Wednesday, December 19, 2007

My Aunt and General Noriega


Lots of snow had fallen by 6 p.m. that day. We drove along the hilly Connecticut roads flanked by magical scenes. Majestic trees, stone walls lining the slopes, the front porches of wooden homes - even the vast parking lots at shopping malls were beautiful under the snow.

I had lived in Amsterdam for a decade and my daughter was born there, so the New England winter scene was nothing short of spectacular for us both. Amsterdam winters are mild, and if it does snow, I rush to an upper-story window to watch the airborne flakes. More often than not, they melt before reaching the ground.

Another difference: the snow in Connecticut that day was heavy enough to weigh down pine branches and restrict car routes to those which had been shoveled free, but the point was - the roads and entrances to lots had indeed been cleared for traffic. The Netherlands leads the pack in protecting human infrastructure against the sea, but a light dusting of snow inevitably overburdens road-clearing resources each time.

Nevertheless, progress was slow on the drive back to my Mother’s home. By sometime after 6 o’clock, the rental van needed gas and we needed a snack, so on December 20, 1989, my daughter and I ate hotdogs sold at a roadside service station in the USA. This was possibly her first real hotdog. No one would dare serve second-rate dogs to Connecticut motorists, and these were really good. I kept the receipt, and used it to note the day's historic importance before tucking it into my wallet.

We drove on, happy with the warm food, the exotic setting and with each other’s company. The car radio was another source of pleasure, with Connecticut’s Hispanic stations a major attraction to both me and my half-Colombian daughter. That day, we listened to less music than usual because the invasion of Panama by U.S. forces dominated the news. I was appreciative of the listening time carved out by the car ride. My normal attention to radio and TV news is always interrupted on the road, especially during family visits.

The news was not surprising: another U.S.-backed agent in Latin America was being taken down. It took a few days to capture General Noriega, allowing time for the image of his face to take on a dartboard function in the press and on TV. All reports backed the notion that Noriega was big, nasty fish, that it was worth killing people to get him and that his removal would pave the way for government by virtue. Noriega’s pock-marked face drew derision nationwide.

Many, many Panamanians died as a result of the invasion. To the extent that I was able to tune into mainstream TV and radio during that period - I heard no one questioning U.S. motive or strategy. Friends and family, even those attached to critical, left-ish causes in the past - they were either indifferent towards or enthusiastic about the assault on Noriega. Articulate, well-educated individuals sneered at his bad complexion. The only exception was my Aunt, my daughter’s Great-Aunt, who we had visited that day in the Connecticut countryside.

My daughter had rolled in the snow like a pup, bending over to rub her long dark hair in the fresh drifts, shrieking with delight as she jumped up and whipped her head around. I was deeply happy, seeing her delirious in play, and remembering being a small child myself on those same hills, where my lanky woodsman Uncle would glide along on snowshoes in order to pull my sled. The final packing before moving from this home was happening that week in December. This chance at a final romp was pure coincidence.

My Aunt was my father’s baby sister. Clan complexities had imposed a fairly formal grid on our communications, and that day was not much different. While my daughter rushed around in celebration of all that was new and snowy and beautiful, I cautiously asked my Aunt what she thought about the invasion of Panama. She felt that truth was being withheld by the government, and she questioned the legality of propping up a leader elsewhere and then ferociously bringing him down, asking U.S. citizens to back both campaigns. Our conversations expanded into other fields after that day.

Monday, December 10, 2007

It Had to Happen Sometime Pt.1







Onward, Mississippi is not a rallying cry for this state in the southern USA, but rather the name of a location, a town at a crossroads. Not the crossroads of Robert Johnson and the Devil and the birth of the Blues fame, that's farther north in the Delta. Onward marks the spot where drivers of cars heading North anticipate entering the 'real' Delta, and where south-bound travellers leave the flat Delta fields behind. Either way, people stop for gas or food at the Onward market, becoming aware, if they didn't already know, of the site's true claim to fame: the mythology around the origin of the term 'Teddy Bear.'

At the heart of the legend is President Theodore Roosevelt's refusal to shoot a bear cub while on a hunting trip. A remarkable tale, as Teddy Roosevelt was so assertive at other moments: he championed the triumph over Natives in the American West as well as in other continents, where the ‘dominant races’ had pushed on bravely and avoided the shame of leaving these vast terrains as ‘nothing but a game preserve for squalid savages;’ he led key campaigns in the Spanish-American War, and he was the overseer of Panama’s ‘liberation’ from Colombia and the subsequent construction of the Panama Canal.
I remember staring in confusion (for quite a long time) at the signs in Onward. The only feeling I could identify was ambivalence: inspired by Teddy's legacy (other hunters have spared cubs, but few to none have been Presidents), the Delta's past and present and the unifying role of the sweet stuffed creature. At the time, nobody could have imagined that this, too, would change.
















Monday, December 3, 2007

Integration Tip

A friend gets the credit for planting the notion of "The International Grease and Starch Cookbook" in my brain. She was referring to the fact that everywhere you go, there's a favorite way of serving puffy, deep-fried flour: doughnuts, Indian fry bread, Latin American Buñuelos, Spanish Churros, Chinese You Tiao, and the list goes on and on.
I was once served the Corsican variant, to my surprise, by a fierce French-food-fundamentalist and health-oriented French Corsican who proudly introduced me to this tasty, oil-soaked treat. In the steamy Caribbean-rim zone, I watched traders from French Guyana disembark from ferries and water-taxi's on the Surinamese side of the river with bottles of European wine and trays of locally-fried German jelly doughnuts or "Berliner Bollen," as they are known in the former Dutch colony.
Simplify the Berliner Bollen recipe just a bit and you've got the basics for Dutch "Oliebollen" or "Oil Balls." With or without currants or raisins, the dough is plunged into boiling oil and dusted with powdered sugar. The scent from this operation is in the Dutch air from mid-Autumn throughout the Winter, whether or not the temperature drops. Next to tram-stops, on bridges, at intersections - anywhere there is a free rectangle of space, the cheery frying stalls on wheels, most with old-fashioned facades, take position.
I had consumed many oliebollen in my early years in the Netherlands before the moment arrived when I decided to produce a homemade batch, and I set out on the oil ball mission with confidence. Inside the supermarket, bent over the baking supplies, I found myself surrounded by smiling shoppers. I asked them for advice. These women were so nice, so responsive to my inquiry in accented Dutch. One woman reached into her handbag and found an envelope which she used to write down the oil ball ingredients: flour, milk, yeast, currants. She added that I could buy apples to produce the deep-fried beignets that are also part of the traditional New Year's Eve party menu. She even wrote it down in two columns, detailing amounts needed for smaller or larger efforts.
The sense of shopping urgency fell away and three or four of us continued the conversation. The experienced Oil Ball bakers traded tips. Just before a silence could fall at the end of their sentences I would insert another question to keep things going: does it matter whether you use currants or raisins? What's the best kind of oil to fry in? Are oil balls the same all over the country, or are their regional differences? I did want answers, but mostly, I just wanted to share their enthusiasm. The envelope meant a lot to me, and I saved it.
I had used shopping as a ruse in the past, as a new arrival, when I began learning the language. Standing next to Dutch shoppers in action on street markets, I listened to their requests and ordered exactly the same, repeating their words as well as possible. Shopping bags yielded remarkable results.