In 2004, I was in Polynesia visiting family (as you do) and attended the Festival of Pacific Arts. All the island nations come together in a big-ass bonding festival every four years. Culture is shared, art is made, and things are drunk. Well, I drank things. I can't speak for anyone else.
It started innocently enough. My Dad and one of his cronies called me over to what I affectionately called the Tent of Male Bashing. That is, a tent where young, shirtless men smash vegetation incessantly. In this case, roots. For days. That's how you get the best mystery juice drink. Everyone knows that. (And before you ask, it wasn't Kava. Why does everyone know about Kava?)
Now my Dad is a born storyteller and he knows everything (and has a beautiful singing voice, but that's irrelevant). So Dad, with friend chiming in, tells me the historical context of the drink, the best way to make it, difference in drink formation between islands, importance, blah blah blah. And somewhere in that I end up with a cup in my hand, my Dad and his friend giving me the Meaningful Nod of Sharing and all of us drinking.
Dad: Good stuff, eh?
Me: Not bad, Pops. Tastes root-y. How long did this take to make?
Me: What? I can't hear you, because MY FACE HAS FALLEN OFF!
Dad, Crony: Ha ha ha.
Me: MY FACE! (touch face) Oh, there it is.
Crony: Yep, the good stuff.
Me: Wait, why aren't you affected? Guys? Guys?
And then I realize they'd wandered away.
I then proceeded to "talk" to myself until the world stopped being so interesting.
Snippet of that conversation:
Me, while jabbing my fingers into my cheeks: It feels like...a flesh mask...weighing down my head...I can squish it against my face bones....I have face bones...