On gastronomy and gal pals

¡Uepa!

Reflecting upon the last couple of weeks, I am pleased to say that I’ve been well fed. Maybe it’s the summer heat that makes doñas want to whip me up some fried plantains every time I pass by, or perhaps they believe my jean shorts that haven’t been washed in weeks make me look thin because they’re don’t stick to me like lycra anymore, because good golly, my community has been taking care of me. And because I’ve been sharing so many meals with doñas, I’ve been doing quite a bit of compartir, a Spanish verb that means “to share.” The concept of compartir certainly applies to sharing food, but more so, it means to share each other’s company. Compartir can mean anything from drinking coffee with a neighbor, sitting in plastic chairs on the street for hours and sending children to buy bread and mayonnaise at the closest colmado, or making a huge vat of espagettis with sweetened-condensed milk to bring to the beach with friends on a Sunday afternoon (and damn is that spaghetti good stuffed in the middle of a white bread sandwich).

Anyhow, with my two best friends Kris and Emily visiting from America, I was determined to show them the true spirit of compartir. In preparation, coveted items were requested weeks in advance so that they would fully experience the reciprocity of compartir. They filled suitcases with Ghirardelli brownie mix, bags of nail polish, coloring books and crayons, Crystal Light juice packets, Sour Patch Kids and every kind of nut Trader Joes carries. We were fully prepared for what I fondly refer to as “The Gastronomic Compartir Tour of Manzanillo.”

Doña food: crab, fried chicken, moro and tostones

Day 1: The adventures of Sambumba

I remember the first time I ever ate sambumba as clearly as I remember learning to read an analog clock. It was a moment of beautiful clarity in which I realized my life had changed for the better. My encounter with sambumba happened one scorching hot afternoon in April and my momma Luisa came into the house with a mischievous grin. “¿Qué fue? What happened?” I asked. “Alida just gave me two pounds of chuleta (lamb chop) and it’s worth $200 pesos so we’re making sambumba” I just stared and tried to repeat the word. Was it samboobies, sambooyah, kombucha, samwhaddya, samyaya? I had no idea but I went with it. “Okay,” I said, “Get at me, sambumba!” An hour later, we were eating a delicious bowl of bean stew with plantains,auyuama (pumpkin), salami, sausage and lamb chop over steaming white rice. Mmmmmm, que rico.

Now every day with sambumba is a day when I get to share a special moment with my momma Luisa. She always saves me the biggest bowl if I’m coming home late and we always eat together and catch up on the latest telenovela drama while enjoying my favorite Dominican meal. Because sambumba has many fond memories, I knew upon planning “The Gastronomic Compartir Tour of Manzanillo” for my best friends Emily and Kris, that sambumba would be the first on the menu.

Emily, Kris and I arrived to my humble abode after a long day of traveling and Luisa embraced my BFFs in her classic bear hug and said, “Are you ready for the sambumba?” The girls looked at me skeptical but sat down as they were commanded to and we served them up a piping hot cauldron of sambumba. We proceeded to enjoy our sambumba with frequent interruptions from Luisa asking “How is it? Do you like it? Do you love it? Do you want more? Eat eat!”

Success!

Day 2: Can’t stop, wont stop!

Day Two started with mashed up pumpkin with some scrambled eggs on top, generously prepared by my host brother Dawin. I’m pretty sure he had a crush on both Emily and Kris, and was more than willing to scramble up their eggs when I asked at an ungodly early hour (for him). We had a few grecas worth of coffee and set out on our way for the biggest and toughest day of the tour. First stop was guava juice and (an offer of potatoes, rice and beans that we politely declined) with Tita. We chatted about life in America and how thankful Tita was for the wrinkle cream Emily generously brought her from the Promised Land. We then headed to Mama Julia’s where the tour really ramped up.

I spend every Saturday afternoon with Mama Julia as she is the best story teller in town. She’s always got a mango, coconut or guava to share and is never without a story and a good laugh. Mama Julia remarks that I was sent to her at the perfect time, just when her daughter moved their whole family to New York and she was missing someone to love like her own. “God works in mysterious ways mi’ja,” She’ll tell me. “God knew that I needed a new daughter to love.”  If I had to quantify the amount of food that’s helped us reach this point of love and strong connection, it would be as follows.

- 52 mangos

- 6 coconuts

- 19 nuts that taste like pork

- 192 tostones (twice fried plantains)

- 8 bowls of moro (rice and beans)

- 2 bowls of extra-salt added ramen noodles

- 43 mints from the colmado

- 36 cups of sugar-ed up coffee

Me and my Mama Julia!

