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A Spritual Link to Vallarta's Past - Raicilla by Gil Gevins summer/fall/2000 Though nowadays people drink alcohol in order to relax or to remove their inhibitions, in the past, the consumers of fermented flora did so with spiritual ends in mind. All but lost in modern day Mexico, the last vestiges of this alcohol's ancient connection with the word of gods and spirits can still be found in, of all places, Puerto Vallarta. Unbeknownst to most visitors, the hills surrounding this bustling beach resort are famous for more than their tropical beauty. It is there that a rare and exotic variety of maguey (a lily disguised as a cactus) is cultivated. This is the plant from which is distilled a magical ancient brew, a mysterious beverage the origins of which to this day remain shrouded in the mists of myth and legend: Raicilla! I was first initiated into the marvels of Raicilla over twenty years ago at Las Animas beach. My guide was Big Jim O'Leary, a charismatic Irish ex-patriot with a booming baritone and a vivid imagination. Big Jim was seated at the table next to mine in a small palapa restaurant engaged in a heated discussion with two attorneys from Atlanta. "I have personally made a life-long study of this divine nectar", Big Jim was saying, "and I can assure you that raicilla contains absolutely no alcohol! It is one hundred percent pure mescaline, and has been utilized for religious purposes by the indigenous people of these hills for over fifty-thousand years!" "Come off it, Jim", one of the lawyers replied. "This stuff has so much alcohol, I bet you could light it with a match. "I'll take that bet," Big Jim said. (Author's note: Raicilla, which does, in fact, burn with a completely transparent flame, makes an excellent charcoal starter, as well as an effective disinfectant.) Grabbing a tall shot glass, Big Jim filled it to the brim with raicilla. Then he lit a match and placed it in direct contact with the clear liquid. "Alcohol, my eye!" he said, raising the glass to his lips and downing in one gulp its entire contents.The exact nature of what transpired next has never been entirely explained to everyone's satisfaction. That Big Jim ceased to breathe for an entire minute, and that his face turned a color one does not ordinarily associate with a person who is still alive, is utterly beyond dispute. But whether or not small puffs of steam actually emerged from his ears remains to this day open to doubt. When several minutes later he had recovered the power of speech, Big Jim turned to me (the lawyers were still on the ground, convulsed with laughter) and said, "Son, trust me. This raicilla is pure mescaline. I highly recommend that you try some immediately. You owe it to yourself, and to your loved ones." With the utmost caution I sniffed at the proffered glass. The enigmatic liquid, much to my surprise, smelled exactly like leaded gasoline. "Tel me, Jim," I said holding the glass at arm's length the fumes alone were making me nauseous "how exactly is raicilla made?" "Ah!" Big Jim said. "I happen to be the only white man ever permitted to visit one of the clandestine sites, in the heart of the Chacala Hills, and witness the entire amazing process from beginning to end. It was an unforgettable experience." "So," I persisted, "how do they make it ?" "I haven't the foggiest idea, son," Big Jim said. "Just shut up and drink it!" Taking a deep breath (for all I knew, the last I would ever take) I downed almost a third of my glass in one desperate foolhardy swallow. Being neither unusually insane, nor particularly suicidal, I have never personally consumed battery acid. But I imagine that it would burn one's alimentary canal in much the same way the raicilla did mine as it slowly scorched its way centimeter by cruel centimeter down my throat and into my stomach, where it finally exploded like a pipette of nitroglycerin. As I sat there gasping and choking, Big Jim, with a tender look of paternal concern on his weather-beaten face, said, "I'd flush myself right away with some Squirt." I followed my mentor's instructions and felt better at once. "The best way, no, the only way to drink raicilla is accompanied by a bubbly soft drink," Big Jim advised me sagely. "Only a damn fool would drink it straight." Apparently the memory of his recent attempt at interior self-immolation had already fled the porous confines of his brain. Somehow I managed, with the aid of the Squirt and a little gentle prodding from my Irish guru (Don't be such a wimp, son. Drink it down like a man), to consume five tall shots of raicilla. After a brief but painful interlude, a sublime wave of transcendental light abruptly flooded my entire being, causing my ego to melt away, and allowing in its place an ancient phlegmatic spirit to take possession of my soul. A moment later I heard a sweet seductive voice speaking in my ear: Mother Ocean, the source of all life, calling to me. Floating to my feet, I headed for the sea. I entered the water with a multicolored splash. Awash in liquid euphoria, I skimmed with uncanny ease across the surface, the amazingly buoyant water holding me gently afloat like a giant hand. What seemed an eternity later, just as I was about to dissolve altogether, I glanced up and saw Big Jim looming over me like the Colossus of Rhodes. Only then did it dawn on me: for the better part of happy hour I'd been breast stroking my way across the sand. "The ocean's that way, son", Big Jim said kindly, hooking his thumb over his shoulder. "But don't feel bad. You did good for a beginner. You only missed the water by twenty yards."

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