” an exclusive fantasy audiobook series. Each episode reveals a chapter of this epic saga of Gods, humans, and the coin that rules them.

Episode 55 Notes: Champagne

In 1910 Paris, the Palais Garnier hosts Le Vin Eternal, an opera honoring a divisive drink, Champagne. Masked composer Lucien Duval, scarred by betrayal, seeks revenge on the elite—like railway heir Raoul—who profit from fake apple champagne, ruining growers like Celeste Montague’s family. As Celeste shines onstage, Lucien’s red-masked “Phantom” drink spreads among the crowd. Chandeliers crash, fires erupt, and his rebellion, tied to the Champagne Riots, ignites. Celeste, caught between Raoul and Lucien, flees as the Garnier burns. Lucien escapes, leaving Raoul a menacing warning. Wine fuels a revolution, and Celeste must pick her next note.

Summary of Podcast:

*Note – This is a summary of the full episode and containers spoilers. You can always listen to the podcast above.

Introduction: A Gilded Stage, a Fiery Rebellion

In February 1910, Paris shimmered under a frosty glow, its Palais Garnier aglow with gaslight and decadence. The opera house, with its gilded columns and ornate chandeliers dripping like golden strands, hosted the premiere of Le Vin Eternal—a tribute to Champagne, France’s iconic drink that both defined and divided a nation. But beneath the opulence, a rebellion brewed, tied to the 1910 Champagne Riots, where vintners clashed with wine houses over “Phantom Champagne”—a cheap apple-based impostor passed off as the real thing. Enter Lucien Duval, a masked composer turned avenger, whose vengeance fermented into a plan that would either redeem France or burn it to the ground.

The Spark of Rebellion: Champagne’s Dark Secret

Lucien Duval watched from the shadows of the Palais Garnier, his face half-hidden by a white mask painted with curling grapevines—a gift from Celeste Montague, the opera’s star. The elites sipped Champagne from crystal glasses, unaware that Lucien’s drink, labeled with a red mask, was a snub to their greed. Ninety miles east in Ay, vineyards burned as growers rioted against wine houses peddling inferior “Phantom Champagne.” These impostors, made from apples, not grapes, drove prices down, bankrupting honest vintners like Lucien’s family.

A year prior, Lucien uncovered the betrayal: his brother sold apples to railway baron Raoul’s family, who flooded the market with fake Champagne. When Lucien confronted him, his brother attacked, leaving Lucien’s face scarred in a fiery blaze that consumed their vineyard. Now, in 1910, Lucien vowed vengeance, using the Palais Garnier as his stage to expose the corruption tainting Champagne’s legacy.

Celeste Montague: A Star Caught in the Crossfire

Below the opera’s gilded ceiling, Celeste prepared for her debut as lead alto in Le Vin Eternal. In her dressing room, surrounded by makeup artists and swirling dress crews, she gasped at a bouquet of two dozen roses from Raoul, the dashing railway heir in a velvet box seat. But her heart sank with worry—her family’s vineyard in Ay hadn’t responded in a month. Were they caught in the riots? Had their home burned?

Celeste’s performance was a tribute to their struggle, a statement against wine houses squeezing vintners dry with fake Champagne. Yet, as she took the stage, her voice soaring like silk, she felt Lucien’s absence in the music pit. She didn’t know he was orchestrating a darker plan, one where her aria would become the backdrop for chaos.

The Phantom’s Plan: Champagne as a Weapon

Lucien, the “Phantom of Champagne,” had spent months smuggling barrels, copper stills, and beakers into the Palais Garnier’s labyrinthine cellars. His “Phantom Champagne,” a fermented apple brew, was a mockery of the elites’ greed, distributed in bottles stamped with a red mask. As Celeste’s final aria reached its crescendo, the audience sipped unknowingly, entranced by her voice.

Below, Lucien moved through the dark cellars, his mask catching torchlight. He sabotaged Raoul’s carriage, knocking out the driver, and rigged the opera house’s chandeliers. At the act’s close, the chandeliers crashed, shattering bottles of his apple brew. The sweet scent filled the air as fires erupted, sparked by open flames. Screams echoed through the Palais Garnier as the crowd stampeded, their opulence shattered by Lucien’s vengeance.

A Reckoning in the Frosty Night

Celeste, horrified, realized Lucien had used her performance as a weapon. Raoul pulled her from the chaos, his firm grip guiding her to his carriage. As they sped through Paris’ frostbitten streets, the Palais Garnier burned behind them, a blackened symbol of rebellion. But the carriage raced on, ignoring Raoul’s demands to stop. When it finally halted, Raoul found the driver’s seat empty—save for a bottle of “Phantom Champagne,” a knife driven through it, a grisly warning.

