In about '63, I was setting up a health post for the people in the small
village of Santa Rosa de Lima in the boondocks of Minas. One night in the
"bar" lighted only by alcohol lamps since the town had no electricity, I was
challenged to drink cachaça by a local man about my age. He wanted to find
out if a North American could handle a "real" drink.
I'm not into
drinking, but since I could tell this guy was well into the stuff already, I
accepted the challenge. It was local made cachaça and went down smooth and
tasty. Suddenly I became aware that the other patrons were watching us and
perhaps taking bets on which one would surrender first.
Looking down
at my third or fourth glass only, I realized I'd better do something quick
before I made a real fool of myself. I looked up to tell the guy I'd had
enough....but he wasn't sitting on the stool across from me....he was out
cold on the floor! To the cheers of the locals, I declared my victory and
made a hurried exit to the small house I was staying. Out of everyone's
sight I threw up. I felt lousy for the next day and a half and worst of all
my older Brazilian partner didn't give me much sympathy. I won the respect
of the boys at the bar though.
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