The Joy of Supermarketing; or Oil, Oil, My Kingdom for Some Canola Oil !

A few weeks ago, in Valencia, one of our hosts offered to make us some cheese empanadas...dee-lish !  But when that evening came around, there were no empanadas to be seen, nor to be eaten.  Sorry, she apologized, there was no oil in the supermarket.

The following two mornings, she repeated the offer, and each evening, we found out that there was no oil to be had in Valencia, the third largest city in the country.  We never did get one of those homemade empanadas.

Who's to blame ?  I'm pretty sure Chavez.

We spent three months in Venezuela.  For three whole months, we had to endure Venezuela's anti-laissez-faire market politics in the supermarket.  I´m definitely not a proponent of 100 % laissez-faire, preferring a mix of let-it-be and slightly-tinker-with-it.  But in Venezuela, Chavez's plump hand wages a thumb war against the market's invisible hand and wins every time.

Any supermarket selling food at market level prices (gasp !) gets nationalized.  So in the end, you have a handful of nationalized chains that sell only the essentials, such as corn flour, rice, and...and...and to come to think of it, I can't remember anything else in those stores !  They sell those few products dirt cheap, and the poor wait in line for those basics for two hours.  Then you visit the other supermarkets, that aren't nationalized, and you find prices the same or higher than in Europe or the States (we're talking about a country with nearly 30% inflation).  So technically there is a choice : wait in line all day to buy the basics, or spend half your salary if you want your food to have any flavor.

But the one thing that's certain is that because of all of the price-fixing, many products that I consider more-or-less essential are conspicuously absent : could be milk this week, oil next week, and wheat flour the following week.  And forget about products deemed exotic !  You want couscous, go to Algeria !

So it was with great pleasure that we walked into our first supermarket upon returning to Colombia.  Its shelves were overflowing with reasonably-priced products from Colombia and beyond.  Normally I try to spend as little time as possible shopping, and grocery shopping is no exception.  But here, in post-Venezuela Colombia, everything's different...we take our time, we visit the same aisles over and over, we dream about the concoctions we could create in the kitchen.

And for the past week, we've been in the kitchen non-stop, preparing some of our favorite recipes, and learning a few new ones.  Believe me, they're so much tastier when you actually have spices and don't have to replace half of the main ingredients.

You Gotta Feel The Pepper !

The first time we met Claudio, it was at a seaside bar next to the marina.  Romano and Claudio prefered this bar because, unlike the others in the area, it had no metal bars covering the walls, doors, and windows.  In those other bars, I imagine, the view must have been quite similar to the vista seen by Alcatraz's inmates.

During the first half of our conversation, Claudio, with his intense bulging eyes, told me all the reasons for which I deserved the label gringo...and why I should be ashamed.  During the second half, he informed me that the American scientists had devised a method a rerouting hurricanes, generally in the direction of Haiti and Cuba.  We were sceptical, so he offered proof : the US had not been hit by a hurricane in more than three years.  Check mate, gringo !

Claudio is not Venezuelan, he's not even South American.  Claudio's an Italian in his 50's or 60's.  He has no hair on top, but more than enough for a gray ponytail on the back of his head.

Claudio, like our host Romano, lives alone on his boat.  He has done so for the past 15 years at least, and for nearly all of those years, he docked in Cartagena in Colombia.  But at the moment of our passage through Puerto la Cruz, Venezuela, he was living across the dock from Romano, and they had become friends.

Later that evening, we offered to make a meal, something simple...egg fried rice.  And so in Romano's tiny kitchen, with his tiny utensils and tiny pan, and on his tiny stove I prepared the dish.  On one burner the rice, the other some veggies frying.  Pauline and Romano were seated inside the cabin.  Claudio stood on the steps leading from the cabin to the upper deck.  I added a bit of salt and pepper to my vegetables.  And I was about to start frying the rice when Claudio suddenly said that he wouldn't be eating with us that evening, but he offered to cook an Italian meal the following day, and then he hastily left.

The next day, we walked across the plank to Claudio's immense sailboat where he was sweating profusely over the stove wearing only his sagging gray underwear.  He was preparing two dishes : one with fried zucchini, garlic, and fresh basil bathing in vinegar...and the other was a pasta dish with vegetables and fresh Italian cheeses.  Both were heavenly; I had thirds and could have eaten more, but I wanted to avoid being called a greedy or gluttonous gringo.

