Often, when traveling out of the country on the Fourth of July, I am put in a position of explaining that the media’s representation of America is woefully incomplete. “You mean the United States isn’t made up primarily of spoiled celebrities and serial killers?”
“Oh no.” I respond, “we just give them a home.”
Traveling within the United States I am always thrilled to find that the vast diversity of the American landscape is alive and always growing and always changing. There is something wonderful about the people of this country. We have a tireless passion for reinvention. That spirit has resulted in monumental accomplishments which, thankfully, are still numerous enough and big enough to temper the absurdity of our missteps.
At the beginning of the financial crisis, when many pundits were writing off the United States, the most sage economists were saying the opposite. “There is too much innovation happening in some of the garages of America. You never know what the Americans will come up with next.” When I heard that I realized that the Fourth of July is as much a celebration of our independence as it is a celebration of our pioneering spirit.
I am always surprised how much I miss the United States when I’m traveling abroad on the Fourth of July. I’m also surprised that, as much as people from other countries like to criticize the US, they also have a desire to live here. When I ask the reason why, the overwhelming response is “opportunity.”
Not everything is perfect here in United States. But it is an amazing feeling to know that we always have the freedom to make things better.
I bellied up to the little downtown bar intent on proving the hard drinking journalist cliché true. My peripheral vision spied out my territory, two big haired brunettes straight out of a The Real Housewives of New Jersey episode to one side, and two checkered dress shirted financial types to the other. The proverbial rock and hard place. Soon it further dawned on me that I had happened to sit between an ongoing discussion between the two different groups of people. The kind of argument not held directly, but manifested in loud conversation seemingly directed at no one in particular.
“No one with any class drinks blended Scotch,” said one banker type to the surrounding air.
“Blended Scotch is so smooth,” said one of the housewives loud enough for all to hear while stirring the ice in her highball with a manicured forefinger.
I recognized the nature of the discussion. It was the great Scotch debate: single malt whisky versus blended whisky.
One of the men took a long slow sip of his whisky, adorned by a single ice cube, before sharply inhaling and then exhaling with an audible “ahhh”.
“Single malt is an acquired taste,” he said.
Scotch is a lot like the land it comes from. Harshly beautiful, politically complicated, and loved by its people, Scotland itself might be considered an acquired taste. According to Scottish law, only Scotch whisky (notice the lack of an “e”) can be produced, bottled or even aged in Scotland. There are actually three types of Scotch (in Scotland it is simply called “whisky”). 1) Single malt whisky made from malted barley produced at one single distillery. 2) Single grain whisky produced from other cereal grains such as corn and wheat, also produced at a single distillery and 3) Blended whisky which is a combination of the two.
The term single malt is not limited to Scotland. Single malt rye whiskey (notice the “e”) is made in California by the Anchor Distillery and single malt whiskey is made by both St. George Spirits and Charbay Winery and Distillery (both also in California). Single malts are also produced in many lands associated with the British realm, including: Ireland, Canada, South Africa, New Zealand, Australia and Wales. Oddly there is no whisky tradition in England itself, the titular seat of the British Empire. Additionally Japan produces many malt whiskies similar in style to single malt Scotch (going so far as to import Scottish peat for the process), a fact immortalized in the 2003 Sofia Coppola film Lost in Translation.
When it comes to taste, whisky gets much of its smoothness by virtue of age. The longer it matures in the barrel the smoother tasting it will be, much like fine wine. Single malt Scotch is certainly distinctive; its flavor profile is stronger and more discernable than its blended cousin. Typically, single malt scotch is also aged longer which helps to mellow some of its harshness. But, find an older blended whisky (like an 18-year-old Johnnie Walker Gold) and you will find it is decidedly smoother than most single malts of the same age.
All of this occurred to me as I listened to the two groups of Scotch drinkers bicker, which then led me to several thoughts on the matter.
1) Personal taste is subjective and as such is unassailable through argument. You like what you like, no matter what anyone else says.
2) Acquiring a taste for something might indeed be a noble goal. Acquiring “taste”, in general, however, might prove far more elusive.
3) When you start talking about how little class (or taste) someone else has, you have just removed what little you might have started with.
4) When selecting a Scotch, if smoothness is your goal, go blended or old or both. However if bold distinctive flavor is your desire select a younger single malt. Either way you are in for a treat.
5) Sometimes barstools are empty for a reason.
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While thumbing through the Port Moresby Post-Courier newspaper on my flight down to the Sepik River, my eyes fell to the headline under Positions Vacant on the Careers page: “Head Hunters.”
Noting the headhunters@global email, I was relieved to see it followed by an ANZ bank symbol, and not an actual ad for those degreed in cannibalism.
During our cruise down the Sepik River on the MV Sepik Spirit, even though–thanks to missionary influence–I caught the occasional glance of Calvin Klein underwear bands rather than penis sheaths on the men, I discovered that life on the river still pretty much exists as it has for the last few generations. Life evolves around the daily hunting, gathering and foraging for food. The men still fish from dug out canoes and the women, with an inevitable child tugging at their breast, process and cook the sago plant. And make no doubt, the territorial clans still exist, as I discovered when mistakenly overstepping my boundary into one. Luckily, I got away with a small fine rather than an arrow through my forehead.
The respect for the river is immense, which is most apparent through the tribe’s reverence of the exquisitely crafted, yet ominously daunting, Sepik spirit houses. Men, especially of the Blackwater region, are isolated for over a month of initiation practices while receiving the crocodile tattooing. Succumbing to sleep deprivation, they enter an other-worldly mental state as they partake in rituals, feasts and are coached in the secrets of their elders. During this time, sex is discouraged, as spilling a man’s seed is considered to spiritually weaken them. I was surprised to find that our boat captain, John, had gone through this sacred scarring ritual himself, quite possibly the first white man having done so.
After two weeks, deep painful gashes with razor blades are made in the chests and backs of men, as the bleeding symbolizes the draining of their mother’s blood, making them stronger. The open wounds are packed in mud, silt and exposed to smoke, so they will keloid, giving the scars a raised emulation of the crocodile skin. The men’s ages can range from adolescent to adults, but their scars are a badge of honor, and a proud symbol of their finality into manhood. Never have I encountered a culture of men so willing to take their shirts off for me, which I have to admit I found quite pleasant.
What surprised me was the discovery of women with significant scarring as well; often the symbol of the sun and moon on their arms. It’s a different story for the young girls than the young men. At their first menstruation the girls are fenced in alone in their home and then without much preparation forced into the inevitable scarring ritual. As the girls are often much younger and more fearful than the boys they sometimes run away. I was told that even if the scarring proves to be too much for the girls, their grandmothers are still willing to pass down their secrets of womanhood. From what I saw of the fabulous face paint, masks, adornment of shells, and ritualistic scarring this seemed to make the obvious not so secret: no matter what culture you’re raised in, men and women the world over certainly pay a high price for beauty.
Gulf fishermen, in Bahia De Los Angeles, heading out at dawn.
Location: Bahia De Los Angeles, Baja California State, Mexico
A school of fusilier fish in a coral reef, off the Raja Ampat Islands in Indonesia.
