What I ate in Rio

What better way to begin my Brazil entries than to write about my first trip to Rio de Janeiro.

Like you, I've seen multiple images of this city - including it's Christ statue, favelas, beaches, and bikinis.  However, seeing Rio's beauty in person for the first time struck me like a lighting flash. The topography is like nothing I've seen before,its buildings seemingly carved into every available crevice between mountain peaks. The sun's nightly light shows are surreal, live samba bands take the rhythm into your bones and make it impossible for you stay still, and let's just say I'm still relishing in the taste of those caipirinhas.

Sunset above Cristo Redentor in Rio de Janeiro, seen from Pao de Azucar

We stayed with dear friends who booked a babysitter and lead us into a taxi that weaved its way through the winding Rio streets, up and down its hills and mountains, and into the "Centro", or old town. The taxi pulled up to an old house, and to be honest I was hesitant to enter a building with such questionable structural integrity. My worries subsided as soon as the bouncers opened the door into a live samba experience I'll never forget. The place is called Trapiche Gamboa, and it is awesome. It's where Brasilians go to dance samba. And oh my goodness, can these people dance.

Live samba at Trapiche Gamboa, Rio de Janeiro

I dance salsa and have been known to swing my hips and shake my shoulders in my day, but the speed of samba took my dancing abilities to a whole other level. Samba-dancing women are able to shift their feet and swing their hips at an incredibly fast pace, while keeping their upper bodies quite still. They manage to hold on to their caipirinhas while they move this fast. So. Much. Fun.

Speaking of caipirinhas, I didn't want to be the only dork taking photos of the caipirinhas I drank that night, so I'll leave that image to your imagination. Let's just say that they were minty, lime, and cachaca goodness. Here's a recipe, so you can re-create this deliciousness at home. You'll need good cachaca (sugar cane hard liquor) to get close to the real thing.

Trapiche Gamboa also offers a lovely little menu. My friend ordered moela, chicken gizzards, which were sublime. I tried to guess the ingredients, and also walked to the kitchen to ask for the recipe. The cook who prepared them wasn't there, however, so I'll have to try to re-create the recipe at home. 
No matter what I put in the chicken gizzards and caipirinhas that I'll make at home, I'm certain I won't be able to replicate the way they tasted that night, in the energy and rhythm of Trapiche Gamboa. The gorgeous dilapidated house with its enormous iron chandelier and early 20th century tile designs speak of a time before ours, but that continues to enchant the  Brazilian dancers that flock to keep the culture of samba, caipirinhas, and chicken gizzards alive and kicking. 

India: Trekking and making chapatis in the Himalayas

My final India entry is about a breathtaking place that is the exact opposite of chaos.  It is also completely different to the luxury we experienced in Delhi, Ranthambore, and Jaipur.

We took an early morning flight from Delhi to Kulu, at the foot of the Himalayas. The small plane landed in a valley between two Himalayan peaks. The October air was crisp and fresh, welcoming the first signs of winter. We drove to Manali and rested until the following morning, when we met our trekking team, which consisted of five Nepalese porters, a Nepalese cook, and a guide from Manali. In a minute, I'll explain why this man became my hero.

We started off in a car, until the road ended. Up the mountain we walked, past villages whose residents hike up to two hours to and from the nearest town. They live in beautiful stone and wood houses with balconies that have views of the Himalayas. Close your eyes and picture waking up to that every day.

Someone's house in the Himalayas

This time of year, the woods are lush and rich with blooming apple trees and sweet corn that is cultivated along the mountain ridges. In winter, however, the terrain changes and becomes a scene of frozen air and mountain peaks. We continued to trek up the mountain, deeper and steeper into the pine forest. Out of nowhere, we found a small house and its inhabitants. As I thought about how difficult their isolated life must be, the grandmother, who was sitting in the yard knitting, pulled out her mobile phone to answer a call.

Before sunset, our porters set up camp in a valley. Here I was in a tent in a Himalayan forest with a pencil, my journal, and my husband reading a book. Alone with my thoughts. Disconnected. Silence. Will I last the next two days?

Our tent.