Lucien watched from afar, adjusting his mask. He’d return to Paris’ underbelly, his revolution just beginning. The 1910 Champagne Riots had found their phantom—a vintner turned avenger, using Champagne to expose corruption. Celeste, torn between Raoul’s world and Lucien’s fight, faced a choice: join the rebellion or flee its flames.

The Legacy of Champagne and the 1910 Riots

The 1910 Champagne Riots marked a turning point for Champagne’s legacy. Vintners’ fury over fake “Phantom Champagne” led to stricter laws, ensuring only grape-based drinks from the Champagne region earned the name. Today, Champagne remains a symbol of luxury, but its history whispers of rebellion. Want to explore more sparkling wine tales? Check out our History of Prosecco (link-to-internal-post) for another fizzy journey!

In 2025, as Champagne sales soar, Lucien’s story reminds us: even the finest drinks carry the weight of struggle.

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Kava and Bungee Jumping – Epi. 49

Podcast

Podcast Summary:

This podcast blends tales (today about Kava Root and Bungee Jumping), fiction, and real-world exploration. Here’s the rundown:

Epic Rippers: Stories that f*&k. Raw, adventure travel stories. These non-fiction audio journals offer life lessons and stirring thoughts.

Sips and Shorts: Stories and interviews about drinks from around the world that have shaped culture and society.

The Library: Dive into “The Coin Chronicles,” an exclusive fantasy audiobook series. Each episode reveals a chapter of this epic saga of Gods, humans, and the coin that rules them.

Episode 49 Notes: The Drug Fueled History of Bungee Jumping

A small island tribe paired a drink (Kava root) with an anxiety inducing sport (bungee jumping.) Both would go on to become popular in the rest of the world. Kava root would ease the minds of the constantly anxious. Bungee Jumping would let daredevils get the rush they needed.

Transcript of Podcast:

*Note – This is the full episode and containers spoilers. You can always listen to the podcast above.

The Start of Bungee Jumping

Although Tangor had earned this view, he couldn’t stop thinking about death. The consequences of his actions terrified him. He wasn’t wrong to be afraid. The breeze was warm and pushed through the palm trees, rustling the fronds. He watched them dance. The ocean stretched, fat and glistening, beyond the trees.

The sandy beach was an hour walk, but still visible with the clear day. People gathered below him. He recognized many of their faces. Most wore traditional dress for this day. Dried palm leaves stitched together in skirts. Nothing more. Bright red flowers adorned their necks.

The woman who taught him to speak was down there. His father. His mother and siblings. The kids too, which were not yet old enough to risk their lives. But, their day would come soon enough.

Now, standing on top of the platform, looking at the hard, sun baked ground below, he wished his day hadn’t come. The blessings before hand had calmed his nerves. Still, He yearned to chew some of the bitter root and gulp down that special drink to banish his nerves all together. The threat of death was real. Many had died over the years. He saw boys jump to their deaths.

But, the passage to adulthood is one best done with a clear head. There are many mind agents one can use to cope with stressful situations. Things to help you relax. Things to help you forget. Even things to give you courage. But, it wouldn’t be right to make the jump relying on any one or any thing but himself.

As if echoing this sentiment, the thick vines tied to his ankles itched. The platform wasn’t much of a platform at all. It was a few tree branches extending from the tower and lashed together by vines.

He’d selected the vines on his ankles. He would live or die by his choice. The ground would crush him or kiss him. He still didn’t know. But, he didn’t have a choice. He had to jump. 

His other fear was not clearing the platform. He needed speed to carry him away from the tower so he didn’t swing into it and impale himself on the tree branches. Tangor inhaled deep, trying to steady his nerves, knowing his life hung in the balance. Tangor ran. Tangor jumped. Tangor left the safety of the platform and dropped to his fate below.

Before his jump, Tangor had months of preparation. This rite of passage started the same way for all boys his age. He was one of four that would make the jump to either a new life or death.

He knew from the early days one boulder would not be enough to save him and the others. The experts confirmed this. The spot they’d selected was a clearing on the side of a hill. Finding a flat spot was hard. This land was mountainous. Rocks pushed up in many areas. In other areas the vegetation grew so thick that the mounds of hills were soft, fuzzy bumps on the landscape.

