Like A Candle In The Wind

 

 By Alli Sinclair

Growing up in a country that is part of the Commonwealth, it was normal for me to see photos and hear stories about English monarchs. But when I walked through the doors of a tea house in Gaiman, Argentina, I hadn’t expected the Princess of Wales would be staring straight back at me.

Set in Argentina’s Patagonia region, Gaiman is home to the descendents of Welsh immigrants who arrived on these windswept plains in 1865. Back then, the Welsh were looking for a way to protect their lifestyle that had become endangered by the English. The Argentine government wanted to promote immigration to Argentina and offered the Welsh 100 square miles of land along the Chubut River in southern Patagonia. In exchange, the Welsh made a deal that the Argentines would respect their language, religion, and traditions. Who knew that years later, the Argentines would have their own issues with the English when it came to the Falkland Islands (or las Islas Malvinas, as the Argentines call it)?

The settlers arrived on a converted tea-clipper and found they had been given false promises. The supposed fertile land was arid, and little food was available. Floods washed away their crops and hampered construction of towns. The Argentine government introduced conscription and insisted the Welsh men drill on Sundays, even though it went against the Christian principles of the settlers. A wide rift grew between the Welsh and the Argentine government, but it wasn’t enough to stop more Welshmen from travelling to Argentina over the next 50 years. By the time immigration stopped just before World War I, approximately 2,300 Welsh had arrived.

As I strolled through the streets of Gaiman back in 2000, it was difficult to remember this was an Argentine town. The concrete block buildings found in Argentine suburbia weren’t common in this quaint town. Instead, Gaiman’s streets were lined with weatherboard houses with white shutters, lush gardens were in full bloom, and the air sagged with the scent of roses. Tea houses surrounded the settlement and Welsh tea, accompanied by pastries, cakes, and other delectable delights were on the menu.

In a hallway of the Ty Te Caerdydd tea house, Princess Diana of Wales is honored at a shrine of sorts. A large photo of the former princess in royal regalia is framed by bunches of roses and the original tea set she drank from when she visited the establishment sits under her picture. The day Diana visited, a children’s choir sang in Welsh, and she shook the hands of each child. She drank tea and ate pastries and when she left, despite being forbidden to accept flowers for security reasons (!!), she took a red rose from a bouquet.

On the 31^st of August every year, the anniversary of her death, the Welsh descendants gather to pay their respects to the Princess of the People. The Argentine Welsh have an undying love for an English woman, which is ironic, given they once had such contempt for the English. Maybe their adoration for Diana was a result of her charm, or perhaps it was because she appeared to be a thorn in the side of the “real” royals.

The Eisteddfod, a Welsh tradition, is held every year and plays an important role in Patagonian heritage. Choir singing, poetry, and dancing competitions are held during the Eisteddfod, and keep the Welsh tradition alive. The water channels the Welsh built were Argentina’s first man-made irrigation system and are now used all over the country. It is one of the reasons Argentina has thrived in the farming arena for so many years.

I’ve often wondered why my connection to Argentina has always been strong. When I discovered my own Welsh heritage and its connection to Argentina, everything fell into place. No wonder this invisible umbilical cord that attaches me to Argentina feels like it could never be severed.

How about you? Have you ever travelled somewhere and realized the bond with the place is because of your ancestry?

The Ceviche Wars

 

By Alli Sinclair

The warm wind rustled the paper table cloth, and soft sand oozed between my wiggling toes as I waited for the dish that would make my taste buds have a fiesta. Gazing at the azure waters of the Pacific Ocean, I couldn’t think of a better place to be -- Mancora, on the far north coast of Peru, a haven for foodies, especially those with a penchant for devouring plates of ceviche.

Popular in most coastal regions of Central and South America, this seafood dish has been the centre of a dispute for many years. Made from fresh raw fish and marinated in lemon or lime juice, it is spiced with peppers, onion, salt and usually accompanied by sweet potato, lettuce, corn, or avocado (depending on which region you’re in). The juices cook the fish, but beware – only eat ceviche early in the day or else you’re likely to end up with a nasty bout of food poisoning. Unfortunately, I found out first hand why you don’t eat ceviche late afternoon, but it still didn’t put me off one of my favourite dishes.