Our cook's resourcefulness would impress any Michelin-starred chef. He made due with two kerosene stoves, a pressure cooker, two pots, and a pan. The porters carried tins with food for the eight of us. We opted for a vegetarian menu, and were delighted with the tomato soup, daal, rice, cauliflower, and chapati meal by candlelight. 

My first time sleeping in a tent, and I chose the Himalayas to do it. I admit I'm an at-least-three-stars-kind-of-girl when it comes to accommodation, and this tent was not my favorite thing in the world.

We woke at 6am to use nature's bathroom, had breakfast, and began our four-and-a-half hour trek. I was impressed with my ability to walk uphill for this long. I did it! We reached our camp site and enjoyed an afternoon looking at the Himalayas. We hid in our tent when it started to hail, and once it stopped, I helped the cook make chapatis. Chapati-making in the Himalays - one for the books. 

The view from our tent

Making chapatis in the Himalayas

The final day of our trek was more like a suicidal downhill obstacle course to the "Lost Village" of Malana. Trekking agencies market this village brilliantly, convincing tourists that its inhabitants are mysterious people who have protected their way of life for centuries, and that outsiders are asked to respect the culture and way of life by staying away. As an anthropologist, I was thrilled by the thought of visiting such a place, enchanted by the idea of being allowed a glimpse into the lives of this community. 

The summit. With Hindu offerings; houses for the gods.

After reaching the summit of our trek, we came to what seemed the end of the trail. There was nothing but hill. Downhill. It was such a steep decline, you could not see the trail below. This is when our guide became my hero. Had that man not held my hand the whole four hours down the mountain, around loose plants and shifting rocks, I would still be there, crying. Yes, I cried like a baby. My legs felt like jello, my toe nails felt like they were going to fall off (and two of them did, later). When we finally reached Malana, I was exhausted, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I might know what it's like to have a body that doesn't work properly. My brain would tell my right leg to move, but it was so tired, so destroyed, that it wouldn't respond. 

Despite the pain, I grabbed on to that romantic idea of seeing the "lost village" of Malana. What a disappointment.

The sad reality is that Malana has become a shitty little town inundated with trash, and subsists from the sale of a special kind of marijuana that grows in this part of the Himalayas. I know nothing about marijuana, but apparently this kind is super intense. Weed-smoking backpackers are everywhere in Malana, high as kites. I was disgusted by them and because I saw young Malana girls harvesting leaves to sell to these tourists. Shitty Malana. Shitty tourists. The pain of the descent to reach this village was not worth it. All I felt was sadness that centuries of a culture ended up as a haven for cheap, dirty, drug tourism. After reaching the road where our car would meet us to take us back to Manali, I sat for a few moments and cried. My hero guide did his best to alleviate my pain by saying "don't worry, men also cry." That made me laugh. 

Looking back, I'm very glad my husband and I celebrated his 40th on the Himalayas. It was a first for me to sleep in a tent, to trek up and down a mountain, and to cook in the middle of a Himalayan forest. The stunning views are so incredibly beautiful, I don't think I could describe them in this blog entry. Even though I hold a special memory of this off-the-beaten-path experience, I think I'm still an at-least-three-stars kind of girl, and I'll always opt for the kinds of places the rest of our India trip had to offer. This luxury, coupled with glimpses of the not-so-perfect Indian life, made for a wonderful trip.

India is a place of contrasts, and I think we managed to witness a few of these contrasts during our trip. Lots more to see, however, and I can't wait to return.

Sunset in the Himalayas

India: Part III A Tiger in its Home

We got side-tracked driving through Agra to get to Fatehpur Sikri*, and what we saw was reality. Our previous days' adventures included visits to gorgeous monuments, delicious restaurants, sublime boutiques, such as Good Earth (Tara's family's home decoration store) and a birthday party that Delhi's creme de la creme attended in all their splendor. That was one side of the Indian reality coin. The other was the view from our car, as it maneuvered through the streets of Agra. The stereotypical chaos of cows on the road, bicycles, rickshaws, people, cars, all of them moving. Together. Everywhere. Across. Around. Through. Over. Under. At. The. Same. Time. Sensory overload. 

I was glad to arrive in a quiet, clean hotel, and grateful for my life of comfort and the opportunity to be reminded of the way many *many* people live.

Taj Majal at sunrise.