Beyond this clearing arching palm trees covered the land for as far as he could see. Different types of trees grew amongst them too. They’d used those woods to build the tower.

Other islands had volcanoes, but not this island. If there were volcanoes here they were long ago dormant, replaced by rolling, silent hills. But, like the volcano islands, the land was lush. The ground fertile and capable of harvesting the plant they traded worldwide.

On this island, the plant is ceremonial. It has been for over three thousand years. But, in other parts of the world, they consume this plant for its calming properties. It’s an anxiety reducer. It’s also an alternative to alcohol. For a blip of land stretching less than 40 miles from North to South, it has a massive impact on the world. In more ways than its drink too.

This island was a good spot to find boulders, like the one they’d found. A good boulder, although not necessary, could provide security for what they had to do. It was something to build your tower against. When you build into the air you need materials capable of bending but not snapping under force. You also need a strong base. A firm spot to secure your tower to the ground.

So, despite the boulder, digging still needed to happen.

Tangor scooped out the Earth. It smelled salty from the ocean and sweet from decayed tropical plants. This island is also a place of growth or death by tradition.

Tangor had a reputation to uphold. The others too. There were four of them partaking in this ritual. But, Tangor felt more pressure than most. The people of his tribe, the Tabi people, still talked about his father. In the 1950’s David Attenborough started a chain reaction of events that ended in a visit from Pope John Paul II. Then Queen Elizabeth II. It was the Queen’s visit which created excitement through the tribe. Because Tangor’s father had escaped death by inches, much to the delight of the Queen.

Tangor ‘s people didn’t value such things as fame. But, it didn’t stop his father’s shadow from growing. After all, this yearly ritual was a big deal. One of the biggest. An old tradition during harvest season. And on an island this small, inhabited by less than 17,000 people, word traveled. Tangor had to prove he could do what his father had done. Tangor was also out to prove he was a man, not a boy anymore.

So, Tangor dug until he dripped sweat into the dirt he shoveled out of the hole. Then him and the boys planted two vertical poles into the ground under the watchful eyes of the experts. The poles were twenty foot long. They were Banyan tree trunks. It was a large tree and a strong tree. It took all the boys to plant the two trees into the ground.

One they leaned up against the boulder and buried it. They lashed the tree to the boulder using thick vines. The second tree got planted into the ground six feet away. They secured this one too with vines. They tied the vines to nearby trees and pulled them in opposite directions to balance the load.

Tangor knew this day was coming for a long time. It was a day he looked to with dread and excitement. A day of change. Under the guidance of experts in town, he and the others gathered supplies for months. Most of what they needed was near the boulder.

While his father had done 70 feet, he wanted to jump from 90 feet. He’d talked the others into it, even though they looked scared. He could see fear on their faces. He knew the words their hearts spoke. But, he also knew that part of why they were here was defying those feelings. Having the courage to do things you’re afraid of, but know you must do, turns boys into men.

Tangor sought to escape the shadow of his father and transform himself. This was the only way he could enter manhood feeling like a man. His dad understood this and didn’t object. Nor did the experts in town, despite their concerned gazes, who went to work helping him plan. Soon Tangor would defy death or meet it.

On the day of choosing, if he didn’t select the right vine, the final vine, he would fail. At 90 feet, coming in head first, he hoped he would die if things went wrong. Over the years, he’d seen some who lived, their bodies mangled for life. The terrifying, crumpling of bones on the ground still haunted him. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to live a cripple. A stunted man. No, Tangor had already told himself he would either die or live a full life. There wasn’t a half measure.

So, with the help of the experts, him and the others found the vines they needed for the structure. Although the final selection of vines would take place a few days before the ritual, they needed vines for the tower right now. They needed to hold the creation in place. Because 90 feet is a long way up.

The wind would buck him around. His own exertion would also cause the structure to move. The vines would help the tower from collapsing with him on it. The last thing he wanted was to plummet to his death before he even reached the top. The best chance he had at surviving was the jump. And it was a jump he could make only if he stood at the top on the platform.

Tangor and the others collected all types of wood. The island has a diverse climate and more than palm trees grow here. Ironwood’s uncommon strength makes it valuable for the platform. They weren’t there yet. That would be at the top.

So, they were using Ironwood now to fill in the space between the two long poles they’d planted. They lashed together branches and bits of wood. Then added a cross piece of Tamanu wood. The cross pieces would form rungs they could climb. They didn’t bother cutting them to size. They followed the old traditions. The Tamanu wood extended beyond the structure and made the tower look like a bristle brush.