Many nationalities have laid claim as to who invented ceviche. Central and South Americans and even some Polynesian islands in the South Pacific have all put their hand up as the creators.

Every former Spanish colony has its own version of ceviche. The Spaniards stocked citrus fruit on their ships to prevent scurvy on long voyages and some historians believe the recipe was brought to Peru by Moorish women from Granada, who accompanied the Spaniards, and the recipe morphed into the ceviche as we know it today.

Those in the Polynesian camp say the Spanish encountered this dish on their voyages through the islands. The Spanish sailors enjoyed it so much the recipe spread through the Spanish colonies, and each region put their own spin on it.

But perhaps the strongest argument is for Peru and Ecuador. Archaeologists have discovered evidence that documents ceviche was eaten by the Moche civilization in northern Peru almost 2,000 years ago. Some say banana passion fruit was originally used to marinate the fish, and when the Spanish arrived the indigenous people preferred to marinate their fish in limes and lemons.

Depending on who you talk to, you’ll get a different story and reasons why a certain country did, or didn’t, invent ceviche. Many a time I’ve inadvertently become embroiled in a heated discussion between a Peruvian and Chilean or Ecuadorian as to who created the original ceviche. At times I felt like I was back in Australia, debating with a New Zealander as to who invented the pavlova, but that is a whole other post and sure-fire way of getting our New Zealand readers offside. (I jest!)

I’ve eaten ceviche in many parts of the world (including an Australian version), but today I’ll post the Peruvian recipe.

1 ½ pounds of mahimahi, ono or bluenose bass, diced

½ red onion, slivered

¾ cup lime juice (make sure it is a highly acidic type)

1 habanero chili, seeded, halved and thinly sliced (optional)

1 tbsp of ají amarillo sauce (available pureed or in jars in most Latin markets)

½ cup cilantro leaves, chopped

1 orange sweet potato, peeled, boiled, cooled, and sliced

1 cob sweet corn, boiled and sliced into 1 inch pieces

4 butter lettuce leaves

Preparation:

Rinse diced fish and slivered red onion in cold water and dry thoroughly.

In a large glass bowl, combine fish, red onion, lime juice, salt, habanero, and ají amarillo (if using) . Cover and refrigerate for 20 minutes.

Just before serving, stir in the cilantro. Place lettuce leaves on the plate, sweet potato, and corn to the side and spoon the ceviche on top of the lettuce leaves.

Eat and enjoy!

To be honest, I don’t care who invented ceviche. All I know is whenever I hear the word, smell lemons and limes or eat the dish, I’m instantly transported back to a thatch roofed hut on a deserted beach in the Peruvian summer. My stomach rumbles, I can sniff the salty breeze and my mouth waters at the thought of diving into a dish that can cause heated debates between so many nationalities.

Dear reader, what summer food takes you back to a special time or place?

Confessions of a Travelling Foodie

By Alli Sinclair

There are two factors that determine my affection for a country:

1/ The attitude of the people

2/ The quality of the food

I’ve been very fortunate to have had a 99% success rate with the countries I’ve visited (only one country has disappointed me, and no, I won’t share!). As a self-confessed foodie, I keep a “food diary” when abroad. It’s full of recipes I’ve collected from chefs and new-found friends, and every recipe has an entry about where I first tried a particular dish, my first impressions of the place, and the people I shared the meal with.

On top of my food adventures list is Ushuaia, Argentina. Situated on Tierra del Fuego, Ushuaia is the southernmost city in the world (although the Chileans will dispute this—don’t get them started). Located on the icy shores of the Beagle Channel and surrounded by the Martial chain of mountains, Ushuaia could easily be mistaken as a seaside town in Scandinavia. It’s now a stepping off point for boat trips to Antarctica, but for me, Ushuaia is where I had one of the most wonderful experiences in my life—even though I didn’t know it at the time.

