AsiaLIFE

Sour grapes make for a bitter wine but what about wines made without any grapes at all? Simon Jacy investigates Cambodian drinking culture. Rice wine, much like rice itself, is much more than a mere provision. Over millennia of incremental civilizations, as societies inched gradually from hunter-gathering, to nomadic slash and burn, and finally to settled village life, fiery rice wine has been a comforting fall back after a hard day’s work. And, as it has become the cornerstone of recreation and celebration, it has gathered deep spiritual and cultural significance.

This noble and distinguished history, however, can seem a distant dream indeed when toothless, cackling drunkards force their cloudy gut-rot upon the reticent guest. For those used to quaffing subtly brewed masterpieces from sparkling crystal glasses, a cut-off water bottle bottom full of evil-smelling rice liquor – usually with a few dead and dying flies floating for good measure – can come as a shock. As with many countries across the globe, drinking in Cambodia is traditionally a social bonding event, with friends and neighbours gathering at the end of the day to exchange news and jokes. Cambodians, ever welcoming to outsiders, will never fail to invite a passing foreigner to join their bender.

For foreigners wishing to join the fun, the first factor to consider is gender – while Cambodian women may drink, they usually do so behind closed doors, recounting the neighbourhood gossip and the dalliances of their husbands with a humorous, resigned gusto. Only those beyond reproach – the married matron with an improbably large brood or the extremely elderly – may drink in public without fear of criticism. Other women joining the men’s drinking circle will be considered immodest, wanton even.

But the most striking difference between Western and Cambodian drinking sessions will be the surroundings. Often conducted impromptu in the shade of a nearby tree, drinkers will be lucky if they can boast a rickety bamboo bed or cracked plastic chair to rest upon. Urban sessions are somewhat akin to a seedy working man’s club, the rural versions like passing around a paper-bagged bottle under a railway bridge. Still, the joie de vivre in Cambodia leaves even the most raucous Westerner’s celebration looking like a funeral. Jabs in the ribs and spirited encouragements to down more brew are the order of the day. Drunkenness is mandatory.

Binge drinking is very much alive and well in Cambodia, so what better way to ensure absolute intoxication than the honour-bound mutual toast? Whether the cheers’ be ostensibly for good luck or to the drinkers’ health, the real motivation is simple – alcohol induced oblivion in an alarmingly short space of time. Be sure to drain your glass completely and enunciate unfamiliar phrases clearly; the standard toast of jol muoi (‘hit [the glass] once’) is easily slurred into an unprintable curse. While the peripheral details vary, the core of the session is universal; that bastion of upper class university imbecility, the drinking circle. Initial curiosity will soon fade to apprehension, and then downright fear as the drinking receptacle repeatedly wends its way back. There is no escape.

The ‘wines’ themselves vary greatly in strength and quality, though flavour is way down the list of priorities for producers. Hygiene, usually a major consideration for expats, is in fact the least of your worries. While one might initially worry over the dirt encrusted fingernails dipped time and time again into the grubby bowl, or a cup that looks and tastes like something just recovered from an archaeological dig, your biggest concerns will soon become extricating yourself from your new buddies, followed by finding your way home, then possibly the best way to curl up in the gutter.

Any drink that is approaching clear is a relatively unadulterated rice wine, still the firm favourite. Cambodians with a farming connection – which is nearly everybody – will brew a family rice wine from their own crop, a jealously guarded brew taken out only for special occasions. Still, these are easily the most palatable spirits you’re likely to experience – local delicacies such as sweet longgan, fresh persimmon and spicy wild honey are added to create a surprisingly mellow flavour. Forest herbs, peeled fruits and exotic roots are soaked in strong, pure rice wine for several months for a medicinal tincture that is said to fortify the weak and give women who have recently given birth back their strength.

For ordinary gatherings, a mass produced tipple is preferred. Ramshackle stills across Cambodia distil this vicious brew from excess low-grade rice. The fat and constantly tipsy pigs which are fed on the leftover fermented rice must be kept permanently boarded up in wooden pens, as they are uncontrollably aggressive and unpredictable. Perhaps worth remembering for your journey home.

Toddy, the cloudy warm liquid carried in bamboo and drunk from plastic bags is naturally fermented palm juice, one of the many products of the versatile Borassus sugar palm. The unprocessed, mildly alcoholic sap – cloudy with a burp reminiscent of Giardia and often called ‘palm beer’ by Westerners – is popular for more moderate drinking; the Khmer equivalent of an ‘all day sucker’.

But, never satisfied to leave the unbroken unfixed, the Khmers have upped the ante by synthetically concocting the most savage combinations of exotic ingredients imaginable, and, incredibly, view these cruel poisons – usually referred to in English as muscle wines – as healthy pick-me-ups. The dark brews are said to contain everything from deer antler to rare mountain herbs, and are claimed to alleviate aches and pains, boost energy levels and even perk up flagging Romeos. These alleged hale tonics are instantly recognisable by both the involuntary icy shudder after each gulp and a hangover that makes death look like an all-expenses paid holiday.

A slightly better bet (though not by much) are the side dishes said by some to enhance the drinking experience. For Cambodian street hoods and ne’er-do-wells, no Saturday night is complete without a litre of firewater and a roasted dog. As most of the canines in question are rail-thin strays caught by roaming gangs of dedicated dog-nappers, it is unsurprising that the soft, dark meat falls far short of a T-bone. But, to devotees, the power and heat said to course through the veins of consumers are reason enough to choke down meat that even a hotdog manufacturer would baulk at.

For the more discerning drinker who still wants the benefits of “hot internal organs,” fresh snake’s blood is another option. A live snake – preferably a cobra, though a large python will do in a squeeze – must be brought to the table and paraded at length. Then, suddenly, its throat will be dramatically slit and the thick, warm gouts of blood fired down mixed with whisky. A wave of heat grips drinkers almost immediately, though Cambodians swear the snake’s blood fills them with vim and vigour for the month ahead. Chin chin!