The Taj Majal at sunrise. Put it on your list of things to do before you die, if you haven't done so already. It looks like sugar, and changes color every five minutes as its exposure to the sunlight changes. I thought I would be desensitized to its splendor because I've seen so many images of it, but that was not the case. 

From Agra we took a train to Ranthambore, an area of Rajasthan where tigers roam and reign supreme. Tara recommended we include a Sher Bagh experience. Created with the intention of welcoming those interested in going on safari to visit Bengal tigers in their natural habitat, and enjoying some of the world's best guest services experiences, Sher Bagh is a place where you go to be pampered, eat very well, and have spiritual experiences associated with seeing a tiger in its home, from the comfort of doorless, roofless, open-topped safari jeeps. When our train arrived in Ranthambore, we were greeted by Sher Bagh drivers and butlers who offered us lemon water on a silver platter at the railway station. We embarked our jeep, and on our tiger adventure. We arrived at Sher Bagh in the midst of a forest and adobe grounds. A luxury tent "glamping" (glamour camping) experience, where good taste, comfort, and respect for the surrounding environment come together to humble you into submitting to the magic this place has to offer. 

"Glamping" (glamour camping) in Sher Bagh.

On our first outing, we visited a Hindu temple dedicated to Ganesha located in the heart of the tiger reserve. The temple is more than one thousand years old, and sits carved into the rocks that protrude from the hills of Ranthambore. Ancient engineers masterminded a design that curves along with the winding hills, creating a powerful spiritual experience for pilgrims and visitors. 

We returned to camp for dinner by torch light. The buffet meal

Dinner by torch light in Sher Bagh.

of typical home cooking from Rajasthan was presented on an adobe buffet mound made of a mixture of manure and red soil that is used to make houses in this part of India. The design was brilliant and included a cavity in the mound where candles were placed to keep the food warm. Butlers helped us serve scrumptious daal, okra, chicken paneer, yogurt, and chutney on gorgeous copper plates. All this was accompanied with the best naan I've ever had. After dinner, we enjoyed a drink with our hosts, the family who owns Sher Bagh and whose passion for Ranthambore and its tigers is contagious. Their anecdotes about tiger sitings peaked our interest and made us almost burst at the seams with anticipation. We returned to our tent for a hot shower and a comfortable night's rest under a mosquito net. I felt like I was living the Out of Africa dream of living in luxury safari mode. A sunrise safari awaited us the next morning, and I dreamt of tigers.

Tracking tigers.

Tiger sitings at this time of year were complicated because the recent monsoons had left a lush canopy of brush, creating hiding places for tigers. For hours, we roamed the jungle, which looked like an enchanted forest where fairies live. Recent rainfall allowed for fresh and crisp mint green leaves to shimmer against the charcoal black background of tree trunks that twisted and curved amongst the magic of the jungle. We spotted different varieties of deer, peacocks, monkeys, wild boar, dragonflies the color of fire, and birds galore. We even caught sight of a terrifying but gorgeous spider with black, orange, and yellow spots the size of my hand. It rested on its gigantic and perfectly symetrical web waiting for prey. 

The spider waited for its prey just as we sat by an enormous and ancient Banyan tree that looked like something from the Lord or the Rings, about to pull its massive roots and vines as if they were arms and legs to start walking deeper into the jungle. We waited not for prey, but for a tiger siting. We were on the look out for alarm calls (sounds animals make to warn us that there are tigers around). At one magical and nerve racking moment, a deer stood perfectly still and began patting his front leg as an indication that he sensed the presence of a tiger. I've never been so horrified and thrilled with anticipation. We waited for an hour, and deep down in our animal instinct (that woke up in Ranthambore after being dormant in our life in a concrete jungle) we knew there was a tiger near us. However, the tiger wasn't feeling sociable enough to say hello.

Sunset in Ranthambore.

At sundown, we witnessed one of the best shows I've seen the sun put on. A palette of pastel colors draping the sky above an ancient Hindu temple that has sat in the middle of a lake as a lounging area for many generations of tigers. My heart skipped beats and I sighed more than once.