Somehow I’d stumbled upon a hostel owned by a couple who looked like they’d just stepped out of a hippie commune. My gentle hosts knew little English, but smiled and made me feel welcome the minute I knocked on their door. Although the hostel rooms were small, the communal living area had a massive floor-to-ceiling window with some of the most magnificent views of Ushuaia. Snow-capped mountains framed the steely gray waters of the port where yachts bobbed up and down. Off in the distance were penguin colonies, and some of the world’s most remote ranches. My planned stay of a week stretched into a month.

In the back of the hostel was a shiny, stainless steel kitchen. Guests had access to the fridge, ovens, and cooking utensils, and most nights a cook-off would take place. Travelers from all over the world made their favorite recipes to ward off homesickness, and it was a delight to try out meals from far-flung locales. But things changed dramatically when Rosa and Paulo from Mendoza, Argentina, arrived.

I’d only been in Argentina a short time so I was still testing the waters with my rudimentary Spanish. A trip to the supermarket that should have taken 10 minutes would drag into an hour because I had to pull out my dictionary every time I read a label or needed to ask for something. It hadn’t worried me, but Rosa decided to take me under her wing, and I quickly became her pet project. Determined for me to get a grasp on the language, Rosa dragged me to the markets, confiscated my Spanish/English dictionary, and made me memorize words and phrases. This curvy, pint-size woman with red, frizzy hair scared the crap out of me. She smiled as she barked orders, and I obeyed by reciting my fruits and veggies, hoping this tough love would pay off. Either that, or very shortly, Rosa would jump onto a plane back to Mendoza.

After a few days, Rosa handed me a piece of paper written in her cursive script, with her g’s and y’s dropping down two lines. Of course, the note was in Spanish. She told me she’d organized for a feast at the hostel that night, and I was going to be in charge of the empanadas. That’s when I tried out some choice Spanish phrases. She shrugged, handed me a plastic bag of ingredients, and said she’d be back shortly.  

I peered into the bag, found the empanada ingredients, and stared at the note. Mierda. I could barely boil water without burning the bottom of the pot; how on earth was I going to make empanadas and feed the hungry hordes? Everyone else was out on excursions or at a bar that afternoon, so I was alone in the large, cold kitchen and felt very, very lonely. The door banged open, I looked up, and Rosa waddled in clasping a couple of bottles of fine Mendocino Malbec.

She pulled out a couple of juice glasses, cracked open the bottle, poured the dark red liquid, and handed me a glass. We toasted to our health, I made a silent wish that I wouldn’t kill anyone with my cooking, and we set to work. That rainy afternoon, I learnt some Mendocino slang and what it’s like to like to grow up in Mendoza. I also increased my Spanish vocabulary ten-fold. Rosa showed me how to lovingly make the dough and filling, and how to shape these delights into little half moons, complete with swirly patterns. Little did I know, this experience was the start of my life-long love for the city that eventually became my home—Mendoza.

That night, we pushed the tables together, sat our 20+ guests down, and fed them some of the most delicious empanadas I’ve ever tasted (yes, I say so myself!). These pastries were made with love, laughter, and friendship and that flowed through to the group gorging themselves between animated conversations and taking large gulps of wine.

Months later I met up with Rosa and her husband in Mendoza, and we shared more cooking adventures. Her passion for her country’s food and love of people rubbed off on me, and now I enjoy introducing new dishes to friends and family. Although occasionally I still burn the pot that’s supposed to boil water.

And here’s the delicious empanada recipe:

Filling:

1 tbs olive oil

1 onion, finely chopped

1/2 tsp ground cumin

1/2 tsp ground cinnamon

1/2 tsp paprika

Large pinch of ground nutmeg

Large pinch of ground cloves

3 hard-boiled eggs, peeled, coarsely chopped

15 pitted black olives

Melted butter, to brush

Pastry:

3 cups of plain flour

100 grams of chilled butter

1 tsp salt

1 egg yolk, lightly whisked

5 tbs chilled water

Heat the oil in a large frying pan. Add the onion, stir until it is clear and soft. Add the ground beef, stirring with a wooden spoon until brown and cooked through. Add the cumin, cinnamon, paprika, nutmeg, and cloves. Stir again and transfer to a large heatproof bowl. Leave in the refrigerator for 30 minutes. 

