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Despite the gradual rise in my Spanish level, conspicuous holes in my vocabulary remain. While I can fill my bag with the fresh and the green from the central market, in the eatery above the market the simmering pots and pans are filled with thing I have no name for.
In a purely gastronomical sense I have no need to know the names of these foods. I know enough to know they are meat-based, and that they are thus not for me.
Still, the longer I spend in Bolivia, the more the names of these forbidden foodstuffs begin to encroach into my vocabulary. One dish that has long lodged in my lexicon is Pique a lo Macho. Pique itself is a rather bland handful of French fries interspersed with hot dog meat and sold outside schools and on street corners all over the country. It becomes more interesting when it turns macho. Pique a lo Macho is a giant steaming mound of French fries, drowning in five types of meat (meat of sausage, meat of cow, meat of bird, meat of pig, and meat of other), eggs and a lot of chilli. It requires a big plate and a strong table to support it, and as such is not hit-and-run street food.
Since learning of this most unacceptable dish, I have longed to vegetarianise it. Just because I don’t eat meat doesn’t mean I don’t like big, greasy mounds of unhealthy food.
1. Get a lot of real big potaters and cut them with a real big knife into real big wedges. Boil the real big wedges for ten minutes, or until they’re soft (usually Big Phil won’t touch nothing soft, but in this case it’s necessary).
2. Boil some water and then soak some real big eggs in it. Set some water aside to soak some real big chunks of soy meat. Soak some real small chunks too until they’re good and sloppy.
3. Get a real big plate, a metal one (Big Phil likes metal). Put the real big potater wedges on the plate, coat in oil and salt, and bake until real hot and crispy.
4. While the real big potater wedges are baking, get a real big pan. Heat some oil in it until it’s real hot.
5. Dice a real big eggplant (everyone knows the biggest eggplants are in Bolivia) into real big cubes and put them in the real hot pan. Add a lot of salt.
6. Cut some onions into real big rings or half-rings. Dice a lot of real big cloves of garlic into real small pieces. Put them in the pan with the real big real hot eggplant.
7. Use your real big knife to cut up a real big head of broccoli. Cut up a real big red bell pepper/capsicum, and a real big green one too. Put them in the real big pan.
8. There aren’t many fresh mushrooms in Bolivia, and the tinned ones only come in real small tins. So open a tin or two of mushrooms, halve them, and put them in the real big pan, which should be real full.
9. Add the real big and real small soy meat. Peel and half the eggs and add them too.
10. Dice a couple of real hot locoto peppers. They’re hotter if you crush them a bit first. Crush them real good. Use different coloured peppers – Big Phil likes colourful food. Put them in the pan.
11. Add a lot of cilantro, cumin, vinegar, veggie stock, tomato paste, salsa ingles/Worcestershire sauce/HP sauce/BBQ sauce. Enough to coat all the real big veggies, without turning everything to slop (even though Big Phil likes slop, it isn’t the way for Pique a lo Macho).
12. Take the real big real hot potaters out of the oven. Pour the real big real spicy vegetable mix over the potaters. Add some grated cheese. Bake until cheese is melted.
13. Serve on the same real big plate, with real big bottles of mayonnaise, ketchup and hot sauce next to it.
14. Go at it with your real big hands. Use a real big fork if you’re dainty.
15. If it isn’t so spicy it hurts, then you did it wrong.
I turned 22 in Australia on Anzac Day, and though I have no specific recollections of this, I am sure one of the ways I celebrated was by eating Anzac biscuits.
I turned 23 in Spain on Anzac Day, and was shocked to find that I had to go to work, and that Spain did not have a day for commemorating the Australia New Zealand Army Corp. None the less I again celebrated with Anzac biscuits sent from Australia, which I could collect, like all my mail, only by visiting the kebab shop below my apartment and ordering a kebab.
I turned 24 in the US on Anzac Day, and although I was again shocked to find that no national holiday was called, I did not have to work because I had no work. I spent the day stomping through the Chicagoan rain and photographing the Ukrainian village, and although I had no address and could no receive Anzac biscuits, I did celebrate with the obscene deliciousness of deep-dish pizza.
I turned 25 in Korea on Anzac Day, and again found myself going to work, and being sung to by a half-hearted band of Korean students. Going to school did, however, allow me to collect my mail, which meant I could again celebrate with Anzac biscuits sent from Australia (where proper Anzac festivities were observed; i.e. no one went work, most people went to the pub, and forms of gambling usually prohibited were allowed).
I turned 26 in Bolivia on Anzac Day, and found myself with no reliable postal address, which meant that if I wanted to properly observe the Anzac traditions, I would need to make my own Anzac biscuits.
How to make Bolivian Anzac biscuits.