While exiting the reservation that evening, we stumbled upon a traffic jam of safari jeeps on the main road. The guide in the jeep ahead of us stopped and pointed to our left, where ten feet from us, there he was...a tiger. My hands started to shake with excitement, fear, happiness, and a feeling of relief because this tiger had allowed us a glimpse, and appeased anxious anticipation. The monkeys in the trees yelled, jumped, and ran away from the tiger, while us humans clicked away with our cameras. I left Ranthambore a happier person than when I entered it. Tara and the family that runs Sher Bagh is addicted to the feeling of complete awe of seeing India's Bengal tigers, and perhaps I am now an addict as well. The power and imposing presence of a tiger living in his home are enough to humble even the most indifferent of spectators. I now understand what it means to be blessed by a tiger's decision to grace you with his presence. 

This is what happens when you're shaking so much, you can't take a proper photo of the tiger that is ten feet from you, and you're in an open jeep.

Seeing a tiger in his home solidified my belief that animals, and the environment we share with them, are sacred and to be revered and respected. 

*Fatehpur Sikri is a stunning Mughal city built with the purpose of bringing together artists, philosophers, theologists, and people from different religions far and wide. Stone is carved so intricately, it has the appearance of wood.

India: Part II - Bukhara Daal

We dedicated the first few days of our trip to New Delhi to visiting historic sites and eating. We ooed and awed at miniature paintings of Hindu mythology, ancient sculptures of gods and goddesses at the National Museum, and tombs and monuments that spring up in the middle of the urban hustle and bustle. We were humbled by these pieces of Indian history.

We joined friends at Bukhara, a famous restaurant where customers are given bibs and a meal of a lifetime that includes daal (stewed lentils) that is quite simply the best in the world. Once I tasted the smoky deliciousness I knew there had to be something special about how they make these little grains. I was right. I heard rumors that they use the same pot to make the daal, and never wash it out, so the flavors remain infused in each new batch of daal and spices...and BUTTER! Yum. Word has it that they place a few lentils on a small piece of charcoal under the pot in order to give the whole mise en place a hint of smoked daal. 

Our Bukhara feast. The lamb melted off the bone like butter.

The world's best daal (see what I mean about the butter)? Yum.

Finger lickin' good. KFC, eat your heart out.

It is hard for me to comprehend the magnitude of Indian history. So complex and....old! As I savored the mouth-watering meal at Bukhara I thought about how centuries of culinary traditions have come together to create a marriage of spices that bring intense happiness to my heart. It was an experience similar to standing in front of a statue of Buddha that dates back to the second century and feeling utterly happy and spiritually overwhelmed about what I was seeing. 

India: Part 1

I dedicate the following India entries to celebrating 20,000+ hits to my blog. Thank you for reading what I love to write.

Tara, architect, designer, art historian, chef, world traveler, and dear friend invited us to visit her in India. She and I met at culinary school in Paris and instantly became kindred spirits. Neither of us consider ourselves religious, but we find our spirituality in the passion and appreciation we have for travel, food, tigers (more on tigers later), and all things beautiful. 

My husband and I decided India would be the perfect destination to celebrate his 40th birthday. It's an important moment to remember in someone's life, and India's history, food, colors, adventures, and magic seemed to offer the memorable experience we were looking for. We were right.

Ranthambore women

We arrived in Delhi after a 30+-hour trip from Panama City, and were instantly treated like a king and queen even though we looked like creepy zombies with bloodshot eyes from the 15-hour plane ride we'd just taken. A chofer took us to Tara's home, which is where good taste, globe-trotter design, and comfort come together. 

Living room

Library

Delhi beyond the balcony

Before I tell you about our trip, however, I'd like to talk about what happened before we left Panama. I thought long and hard about how I would prepare for a trip to India. As a student of anthropology at the London School of Economics I studied under many professors who were experts on India. In fact, social anthropology has its roots in London, where the British sent ethnographers to India way back when in order to study Indian society *and therefore be able to take better control of it. Because I've read many ethnographies about the caste system and religions of India, I had an image in my mind about what the country was all about. I envisioned utter luxury as well as dire misery. I prepared myself psychologically for these extremes, and for sensory overload. Even though I knew I'd see tough things, I was convinced that I would also see wonderful things. 

