Food Comfort?

I am not exactly sure what I was thinking when I came down here. I knew that I would need to eat, and I knew that most food required time and skill to prepare it, but somehow I did not connect that I would actually be spending some time cooking this year. That food wouldn’t just magically be available for me. Novel thought. Going shopping for the first time with Laura was an awakening. She showed me where I could get beans. Dried beans. I remember putting them into my cart and thinking to myself, “Annika, you are so far from Kansas...” The first time I tried to do something with those dried beans I began with stirring optimism; throwing a bunch of split peas into a pot, adding water, then lighting the stove (which in and of itself was troublesome. Humidity+bad matches=no fire. Sometimes I would go through 10+ matches before I can get one to light-I have since learned that storing them next to the stove helps keep them dried out) and waiting for them to grow soft and delicious. Several hours later the beans, which had been merrily boiling away uncovered, were still very hard. I’d heard somewhere, back in the foggy days when food magically appeared, that beans are supposed to be soaked before they are cooked. So I turned off the heat and tried that. The next morning I heated them up again. Several hours later the beans were still hard. I finally admitted defeat and brought my poor pathetic pot of beans to Jud Wickwire. He put them in a food processor and made hummus out of them. At least we were able to glean something from my foray into bean cooking.

Besides the cooking troubles that stemmed from my ineptitude at creating meals that do not include opening a can at some point, cooking in Guyana also comes with a whole new vocabulary. Chickpeans/garbonzo beans are called channa, eggplant is called balange (“bu” as it is pronounced in “bug” lon-jay), pretty much anything a United States American would call a bean, the Guyanese call a pea. The closest thing they have to green beans here is a long bean pod called bora. Cabbage is still cabbage, there is lots of pumpkin, pineapple is just called pine, if you ask for potatoes don’t be surprised if someone clarifies by querying, “Irish potatoes?” The alternative is sweet potatoes. In terms of me cooking anything though, these have been minor adjustments. Vocab words. The actual cooking of channa, balange, and bora have required much more time to learn then the time it took to learn the names. 

Shundel had picked up on my inability to cook in Guyana-being unable to light the stove was probably her first hint-so the first few weeks (okay, months), if she wanted something decent (and by decent I mean edible) to eat, she cooked. I, of course, wanted so badly to help and felt bad that she was preparing most of our food. So I would insist on making some meals. I’m sure Shundel dreaded those meals. Even the oatmeal I made was bad (gluey). Once I tried making a bean soup, and, wonder of wonders, the beans softened a little-much to my delight. I put in the vegetables thinking that the beans, bora, onion, okra, and carrots would finish cooking about the same time. Nope. The vegetables finished, then became mushy, and the beans were still tough. Shundel graciously ate the meal and only poked a little fun at my beans. We really don’t waste much food, but those beans did not get eaten a second time.

Shundel has been gone for much of December and January. There have been visitors in and out of my house, some have cooked for me, some have helped me cook, some I have cooked for. All in all, I’ve gotten a lot better. Sister Carmen taught me how to make empanadas, Esther Wolfkill and I made a pineapple upside down cake together, Chrystal gave me a recipe book and Laura passed along her bread recipe.  Food doesn’t magically appear out of the kitchen, but it does at least appear in a eatable form. I will appreciate a fridge when I get home, I will appreciate canned food. I will appreciate being able to pull a balanced meal together in 20 min. But, for now, cooking food is becoming comfortable. 

Of Sharon and Other Adventures in Creole

That particular afternoon Shundel and I were searching for a slip for Sister Iris. Sister Iris is quite blind and doesn’t go out. Her bachelor grandson is her primary caregiver and she assured us he knew nothing about buying women’s slips. So we clambered onto a bus and rode down to Kumaka in search of a slip. We poked through some stores and found one we thought would work well. We still had some time and decided to swing by a store we hadn’t visited before (it is always closed when we go to market Tuesday morning) and see if they were open and sold “top up”. The way cell service works in Guyana is like this. One purchases a phone that will work with one of the two cell networks; Digicell or GT&T. Then one loads it with the appropriate networks’ cell phone minutes by purchasing a “credit card” or via top up. A top up machine allows the shop owner to load minutes onto the account associated with your cell number. Top up is cheaper here then the credit cards and so we hoped the store would be open. As we came around the corner we saw the green doors were unlocked and we walked in. Shundel completed her top up purchase and I, in my best Guyanese accent (which sounds like my best Spanish accent, which sounds eerily similar to my best Norwegian accent) said, “Please for a thousand top up?”  The woman behind the counter took my phone number, confirmed “for thousand?” and then loaded my phone. When I got it back I was shocked to realize that I now had four thousand dollars of credit on my phone! 

“Yes, you say “four thousand’,” the women reminded me.

“Oh no! I meant for A thousand!” 

She laughed and laughed and graciously let me come back later to pay the bill. When I returned she told me how she had told all her friends about the white girl who accidentally bought $4000 ($20 US) top up. I am glad I can bring such joy to the hearts of Kumaka’s shop owners. 

One beautiful Sabbath morning I was puffing my way to church under the hot sun carrying a freshly cooked (and still quite warm) pot of rice for potluck. “Hey you Sharon?” The men called out to me as they sat resting in the shade. “Nope!”, I called out, laughing to myself a little. The white ladies here are often mistaken for one another. People have asked me for flights before thinking I was Laura, but I hadn’t met a Sharon yet. Oh well; I went on my way. Later it dawned on me. They weren’t asking if I was Sharon, they were asking if I was sharin’; my pot of rice that is.

Before I came to Guyana, I did not realize how much the words I used to communicate relied on the culture around them. Here, I can use the same words, but because of their cultural context their interpretation is very different. If I were to walk into a shop and ask for a credit card, I would get cell credit. In the States, I would probably just get a puzzled look-"aren't I the one who is supposed to ask YOU for your credit card?" Communication, speaking a common language, relies not just on the words we use but on the experiences we share. The right words, even spoken correctly, can get lost in translation if the experience is missing. As I continue to experience the Guyanese culture, I am able to speak and understand better and communicate more clearly. As I build experiences with the missionaries here we are able to convey ideas more effectively. I think the same thing applies to reading the Bible and talking with God. As we experience God we begin to understand what he is saying more and more. The Bible gains layers and texture when we begin to experience the words for ourselves. Whether buying cell phone credit or conversing with the creator, it pays to spend time experiencing and really learning the language.