My palate has become adventurous. It has to be. What’s this? What’s that? Food is foreign. It’s perhaps the scariest thing I face in day to day life, the greatest risk. I am acutely aware of its potential to inflict bodily harm.
My entire life I’ve choked down chalky white milk. As a kid (a kid on a dairy farm to boot), I was forced to sit at the dinning room table for hours until I finished my glass of milk. Unwilling and unrelenting. Persistent in my stand-off. As an adult, I’d sling back a glass or two a day as if it was a revolting shot of unpleasantness simply because it does a body good. Now I want it. Not because I’ve developed a taste for it. I still don’t like it. Simply because it’s unattainable. In Ecuador I could manage an ultra-pasteurized no-need for refrigeration version. That’s not even available in Bajawa. What is, however, is powdered. It provides the semblance of milk. It colors the water. I have only dared the chocolate. It’s a bit like a watery hot chocolate… my water dispenser only does very hot and hot.
I eat bananas. Daily. I don’t even like bananas. The vast varieties are intriguing. A must to try them all. Some long, sweet, and mushy like in America. Others stocky, firm, and like a starchy potato. I prefer the later. Buying a few is a no-no. Only sold by the comb, which is around 15-20. Perhaps that’s why I chow down breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
And fish. Not just fish, but dried fish. Crispy and hard. Whole. Like a dead fish that had unfortunately landed on a rock when the tide went out and withered in the sun and wind. Minus the flies… mostly. I’ve learned to eat the skin. But still I can’t stomach the head with its dark eyes glazed over staring into the mound of rice. Rice, chili sauce, and fish are the staples. Bananas for dessert. All three meals. In my past life, I wouldn’t touch the slimy swimmers. And whole dried fish just seem that much more unappealing. Yet, strangely I kind of like it. Although not all three meals everyday, one will do me… 2 max.
Walking through the market, it’s as if the women have harvested a tree. They sell the wood, the leaves, and the fruit. Wood bound for cooking. Green leaves. Not like spinach. Like tree leaves. Chilies, garlic, and shallots are plentiful. Small mounds of insipid looking tomatoes and pale green squashes which curl together to remind me of the mouth of a gummy elder person. Dried aromatic fish. Tempe and tofu… both incredibly inexpensive. There could be a vegetarian fiesta for the entire town at the same cost Wholefoods and Wild Oats charges for one scanty block of the stuff.
Luckily there are these alternative protein sources. Don’t expect to have a steak or hamburger here. No meat really unless it’s a party. And then keep an open mind… a strong stomach.
Last Thursday was a holiday. What holiday I am not sure. However, I did understand that it had to do with Jesus. Some Catholic holiday that American Catholics fail to reap the benefits of a day off work. I spent the day at my supervisors home. Helping his wife, her friends and ‘pembantu’ (girl helpers) prepare for an ‘eating party’. We spent hours cutting, chopping, and pealing copious garlic cloves. Squatting outside the kitchen door on a cement slab. 30 kilos of rice hand picked through, sifted in flat baskets, and prepared over an open fire in a metallic rice cooker taller than any Indonesian woman in the house. The men disappeared… except for two who hacked away at slabs of meat. Skin, fat, bone, and meat. Chopped into bite size pieces. All that seemed to matter was size.
The turquoise plastic chairs were set up in two long straight lines facing each other. Waiting for the festivities to commence. The food paraded out in large bowls long before the first of the guests filtered in. Stomachs of steal must keep the active bacteria and food borne pathogens at bay. Maybe it’s the function of ample chilies to stimulate a hostile environment in the belly. A whole hog was sacrificed for the occasion. There was fish, chicken, and goat. But the favorite of the locals was a treat reserved for special parties… dog. Boiled and fried with chilies in a brown sweet sauce. It was culturally unavoidable. All eyes turned to the Westerner. Initially, I deemed it just another protein source. Nevertheless, I swallowed hard. Not that it tasted bad; if ignorant I would probably have enjoyed it. Rather, I could not stop envisioning the fear in the dog’s eyes. An emotion much too similar to ours. I humanized.
** Since writing this blog I’ve eaten dog (swallowing hard) 3 times. Surely, a gold star for cultural effort.
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