Then more branches, cleared of leaves and weak spurs, filled in the space between the poles. The structure took shape. The structure grew. The structure would mean life or death for these boys. For that reason they took their time building, making sure to do it right.

As they built, the rest of the tribe continued on with daily life in the shadow of the growing creation. They worked the fields, for it was harvest time soon. The yams were almost ready. They gathered roots too from that medicinal plant that they exported to the world. They watched the tower grow, marveling at its height and guessing with one another how tall it would get.

When they finished the tower was so thick from the vine lashings and sturdy branches stuffed into the structure that you couldn’t see through it. It was a solid tangle of branches. A wooden platform was at the top. Off of the platform were arms angled downward. These are what the divers would walk out on. These would be the last steps of safety before the ultimate plunge.

Finally, the day of the choosing came. The selection of Liana Vines from the forest. The Liana Vine is a thick, flexible vine. These vines take to the air, climbing up trees and twisting around each other. They form a tangled network of thick vines. Some even grow up to 300 feet long. It’s what Tarzan swung around on in the movies. And because of their thickness and strength, you could do it.

Each diver had their own vine, since the length was dependent on the diver’s height and weight. Tangor and the others stripped the bark from the vine as a way to improve elasticity. Beneath the bark the vine skin was white and slimy. That dried out by the next day though, when the experts came around to inspect their equipment and tower.

Final adjustments got completed and the tower, and divers, were ready. Tangor slept restless, tossing and turning and listening to the insects chirp. He crawled out of bed in the morning, tired and his nerves a coil of steel. The men met him at the tower. Some of the boys in town too. They blessed the tower. They blessed the boys. They chewed on roots, using their saliva to activate the ingredients. Then mixed the gnawed roots with water. They offered more blessings to the spirits and drank.

The diving boys did not drink. The diving boys could not drink. This drink was too potent, too deadening, and they needed all their wits about them if they were going to survive. This was a rite of passage earned by mustering your own courage, not sapping the courage from a plant.

So, Tangor climbed as the tribe watched and the drums beat. He heard the cheers but they were soon lost to his focus. Over his left shoulder he carried the thick vine he would live or die by. His heart pounded in his chest and sweat made his hands slick. He feared slipping and falling to his death.

But, he made it to the platform. He was there alone. He had no one to help. He secured the vine to his feet, hoping the knot he tied would hold. Then he stepped off of the platform and onto the arm. The arm was sloping downward, giving him a chance to gather momentum before his dive. He started to run.  The sides of the tower fell away and the end of the tree branch was in sight.

One more step and he was at the end. He leapt as far out as he could, hoping he’d given himself enough space. Then he dropped head first. The ground rushing at him and the world around him a blur. Closer, and closer the ground came. He wanted to scream in fear. But, he watched in horror instead, hoping the vine would hold. Hoping the vine was the right length.

He was almost there. 

Then…he lurched. His body jolted. He flew backward, returning into the sky. The spirits had protected him. His heart burst with joy and all his tension released as the up and down bouncing slowed to a stop.

Others were grabbing him then and cheering. He felt their hot hands on his skin as they lifted him and undid the vine at his ankles. They hoisted him into the air and chanted. He’d done it. He’d made the leap. He climbed as a boy and rose as a man. He saw his dad smiling. His mom too. He’d done them proud.

Just like so many prior generations of boys from the Island of Pentecost, one island in a smattering of 83 islands that make up the sovereign nation of Vanuatu.

Pentecost is a small but mighty nation. It’s the primary producer of the Kava root, a plant that is harvested and turned into a tea. For over 3,000 years the plant has been drank for ceremonies, negotiations, and meetings. It’s also drank for its calming effects and ability to help with stress, anxiety, and insomnia. In the US, Kava bars have even popped up as alcohol free alternatives.

But, besides the Kava root, Pentecost is known for an annual harvest and rite of passage ceremony for young boys called “Nanghol.” (Na-gol) Or land diving. It is the original form of bungee jumping and where the extreme sport started. Only they didn’t use fancy ropes and safety harnesses. They used vines they found in the jungle and a tower, built from sticks, reaching 70 to a 100 feet in the air.

This ceremony brought BBC and David Attenborough here in the 1950’s to document the experience. Which then brought the Pope and the Queen of England to also witness the brave ceremony.

Kava root for anxiety paired with an anxiety inducing right of passage for boys…now those two things sound like they go hand in hand.