So of course Mama Julia’s house was on the list. We arrived and I told her son, Jose, that we would just be stopping in for some coffee. Well, a plate of tostones and fried salami, a bowl of moro, a platter of vegetables, three cups of coffee, one coconut and three mangoes later, we finally left her porch. We head back down the hill to my house where I informed the girls that they’d need to magically make space in their stomachs because it was time for la bandera, rice, beans and chicken at Chichi’s house. Stuffed, happy and two lunches later, we rolled out to my Escojo youth group graduation where cake was served with fried yucca balls, empanadas and quipes, small chicken-stuffed and fried grain balls. The graduation was beautiful and it was a great time to compartir with the jóvenes (youth) from my town. The girls handled it well when I set them to work blowing up balloons, setting up signs, serving the cake and pouring the soda. Their afternoon treat was much deserved.

A cake weighing in at 20 pounds!

And to top of Day Two of the tour, we went to my old host mom Wendy’s house for pastelón, another one of my favorite Dominican dishes. Pastelón is a dish with mashed plantains, meat and cheese very similar in to a shephard’s pie. The whole platter later, I informed the girls that they were officially done eating for the night, unless they wanted leftover cake. A shake of the head from both of them let me know that I’d done a fine job with the agenda on Day Two.

Day 3: Fry everything twice

Yesenia, my women’s leader from the neighboring town of Copey, has been my saving grace. She was the first person I met here that I trusted de una vez (right away). She quickly became my “mother” in Copey and she warmly welcomed me into the family. Now Margot, her mother, is my grandmother and brindars me juice within two minutes of my arrival in her home, every time. When I mentioned that my friends would be visiting, they immediately asked what they could make us for breakfast. Joking, I told them I was putting in a formal request for tostones, fried cheese, fried salami, juice and a platter of fruit. I laughed at the end to hint that I was kidding and we only wanted their company and perhaps a cup of coffee. “Mi’ja,” Yesenia exclaimed, “That sounds perfect! We’ll have the whole thing ready by 9 o’clock.”

Twice fried plantains, cheese and salami. Mmmmm.

Sunday morning rolled around soon enough and we were ushered to their table to enjoy all aforementioned fried goods along with mabi de palo, a delicious kombucha-like juice made from sticks and dried leaves. We gorged ourselves on one too many fried plantains and Yesenia mentioned, “As your student in our women’s Healthy Homes group, I only justify this once! Bea...you should know better.” The guilt set in, but as she said it, I realized just how much confianza (trust) we have with one another. Three months ago, I never would have felt comfortable dictating what she should make for breakfast, let alone invite a clan into her house to eat it all. Upon washing all the grease off our fingers and packing our bags to head out for the beach, I reflected upon how truly amazing my community is. They have adopted me whole-heartedly and I them. We have inside jokes, favorite meals, gossip time, so much more work to accomplish and so many more fried plantains and cups of coffee to compartir.  

Delicious breakfast thanks to Yesenia & Co.

Margot, Me, Emily, Kris and Yesenia!

And so concluded “The Gastronomic Compartir Tour of Manzanillo” and the hours of my friends, doñas and I spent laughing, eating and enjoying friendship cultures apart. 

¡Buen provecho!

Bea

This delicious dinner was a special treat because it included a salad! 

My kids graduated!!! Felicidades! Let them eat cake!

On books and kale

¡Olé!

Last week was the most relaxing and a much needed tranquil break! Everyone had the week off for Semana Santa (Holy Week) and I stayed in Manzanillo and was cogiendolo suave (taking it easy). I slept in, cleaned, organized, ate sweet bean dish at all my favorite doñas houses, took a beach day, painted my nails, worked out, went to a merengue show with my grandma and extremely fashionable aunt and read three books.

One of the books I finished this week was Wild by Cheryl Strayed. It’s quite popular in America (so I hear) and I wanted to see what the fad was all about. Glad I did because it was a great read! Quick synopsis: Wild is a true story of one woman's journey hiking the Pacific Crest Trail from California to Oregon back in the 1990s. In documenting her travels, she simultaneously explains real-life problems like divorce, her mother dying, and a crumbling family life. Even though her life situation was/is completely different from mine, it was amazing to read how relatable her trail life is to my life here in the Peace Corps. PCT life is just like PCV life I suppose! A few quotes in particular have really hit home for me. Here’s my list of relatable quotes and a lil commentary on each one.

• “My new existence was beyond analogy, I realized on that second day on the trail. I was in entirely new terrain. What a mountain was and what a desert was were not the only things I hadn't expected. I hadn't expected the flesh on my tailbone and hips and the fronts of my shoulders to bleed. I hadn't expected to average a bit less than a mile an hour...” 

Within my first month as a volunteer, I realized that my Peace Corps life is beyond analogy. What a culture is and what a volunteer does were not the only things I had my own expectations for. I hadn't expected to be living in a food desert, living teasingly close to comforts of America, never being alone, and constantly being constipated. I hadn't expected that my community projects wouldn't always work out as planned. And trying compare it “all” (my town, my job, my emotions, my challenges, the culture, the food, etc) to anything else in the world is impossible.

• “I staggered north toward Kennedy Meadows, furious with myself for having come up with this inane idea. Elsewhere, people were having barbeques and days of ease, lounging by lakes and taking naps. They had access to ice cubes and lemonade and rooms whose temperature was 70 degrees. I knew those people. I loved those people. I hated them too, for how far away they were from me, near death on a trail few had ever heard of.”

