Agosto 06, 2005
6 De Agosto
Having spent numerous Bolivian Independence Days in Bolivia (mainly because it falls during the North American summer vacation), I have many memories of August 6th. When I was a kid, my grandmother’s apartment was situated right on El Prado, Cochabamba’s main promenade. Tradition calls for all of the area school kids, police, civic organizations, teachers, etc. to process out of obligation to the sound of a brass band and booming drums.
Unfortunately, these parades begin rather early so that families have the rest of the day to enjoy the holiday. Hiding under your covers or a pillow is of no help. No matter where you go in the apartment one cannot escape the bass drum’s wrath, which seems to be amplified during those precious asleep/half-awake states. The bedroom window faced the noble statue of Simon Bolivar, located at the center of El Prado, where admirers would place commemorative wreaths at the base.
As I grew older, I would end up spending time in Villa Tunari for the Annual Feria del Pescado in the Chapare. My cousins, friends and I would catch a bus on Avenida Oquendo or hitch a ride on the back of a camioneta for the the three hour ascent and descent into the Bolivian tropical forest. It seemed as if all of Cochabamba would be present for that holiday weekend, which included a giant open air fish festival featuring 4-5 different types of fish including surubí, pacú, sabalo, and pejerrey. (Don’t ask me for the English translations, because I don’t know). My goal was always to find the perfect dish, making my rounds observing cooking techniques of the 30+ vendors and trying to hope that my selection would pay off. Others had the same idea, standing at the foot of the grill “reserving” specific pieces of fish, until it was ready. When you walk up, you have to ask whether a fish had been “claimed”.
After three consecutive years of attending this Feria, I had it down to an exact science. I would get three different fish meals per day (yes, pescado is my favorite food). Once at lunch around noon, another around 5 pm and then as the night is winding down you go back around 1 am to find vendors who want to sell their remaining fish at a reduced price.
Even though the selection is hard to beat, nothing could top what was made next door at my cousin’s cabin. The connections he has are just a phone call away. Fish plucked straight from the river that morning, we drive 1.5 hours to Puerto San Francisco, where a giant sábalo is awaiting us. The fish that weighs around 35 lbs will be that night’s dinner. Cooked over a grill between banana tree leaves, this fish is the best meal I have eaten in my entire life. Some say one shows appreciation for a meal by visibly enjoying your food. After the others have been served, we would stand around the grill finishing off the remaining grilled fish in silence, because one cannot eat while talking.
If I were in Bolivia today, undoubtedly I would have lucked out and missed the marching band, and be planning my fish feast.
Posted by eduardo at 11:33 AM | Comments (1)
Agosto 13, 2004
The Problems With Having an Extended Family
Definitely I am not complaining about my endless supply of tias, tios and primos that I met when living abroad for close to three years. It just seems that as the circle gets wider, so does the potential to lose someone you adore.
My father's best friend from the University had to flee Bolivia in the 1970s because of political oppression at the hands of the military dictatorships. Back then, he was a bit of an izquierdista, and rather to meet the fate of other Bolivians on a hit-list, he took a chance and landed in Mexico.
Thirty years later, he would eventually re-marry with a Mexican woman, who would somehow become my tia. I say somehow because even though I knew her a short time in 2001, it seemed as if I knew her my entire life. She was one of the most cariñosa people I have ever met. She would also affectionately call me "chico".
Soon after they returned to Mexico after visiting Bolivia for the first time in over thirty years, I would correspond with her through the internet. Telling her about my wonderous travels throughout South America, she would always end her reply email asking me when I would visit Mexico. Soon, I would say, yet circumstances never really lent themselves for such a visit. After a planned fall trip to Bolivia, I hoped to go to Mexico in the Spring of 2005. It would so great to spend time with them in el D.F., taking me to special and obscure places in that capital.
However, that visit will never take place the way I always imagined it would.
Today, my mother told me that she had passed away. After a sudden illness, she was gone in less than 48 hours. Someone who had never been part of my life before the year 2000, it suddenly feels that my closest relative had left.
This is the third death in the past year that took place while I was thousands of miles away. The news reaches me through cell phone, email and computer screens. Yet, their deaths never seem real to me. The fact that I am so far away, makes their absence feel the same that it always has been. Now that they are gone, how do I really know that they just aren't far away?
Posted by eduardo at 10:20 PM | Comments (0)