Weaver at Ramthambore women's cooperative

Others didn't share that view. In fact, plenty of Panamanians, and people from other Latin American countries, looked at me like I was insane for wanting to go to India. Many were confused, or perhaps simply ignorant about where and what India was, and told me to be careful, as if I were about to enter a war zone. You'd be surprised by how many people in the Americas lump all of the Middle East, South Asia, and a lot of Asia, into one and the same. All of it dark and dangerous. That's what they think.

A few days before leaving, my husband was having a conversation with two women about our upcoming trip. One of them said, "have a great time and bring me something nice!" and the other responded, "what would he bring back? There's nothing there to bring."

Instead of allowing this point of view to pollute my dreams of India, I felt sorry for this woman and instead envisioned myself in textile markets buying block print and cut-work treasures to bring back to Panama. 

The entries to come will tell you about the trip. I'll finish this first entry by explaining that our experience was magical. Mostly because India's colorful chaos is intoxicating in positive and negative ways, but our trip was particularly special because of our hostess. A lovely, strong, and brilliant Indian woman who has the sophistication that comes with seeing the magic that the world has to offer.

Mark Twain once said that "travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many people need it solely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one corner of the earth all one's lifetime."

I am thankful that I do not suffer from vegetating in my corner of the earth, and I know when I need my travel fix. I needed an escape from Panama's concrete jungle, our routine, and prejudice (mine and everyone else's). This adventure confirmed my belief that escape is what feeds my intellect and my spirituality.

Anticipating India

My name.

Pretty soon, this blog will have photos and recipes of succulent lamb curries, burnt red raw silk saris, intricate marble etchings on the walls of ancient palaces, yellow ochre spices, inquisitive eyes the color of which I have yet to discover, Himalayan sunsets and sunrises I have yet to imagine, tiger homes, people homes, homeless people, people watchers, people I have yet to meet...in India. Stay tuned for my next foodie anthropologist adventure.

White Teeth*

I recently visited Embera Drua, an indigenous community located in the Darien region of Panama. When I first arrived, these are the things that entered my mind: paradise, happy, Tahiti, Gaugin, staged?, white teeth(!)

When I thought about the angle of this blog entry, I considered three options. The first is to write like a romantic anthropologist and celebrate how wonderful it is that this girl is dressed like this:

Panama or Tahiti?

The second option for a blog entry angle is to tell a far less romantic side of the story.

The third, and final, option for this food blog entry is, of course, to talk about the food. After much consideration, and because I find all three angles equally interesting, I'll incorporate them all.

Our guide, a prominent member of the community and the person in charge of public relations for the indigenous group cooperative, explained that back in the day, the Embera Drua used to wear clothing made of tree bark decorated with natural dyes. He explained that they stopped using this clothing in order to preserve trees. He said that only two of the seven indigenous communities of Panama, the Embera being one of them, dress in "traditional" clothing. So, what is "traditional"?

As an anthropologist, "traditional" and "custom" are my least favorite words. This is because I believe people are constantly changing, especially at this point in time, when the world is a peanut and it is easy to blend traditions and customs, such as, say, the Embera Drua of Panama with Tahiti. Therefore, I think tradition and custom are evolving concepts and if I lifted the skirt of an Embera lady, I would probably see the following text printed on the fabric: "Made in Tahiti". Actually, I don't know whether or not Tahitians still wear the skirts that Gauguin made so famous. I doubt that Tahiti exports anything other than gorgeous vacation memories, so it would probably say "Made in Bangladesh, Pakistan, or India" but you get the idea. 

Embera house and hanging kilts, which are purchased in Panama city but my guess is that they're probably imported from Asia.

Ia Orana Maria Aka Hail Mary, Paul Gaugin, 1891

This doesn't mean that an Embera woman's current "tradition" or "customs" are less valid. In fact, the Embera are (very wisely) adapting their traditions and customs in order to participate in Panama's tourist market. The tourist industry is one of their most significant sources of revenue, so they are re-inventing themselves in order to preserve their existence as an indigenous community. So what if they add a few "non-traditional" beads and textiles along the way in order to look pretty and make for better photo ops when the tourists come by. 

Necklace made of US quarters (which are used as currency in Panama).

Now let's talk about the Embera community's white teeth. Well, they have them, and the reason I find this interesting is that I doubt they see dentists every six months. I think it's because they eat real food. Not processed food, mega sugary drinks and snacks, but rather fruits, fish, plantains, and vegetables. 