Make the pastry by placing the flour, butter and salt in a blender. Process until it looks like breadcrumbs. Add the egg yolk and water and process again until the dough starts to cling. Take out and place on a floured surface and knead the dough until all lumps are removed. Wrap in plastic and place in the refrigerator for about 20 minutes.

Line 2 large baking trays with baking paper. Turn on oven to 200C. Roll out the pastry until it is around 3 millimetres thick. Cut the pastry into 15 discs, 12 centimetres in diameter. 

Stir the egg into the ground beef and mix with the seasonings. Place a heaped tablespoon of ground beef in the centre of the pastry disc. Top with 1 or 2 olives and brush the edges of the pastry with water. Fold so it is in the shape of a half moon. Press the edges together and use a fork to crimp the edge. Place on a lined tray and repeat this until all the empanadas have been made. Put it in the refrigerator for 30 minutes. Brush the empanadas with melted butter, bake in the over until golden (around 25 minutes). Eat and enjoy!

In a Bind

By Alli Sinclair

Billions of dollars, perhaps trillions, are spent every year on hair products and styling. It’s a lucrative industry and is a classic example of us humans obsessing over our noggins. This fascination isn’t new. In fact, the ancient world took this one step further—by altering their skulls.

Head binding, also known as artificial cranial deformation, dates back to 45,000 BC. The ancient Egyptians, Syrians, Maltese, Russians, Germans, and Australian Aborigines have all undertaken various forms of skull “enhancement” by binding their skull or placing cradleboards around a baby’s head to change the shape of their head.

Zip over to the Americas, and you’ll find the Mayans, Incas, and the tribes of the Chinookan and Choctaw people in North America also undertook the custom of deforming skulls as part of their culture. The Choctaw, Chehalis, and Nooksack Indians practised head flattening and on the coastal of Peru, not far from Lima, the Paracas culture had an array of altered head shapes.

Scientists have discovered at least five different shapes of elongated skulls in different cemeteries in the Paracas region. The most remarkable being a site called Chongos, not far from the quaint town of Pisco where the famous cone-shaped skulls were discovered.

Archaeologists specialising in the Mayans have discovered how altered skulls vary, depending on their geography. Skulls found in the lowlands had a slanted appearance, while skulls discovered in the highlands had an erect shape. They’ve even unearthed skulls that have a division down the middle and two distinct holes. The Mayans believed that every object has an essence, including the elements. While the mother was giving birth, the Mayans ensured the house was closed so the evil wind couldn’t harm the baby and as the baby’s soul was no yet tethered to the baby, the infants were even more vulnerable. Binding the baby’s head was akin to creating a roof over one’s head, and therefore a form of protection for the young child that would stay with it forever.

Some archaeologists believe the act of altering one’s skull was to create a “desirable” shape to make the person more aesthetically pleasing and on Tomman Island in Vanuatu, where it is still practised today, elongating the skull signifies intelligence and being closer to spirits. Whether it was for social status, such as an Incan nobleman, or for an affiliation with a tribe, the act of altering one’s skull causes great controversy in the archaeological world and certainly makes for some interesting discussions. Whatever the reasons, humans have always taken great care to alter their bodies, including their hair and head. So next time you go to the hairdresser, be careful what you ask for!

The Land of Fire

Waiting at the Strait of Magellan

By Alli Sinclair

I come from one of the world’s largest islands, so it’s only natural I’m a sucker for land poking out of vast oceans. Fortunately, near Australia, we have a fabulous selection of islands with palm trees, pristine beaches, and turquoise waters -- Fiji, Samoa, Tahiti, Vanuatu... the list goes on! But one of my favourite islands in the world doesn’t have a palm tree in sight but it does have penguins and is known as the Land of Fire – it’s Tierra del Fuego in southern Argentina.