1. Visit market and supermarket in search of bicarb. soda and golden syrup. Realise you don’t know the Spanish word for bicarbonate, but assume it is similar. Realise that Bolivia isn’t really a syrup kind of country.
2. For the first time in four months, turn on the oven. As there is no thermostat, fiddle with the dial until the flames are not-big.
3. Search for suitable pots and pans in the mysterious caverns beneath the sink. Find an old and rusted serving platter and decide that this will do for a baking tray. Remove as much rust as possible.
4. In the big bowl that was beside the serving platter, mix one cracked mug of flour with one cracked mug of sugar with one cracked mug of oats with three quarters of a cracked mug of coconut.
5. Dissolve one teaspoon of the mystery powder from the supermarket in one tablespoon of boiling water. Find that it does more or less what bicarb. soda does, and feel satisfied.
6. Inspect your jar of old honey and find that its contents are no longer fluid. Decide that it will suffice. Melt as much honey as you can scrape from the jar with about 125 grams of butter (having realised you have no way of weighing things and thus will have to guess how much butter you have). Wrinkle your nose at the smell.
7. Mix the mystery-powder-in-water with the butter-and-now-liquid-honey, and then stir this into the dry mixture. Heed your mother’s words, that it will seem like the mixture is too dry, but that in fact it won’t be.
8. Find that the mixture is indeed quite dry, and squeeze the mixture into the hardest balls of dough possible to keep them together
9. Grease the no-longer-rusty serving platter with what butter remains, and lay out the hard dough balls, leaving room for them to expand as they cook.
10. Bake the first batch (as there is more mixture than tray space) in the oven of indeterminate temperature for 20 minutes. Feel paranoid and check on them every 5 minutes. Watch TV and at the 20 minute mark forget about the biscuits. When you check on them, decide that they are two pale and thus not cooked and leave them in the oven for longer.
11. Realise that without golden syrup the mix will of course look paler, and whisk batch 1 from the oven. Allow them to harden until they are as stone.
12. Repeat for batches 2 and 3 but do not be as distracted by TV, but still feel uncertain about the colour of the mix and the heat of the oven and leave them in for too long. Take them from the oven and allow them to harden, although not as drastically as the last batch.
13. Find that the first batch threatens the integrity of your teeth when you try and chew them. Soak them in milk or hot beverages. Decide that Anzac biscuits are still Anzac biscuits and devour all three batches in a few short days. Do not share them.
After having immersed myself in the gringo volunteer community in Cochabamba, I’ve been able to observe the ways in which the average gringo interacts. In the interests of promoting cross-cultural exchange, I’ve compiled a list of safe conversation topics for anyone interested in engaging with a gringo.
1. How dull Bolivian food is. To create a point of common ground with a gringo, mention how tired you have become of your Bolivian diet of chicken, potatoes and rice. Generate sympathy for yourself while demonstrating your health-consciousness by mentioning that you wish less salt and oil were added to these staples. This works particularly well if the gringo you are engaging is a vegetarian. These are identifiable by their thin, pale, ungainly appearance.
2. How much of a cholita is clothing, and how much is human. Cholitas, the braided, hatted, traditionally-garbed indigenous women are a subject of fascination to gringos. The fascination stems from the fact that cholitas are simultaneously exotic and (generally) unattractive. Mentioning the disproportionately large butts of cholitas, and questioning how much of this bulk is layers of skirt, and how much is actual flesh, is guaranteed to generate much discussion among gringos. Raising the idea of dressing like or dating a cholita is a safe way to add humour to the discussion.
3. Your declining currency. If a gringo conversation is becoming lost in economic jargon, you can bring it back to a more manageable, understandable level by mentioning that the current economic climate has caused your currency’s exchange rate to plummet, and that this is destroying your savings, and forcing you to tighten your belt. You can demonstrate your helpfulness by quoting actual, current exchange rates. This is a particular useful for topic for engaging Australian gringos.
4. How slow Bolivian internet connections are. If you encounter a flustered gringo, it is probable that they have just come from an internet café, or have been stealing wi-fi. Sympathise with them by quoting how many minutes it took you to send a single email, or to open facebook. Lament with them how long it takes to download music and sitcoms. To demonstrate that you have not lost perspective, follow this with an ironic comment about how little most Bolivians have, and that all you can complain about is the internet speed. Follow this with an embarrassed laugh.
5. Which graduate program or career path your volunteer work is qualifying you for. To show your sensitivity, this topic should be prefaced by ‘I really just want to help, but…’. Having done so you will be free to comment on how inefficient many Bolivian NGOs are, but how your perserverance and hard-earned successes will help you qualify for the graduate program or career in international relations that you intend to commence once you return to your home country.