Here's another popping of the romantic bubble, however. To my heartbreak, I saw a pile of Coca Cola crates, a young girl drinking a florescent pink fizzy drink, and a mother feeding a fuscia-colored creamy sugary wafer to a seven-month-old baby. I wanted to shout "NO! DON'T DO IT! Keep your white teeth!" But I guess it's inevitable that now that they can afford to go to town and purchase beef, cooking oil, and rice, they can also buy junk food along the way. Oh well, there go the white teeth.

Embera Drua woman preparing the fire for our lunch.

Deep-frying.

Delicious fried fish and plantain for lunch.

*By the way, I'm reading Zadie Smith's White Teeth and it's fantastic. You can tell a lot about a person by the color of their teeth.

**Check out my photographer friend Alejandra's gorgeous photos of the community.

***I highly recommend visiting the Embera Drua. They have a community cooperative that organizes day trips that includes a canoe ride along the river Chagres, a dip in a beautiful waterfall, and a chance to meet the lovely people of the community, have lunch, and shop for stunning Embera crafts.

My son with an Embera Drua tucan mask.
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Le Cordon Bleu = The Plan

This journey begins in Port of Spain, Trinidad & Tobago. As wild parrots fly by my window to make their morning calls, the French Embassy telephones to inform me that my student visa was granted.

The Plan: 

Move to Paris for eight months to study Le Grand Diplôme, the highest degree in culinary and pastry arts, at Le Cordon Bleu.

Why:

This crazy idea started when I was telling my husband (for the millionth time) about my dream to go to culinary school. But I didn't want to go to just any culinary school. I wanted to go to the culinary school. Le Cordon Bleu. And I didn't want to go to just any Cordon Bleu. I wanted to go to Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, the city that has inspired some of the most influential and creative people of all time.

He, being the most generous, supportive, and fantastic man in the world, said, "Do it!"

Background:

In order to tell you the whole story about this dream of mine, I should start from the beginning. I remember eating (and enjoying) spinach crepes at age six, when my friends thought they were "yucky" and "weird". I was raised eating escargots and drinking Möet Chandon (even if a bit watered down) before the age of ten. The protagonists of this exposure were my mother, a fantastic cook, and my father, a fantastic eater.

I eat street food, restaurant food, and everything in between. Macaroni and cheese from a box (which I first ate at the age of 26, when my husband introduced me to the stuff), to warthog in peanut sauce in a remote village in Equatorial Guinea, Africa. Fat ants in Colombia and fried grasshoppers in Mexico. Boeuf Bourguignon in a Parisian cafe, and lovely spots of tea in London, Karachi, and Beijing.

I was born and raised in Colombia, one of the most beautiful places in the world. My family is from Cartagena, the most beautiful place in the world. Cartagena's history dates back forever and ever as a melting pot for West Africans, Middle-easteners, Native Americans, and Europeans, among others. The food of Cartagena is a product of its diverse immigration history. A common dinner in Cartagena, for example, is a pot roast cooked in the French style, served with coconut rice and plantains, which are West African dishes that I also ate in Equatorial Guinea, Africa, by the way. But I'll leave that for another blog entry. 

Inspired by the social context in which I grew up, I went on to study two Masters degrees in social anthropology, one at the London School of Economics (LSE). The LSE is a petri dish for international development workers, one of which I became. I worked at an NGO in Washington DC on education programs in Africa and Latin America. A couple of years later, I moved to Trinidad and Tobago because my husband was offered a job working for an international organization. I left my job and dedicated myself to being a wife and mother. Shortly after our son was born, I realized I didn't want to continue working at the same pace as before he was born. That's when I considered realizing my dream about attending culinary school.

I'd like to think of myself as an amateur food anthropologist. I have much to learn, however, and thus my plan to become a chef. I am not a foodie, nor am I an expert in anything. What I am is an ethnographer who enjoys learning about food, its history and context, and who wants to become a chef. In this blog, I plan to chronicle my experience living in Paris and studying at Le Cordon Bleu as well as talk about the food of my travels. Trinidadian cuisine, for example, is fascinating to me, so look for entries about it during the next few weeks before I head off to Paris.

Here we go...