What gets me is that not even 2,000 miles away, people are having barbeques, doing hot yoga, drinking good beer, eating kale, easily streaming Netflix, eating hot cheetos, having wifi everywhere, and experiencing climate controlled rooms. But then again, those same people don’t get coffee 24/7, rice and beans everyday, merengue/bachata music all hours of the day, to walk to work, Caribas platano chips, tostones, or the thrill of riding a motorcycle around town!

• “I stopped in my tracks when that thought came into my mind, that hiking the PCT was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Immediately I amended the thought...Hiking the PCT was hard in a different way. In a way that made the other hardest things the tiniest bit less hard. It was strange but true.”

I wish someone had told me before I started how mentally difficult this job would be. It takes serious mental strength to get from day to day sometimes. And in the process, I’ve become my own biggest advocate, critic and motivator. It’s been the best exercise in finding power within myself. It’s a different kind of hard than I’ve ever known, but I suppose it can only make things I hope to do in the future that much easier.

• “By the end of that second week, I realized that since I’d begun my hike, I hadn’t shed a single tear.”

I still haven’t cried hard and good here and it’s been over 8 months! I guess that means it’s going well?

• As I walked, I didn’t think of those snowy peaks. Instead, I thought of what I would do once I arrived at the Kennedy Meadows General Store that afternoon, imagining in fantastic details all the things I would purchase to eat and drink...I pictured the moment when I would lay hands on my first resupply box, which felt to me like a monumental milestone, the palpable proof that I’d made it at least this far.”

 This quote resonates mostly because I spend time picturing the moment when I will lay hands on my next care package, which feels to me like a beautiful godsend, especially when it contains some combination of almond butter, Orbit gum, chocolate, Samoa Girl Scout cookies, dried mangos, chapstick, Reach mint waxed floss, new shirts, granola, nuts, fresh underwear and love notes.

• “I spent hours in a half-ecstatic, half-tortured reverie, fantasizing about cake and cheeseburgers, chocolate and bananas, apples and mixed-green salads, and more than anything, about Snapple lemonade. This did not make sense. I’d had only a few Snapple lemonades in my pre-PCT life and liked them well enough, but they hadn’t stood out in any particular way. It had not been my drink. But now it haunted me. Pink or yellow, it didn’t matter. Not a day passed that I didn’t imagine in vivid detail what it would be like to hold one in my hand and bring it to my mouth. Some days I forbade myself to think about it, lest I go entirely insane.

For me, it’s not Snapple lemonade, but more a combination of the things I can’t have. Kale enters my mind a lot, as does spinach. And iced tea and iced coffee. And as she remarks, some days I forbid myself from even thinking about American pleasures, lest I go insane. It’s the worst when I’m talking on the phone to my momma and she’s munching away on something so I go ahead and ask, “what’s that you’re eating over there?” and she’ll reply “oh, sorry honey, it’s a caramel from Trader Joes” or “it’s just a kale salad dad’s making.” It’s torture! And the snapchats yall send of delicious meals...rude! 

• “As difficult and maddening as the trail could be, there was hardly a day that passed that didn’t offer up some form of what was called trail magic in the PCT vernacular – the unexpected and sweet happenings that stand out in stark relief to the challenges of the trail.”

Yes, the Peace Corps is challenging and frustrating a lot of the time, but it’s also so much fun and so beautiful that I get to experience a new culture, live here, make friends here, hang out on porches, work with youth and mothers, and just be here. Every day, month, project, and experience is a net positive even if the accumulation of its parts comes with negatives.

• “The PCT had gotten easier for me, but that was different from it getting easy.”

I’ve taken to writing in a journal and when I reflect back on entries from months ago, I can see how far I’ve come and grown and that’s been inspiring to me and truly powerful. And looking forward I see how much there is left to do, and think to myself than in one month, two months, six months, I’ll be looking back on today thinking how much more satisfying it will become. In 8 months here, certain things have gotten easier. Like the food, and the bugs, and the lack of water and electricity. But it is far from easy – a word I would never use to describe being a PCV. It’s been a combination of challenging, rewarding, satisfying, infuriating, miserable, amazing, inspiring and tough – but never easy.

• “Thank you, I thought over and over again. Thank you. Not just for the long walk, but for everything I could feel finally gathered up inside of me; for everything the trail had taught me and everything I couldn’t yet know, though I felt it somehow already contained within me.”

I suppose it’s too soon to know what this experience has taught me, but I do know that everyday, being here teaches me something. I’ve been keeping a journal (thanks to Carolyn and Roy, who sent me down here with plenty of Moleskins!) and will hopefully be able to reflect in time on the experience and the lessons learned. But I do not that there is something here invaluable that I will take away in the end. Too hard to put a finger on it just yet, or maybe I never will, but it’s here with me!

¡Nos checkeamos!

B