Throughout the whole cooking process, he discussed all the rare herbs and quality ingredients of fine Italian cuisine...almost all of which were too expensive or unattainable in Venezuela.  At least for us.  For him, it was unthinkable to consume the fodder that 90% of Venezuelans eat every day, such as cornflour arepas, manioc, or the plethora of fried meals.  He told us that not only must you have the finest quality ingredients, you must also cook with feeling, and at this point he made some strange Italian gestures; while puckering his lips, all five of his fingers touched at a point where they could very well have been milking his aura's invisible teat.

It was here, while talking about feeling, that he pointed to me.  "I saw him, tossing in salt and pepper with no feeling."  So that was why he left in such a hurry !  His index finger on his left hand was now pulling down on his lower eyelid, his other index finger fixed firmly on me.  "I saw him," he repeated.  Then he said it again.  I didn't deny it.  For chrissake, it was egg fried rice !  I promised myself that the next time I cook in front of an Italian that I would sniff the salt, lick the pepper, listen to the curry...I would feel them all !

I was relieved to be leaving after only two days there, no matter how delicious his cooking was.  And part of me, only part of me, smiled when, one week later, Hurricane Irene blasted the East Coast...must be my shameful gringo heritage.

The Original Gringo

Being an American in South America seems to be a bit of a hassle.  Whenever I mention the nation of my childhood, education, accent, and family pets, I invariably hear the G word, within about three seconds.  Gringo.  The first time was cute and marginally unexpected.  After the thirtieth time, you stop bringing the USA up.

Anyway, sooner or later - often just after holding me responsible for the Hiroshima bombing or Salvador Allende´s death - they tell me just why I´m called gringo.  There are two variations, both stemming from the Mexican-American War, fought in the 19th century.  The first says that American and Irish soldiers sang a song called Green Grow the Lilacs, and that the first two words got smooshed together by the eavesdropping Mexicans.  The second says that the invading soldiers wore green uniforms and some Mexicans, unhappy being invaded, yelled at the Americans : Green, go (away)!...

The only problem with these folk etymologies is that the word existed nearly a century prior to the Mexican-American War, and it existed in Spain.  The most likely, but unprovable, origin for the word is griego, the Spanish word for Greek.  Similarly, in English we say that something "sounds Greek" when it sounds foreign or complicated.  Another possible root is peregrino, meaning traveler, pilgrim, foreigner.

So in South America, I travel around as a Swede, carrying around my blond hair, blue eyes, and most importantly, Swedish passport.  The Swedes never get blamed for their international legacies : dynamite, safety matches, TetraPak, and IKEA.  So you can see why I go by El Sueco down here.

Venezuela in Pictures

Pauline surrounded by rocks, frailejones, and clouds

High up on the trail

Nice photo-op in Merida

From a distance, the landscape is puke-green.  Up close, brilliant.

The middle of the country is dominted by the plains.

Pauline, in one of the many anti-pirate forts

Pauline, all covered up in the rainforest to avoid the mosquitos

The Orinoco Delta has amazing clouds and sunsets

Hiking in the hills near Maracay

One of the many amazing beaches in the country

Another great beach, at dawn

Chuao : colonial village known for its cacao

For more photos, check out these links :

The Andes

https://picasaweb.google.com/104214304380226102315/TachiraSanCristobalJul2011
https://picasaweb.google.com/104214304380226102315/MeridaMeridaLaCulataSierraNevadaElCaneyJul2011

The Llanos and the Delta

https://picasaweb.google.com/104214304380226102315/LosLlanosYAmazonasSanFernandoPuertoAyacucho
https://picasaweb.google.com/104214304380226102315/GuayanaCiudadGuayanaOrinocoDelta

The Coast

https://picasaweb.google.com/104214304380226102315/SucreYAnzoateguiGuacharoPariaCumanaMochimaPuertoLaCruz?authkey=Gv1sRgCK2Qz4zB4p-_iwE
https://picasaweb.google.com/104214304380226102315/AraguaMaracayCataChuao
https://picasaweb.google.com/104214304380226102315/CaraboboFalconZuliaValenciaCoroMaracaybo