I'm a firm believer that a nation's drink is shaped by its
landscape and climate, and that its drink in turn shapes
its culture.
According to my theory, the world can be neatly divided
into several distinct zones of booze.
The UK and Ireland are home to warming whiskeys, dark heavy
ales and stouts. Just the thing for when the perpetual damp
soaks through your bones: a sip to burn away the mists of
mind, memory and landscape.
To the east, Scandinavia and Russia, cold icy lands locked
for half the year in perpetual darkness, are the birthplace
of vodka and aquavit. They created a clean, crisp drink
that's as icy as the northern air they breathe. It cuts
through the brain like a knife of cold clarity. At least,
the first one does.
Europe is split by a wandering line that divides those who
drink wine from those who drink beer. This line bisects
Germany into a zone of frothy steins and a zone of rolling
vine-covered hills. On one side the people are beer hall
boisterous, and on the other they're reserved and
contemplative. The Mediterranean countries of Europe fall
into the zone of wine, but they add a small twist: the
tradition of the aperitif and the digestif. Call them what
you will, they're the stuff of early morning cafe nips, and
like wine they're the fuel of conversations deep and wide.
Eastern Asia, Southeast Asia, and Australia are parched
throat lands in need of a crisp, refreshing gulp. Their
sharp light lagers work, but sustained travel leaves one
longing for something stronger. Little wonder that British
colonizers brought gin to India and Malaya: a warming drink
turned cold, one that mirrors the gradual dissolution of
the long term colonist.
Across the Atlantic, in Central America and the Caribbean,
it can be only rum. If wine is the fuel of conversation,
rum is the fuel of lust: sweltering nights; air filled with
the sweet scent of jacarandas; dusky island girls swirling
barefoot to a sinuous slow reggae beat. These are lands
where the moonlit tide washes on sandy beaches, lapping and
surging like the hot blood that courses through your
rum-filled veins.
Just to the north, the tequila belt of Mexico cuts a swath
across the map like a dangerous tropical storm zone: hot
dusty mariachi nights at the end of which you don?t know
your ass from your elbow.
Finally, North America is a vibrant meld of cultures. It's
an amalgam of booze, just as North Americans are an amalgam
of peoples. Though it has created several unique spirit
variations of its own, rye and bourbon among them, its
culture is most truly represented by the cocktail: a
cutting edge blend of old and new. Elegant and refined or
playful and carefree, the endless combinations of the New
World's cocktail culture bring with them endless variety
and creativity.
So there you have it. My professional opinion as an
anthropologist and a travel writer. My grand theory of the
world in seven fiery sips.
I believe it was Lawrence Durrell who wrote of the variety
of alcoholic experience available to the traveler. It truly
is one of the perks of road life. And what better way to
outmaneuver a cultural barrier than through the gurgle of a
bottle, especially a bottle of something local?
----------------------------------------------------
Ryan Murdock's pursuit of travel literature has taken him
to some of the world's most unforgiving places, including
Mongolia, Tibet, Nicaragua, and North Korea, by Russian
jeep, motorcycle, dugout canoe, horse and camel. He has a
keen interest in marginal regions, in nomadic peoples, and
in places where cultures meet and sometimes clash. Please
visit http://www.ryanmurdock.com to learn more about his
adventures.
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