In Bolivia as the clocks strike midnight and another new year is ushered in, the tradition is to eat twelve grapes. It’s a common custom in Spanish-speaking countries. In Spain the twelve grapes correspond to the twelve chimes of the clock. In Bolivia, though, the twelve grapes represent the twelve months of the coming year, and are each accompanied by a wish.
Here are my twelve grapes for ‘09…
January. As I leave Cochabamba and move to Sucre I wish for an apartment with hot water, another great and inexpensive Spanish teacher, and volunteer work that I actually enjoy and which is worth doing.
February. I hope hope hope that after my first 90 days in Bolivia expire, I will be allowed to stay for another 90.
March. I wish for peace and stability in Bolivia, and that there will no more talk of secessions or civil wars or other sillinesses. But if there is a split I wish to be the very first gringo to visit the new country. And I wish for them to erect a statue to me.
April. I wish for Spanish fluency so that I can read all the hilarious birthday cards that Bolivia is going to give me.
May. I wish for sufficient time and money to see every corner of Bolivia before I leave it behind, and I hope that I become such an expert in all things Bolivian that someone will pay me to share my wealth of knowledge (I’d rather it was Lonely Planet or similar than, say, the CIA).
June. I hope that by the time Bolivia has depleted my savings I will have found work elsewhere in the New World (such as in Buenos Aires).
July. I wish for a safe flight back to Australia for my cuz’s wedding, and that while I am in Australia I am offered lots of cash in exchange for the right to publish my book. Also I hope that all my Australian friends remember me and want to hang out.
August. I wish that when I return to South America there will be far less reggaeton played in it.
September. I wish that my second book would take much less time to write than the first, which will have been made into a movie. Or a series of movies. And my protagonist will have become an action figure.
October. I hope that if I am living in Buenos Aires that I become very good at tango. If I am living in Colombia I hope I am not dead or kidnapped. If I am still in Bolivia I hope I am not incarcerated, or a father.
November. I hope that after I have spent a year in South America I have influenced it such that vegetarian food no longer means just potatoes, egg and rice.
December. I wish for a hot Australian Christmas, and for the means to fly home, thus beginning to rectify for mum the recent disparity between Christmases spent at home and those spent abroad.
Ushered in by Coca-Cola, Christmas descended on Bolivia. Strings of Christmas lights festooned the plazas and thoroughfares, all of them toning their own Christmas carols in an arrhythmic mess. In La Cancha, the giant market sprawling out over south Cochabamba, the usual mounds and stalls of crap multiplied as great surges of shoppers pressed through, following closely by great surges of pickpockets.
The volunteer gringo population dispersed back to their various homes for Christmas, leaving only a few entrenched souls to band together for a multicultural Christmas. Elaborate plans and dishes were prepared; Polish cabbage and Swedish meatballs, Australian pavlova and Texan everything. The giant ham defrosting on the kitchen table was dwarfed by the giant turkey, its frozen stumps of legs protruding into the air.
When Christmas hit it did so with a deafening silence. The streets emptied out, lonely cabs trawling in search of fare. At every intersection an urchin in traditional dress held out a grubby hand in hope of spare change. With everyone else sequestered away at family homes the number of homeless people in the city was revealed.
Some people had been up all night baking, and the dessert table of the volunteer Christmas party was presided over by a ginger bread Chrysler building standing more than a metre tall. Around its base the dishes multiplied.
In Bolivia the big family meal is on Christmas eve. More meat and more potatoes than usual are prepared and gorged upon. At midnight little baby Jesuses appear mysteriously to complete the expectant, ubiquitous nativity scenes. Christmas day is a more relaxed affair, with maybe some church, maybe a neighbourhood party, maybe a visit from the extended family.
Our Christmas was, however, a gringo affair, heavy on the sublime southern cooking, heavy on the booze, heavy on the trivial pursuit, heavy on the classic DVDs (Karate Kid – about as Christmasy as the Chrysler building), heavy on the carols by everyone from Charlie Brown to Tom Waits, heavy on the falling asleep early and waking up to polish of the leftovers. The enormous ham and its eclipsing turkey disappeared awfully, awfully quickly.
December is the rainy season and in the north of the city, closer to the mountains, the daily afternoon storm broke over Christmas with avengeance. Streets were reduced to muddy rivers and the water level rose over car tires. The stadium was flooded, cars broke down and were pelted with hail.
By that evening though the waters had disappeared, sweeping another Christmas with them. My third gringo expat Christmas coming and going fast, as they always seem to do. While the volunteers got on with life, the lines of eager families outside of the Coca-Cola Magical House of Santa Claus were undiminished, and the lights continued to trill their awful tunes in the plazas and throughout the city.
