Journals

The colorful umbrellas of food carts dot the streets of Xela. Shredded pork, pineapple, pizza, tortillas con carne, ceviche – whatever you crave can be found on the street. Although I’ve eaten virtually everything on the forbidden-food-for-travelers list, I’ve steered clear of street fare.   I’ll admit, at times, the sights and scents are a bit alluring. Some days ago, walking down a side street, I saw a cart-chef scraping the presumably dull blade of a rather large knife against the sidewalk.    I slowed my stroll. No, he can’t possibly… Yup. My knees fell weak as I witnessed the blade tear into the soft flesh of a ripe tomato mere moments later. It all happened in slow-mo.   The sound of friction—steel against splotchy, soiled, city concrete—echoed in my head at an earsplitting decibel. Good God man.   I later recounted the event to Jeff still in disbelief. He shared a lovely little story that trumped mine no contest. During a long drive through the countryside with his brother and girlfriend, he stopped at a roadside cart for a bite. The old women whipped together a sandwich with seasoned carne, peppers, and queso in no time. He said the meat was “todo, todo, blanca.” He tapped his finger on the white plastic table, “Como este.” So, he asked the old woman, “Es carne de cerdo?” [Is this pork?].   In hindsight, he recalls the woman’s hesitation and darting of the eyes before she answered simply, “Si, si.” Famished, he bit off a mouthful. Chomp, chomp, chomp. Hmmmm . He paused. Hard swallow . Neurons started firing; his taste buds were sending the brain an SOS. At that moment, Jeff recalled hearing that in the rural areas it wasn’t uncommon for roadside chefs to make use of the stray dogs downed by vehicles. He pulled the bread apart to examine the carne blanca, reluctantly lifted his head, and asked the woman, “Es perro?”   She didn’t reply. It didn’t matter; he already knew the answer. His psyche moved quickly to sound the alarm notifying the stomach to trigger the release valve.   The Spanish word for vomit is a cognate so it’s easy to remember—vomito. And so he did.   Monday, Vincente never showed for class. Vincent is in his late 30’s. He, too, is motorcycling his way through Central America. Then South America. Then hopping a barge to Africa. He and Arnold met by chance at a cantina. It wasn’t long before they were comparing scars and sharing stories about life on the road over shots of rum and Redbull.   They now share an apartment in Xela and will hit the road together next month. Tuesday I saw Vincent, “Como estas?” “Much better, I was sick as a dog yesterday.   I ate some street meat. It looked good but it was feo (ugly) man, real feo. Spent the whole night in el baño if you know what I mean.”   Yup, comprendo—no necesito mas informacion . Needless to say, as appetizing as “street meat” sounds, I’ve heard (and seen) one too many horror stories. I’m fairly confident I’d rather nibble on my own arm than dabble in the culinary wonders of cart-chefs. That’s not to say there aren’t some gastronomic gems to be found roadside – I’m just personally not a big fan of high stakes trial and error… or amoebas. On the topic of food, one of the best aspects of staying with a local family is the home-made, authentic cuisine. Granted, not all home-stay families are created equal.   Take Veronica for instance. She arrived last week for her third stint in Guate this year alone. Having just met her, I couldn’t help but be distracted when, as we were casually chatting, she lifted her shirt to apply some potent smelling, holistic salve. The girl’s entire torso was polka-dotted red—it was like looking at an albino ladybug. She figures the bites from her bed-mates, pulgas (fleas), total around 200. But I digress; let’s return to the people food, shall we?   Mi abuela has whipped up some very impressive veggie creations. One of my faves is chocolate tamales. Made of mashed rice with cinnamon and dates, covered in that delectable, artisanal chocolate and wrapped in banana leaves to steam. Similar to bread or rice pudding I guess but much more delicious. Other creations include yuca frittatas with fresh salsa;   fresh, warm blue corn tortillas covered in a very light, home-made queso picante, black beans, and topped with avocado; sizzled tofu (yes, tofu – it’s soy beans after all) on fluffy fresh baked bread with tomatoes, onion, melted queso fresco, and a roasted red pepper-jalapeño-cilantro pesto of sorts; red peppers stuffed with diced carrot & other veggies, battered and fried;   pasta with a thick tomato & cilantro sauce & dabs of home-made cheese; mango & strawberry over an oatmeal-like, sweetened *mush; stir-fried veggies over yellow rice with tortillas & guacamole; giant ears of corn sprinkled with lime juice and crystals of sea salt. Breakfast is at 7a, lunch usually falls around 2p, and dinner is at 7p. Typically, various members of the family return to mi casa for lunch, which of course, is the largest meal of the day. Warning:   If you’re a devoted member of the carb-free cult you just may perish in Guate (or at least have your membership card revoked) since every meal is accompanied by some form of bread, rice, oat and/or potato. The only thing that comes out of box in my abuela’s kitchen is the corn flakes. It’s fantastic. I aspire to keep this custom alive back in the homeland. *Apparently in Español, “mush” means bellybutton (pronounced moosh ).   Of course, I learned this after telling Luvi I had strawberries with bellybutton for breakfast. Porridge in Español is “gachas”.