My first visit to Tierra del Fuego was after I’d cycled and ridden buses for thousands of kilometres through Patagonia. I’d been on a roll, enjoying the life of a traveller, only to end up stranded at the southern tip of Argentina, staring across the Strait of Magellen. Due to unpredictable wind and ever-changing currents, ferry crossings are commonly stopped until weather improves and my ferry was no different. Six hours later we crossed by boat, where humpback whales swam in the channel that flows between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans.

Once on the other side, I jumped on a bus and travelled through windswept plains where crops of mountains jutted skyward. Arriving at Ushuaia, the stepping off point for ships sailing to Antarctica, I found a hostel on the hillside with views across the Beagle Channel. Not bad for US$10 a night.

The western region of Tierra del Fuego and most surrounding islands are owned by Chile while the remainder of the island is owned by Argentina. Now, depending on who you’re speaking to, you’ll get different stories about the most southern city in the world. Argentines will swear it’s Ushuaia, and Chileans will argue it’s Puerto Williams.

Tierra del Fuego National Park lies only 11 kilometres from Ushuaia, is the first shoreline national park established in Argentina, and it is the world’s most southern national park. It’s easy to access by bike, car, or, probably the most popular option, by train.

The Train to the End of the World is a narrow gauge railway that was originally established in 1910 after the prison in Ushuaia began operating. The steam train travelled along along the waterfront in Ushuaia, then across the eastern slope of Mount Susana and into what we now call Tierra de Fuego National Park. The railway originally connected the prison to the forestry camp within the park, and was known as the Prison Train until the prison closed in 1947. (The original railway closed in 1952 after an earthquake damaged the tracks. Luckily, some train lovers reconstructed and renovated the tracks in 1994. After purchasing a steam locomotive from England, building one in Argentina, and assembling three diesel locomotives, they opened the line to tourism). Now it’s possible to take the train from the outskirts of Ushuaia and travel for 50 minutes along the heritage railway to the Tierra del Fuego National Park.

Once there, you can visit waterfalls, thick forests, pristine lakes, and towering mountains that all combine to make a visit to this park an unforgettable experience. For those who love to hike, it’s easy to spend a few days traipsing the trails, enjoying the wildlife both on and above the ground. If you have a keen eye, you’re likely to spot an Andean Fox, North American Beaver, European Rabbit, muskrat, and guanacos. Looking above, you may spot an Austral Parakeet, Magellanic and Blackish Oystercatchers, as well as the elusive Andean Condor.

As for time of year, from personal experience, I’d say Autumn (Fall) is the most spectacular season to go. Crisp, sunny days, bright blue skies, and fewer tourists means you almost have the park to yourself. And as for scenery, nothing can beat the magnificent orange, red, and yellow leaves of trees clinging to the rolling hills and jutting mountains.

Enjoying champagne and Oreos at the end of the world

And if visiting the southernmost national park in the world then you can add standing at the end of the Pan-American Highway, an impressive roads that stretches for 29,800 miles from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska to Ushuaia, Argentina.

Tierra del Fuego is shrouded in mystery, has a colourful history, and breathtaking scenery and nature. It’s easy to spend a week, even two, exploring the surrounds and if you’ve been saving your pennies, sail to Antarctica. For me, the Land of Fire burns brightly in my heart and I can’t wait to take my young family there and share the wonderful experiences waiting for us to embrace.

If you want to learn more about Ushuaia, you can visit another post I wrote here.

The Panama Hat

Photo by Earle Martin

By Alli Sinclair

My first trip to Ecuador entailed traversing some lesser-known trails, thanks to three Ecuadorians I’d met who were on their annual holiday. They adopted me as their pet gringa, and I happily played the role, lapping up the attention my personal tour guides bestowed on me. (They probably felt sorry for me traveling alone but I actually enjoy my own company at times!) Between the four of us, we had a lot of laughs and created some unforgettable memories.

During our travels we ventured into the many mercados that Ecuador offers, and the ones that impressed me most were the markets just outside of Cuenca, in the southern part of Ecuador. On Sundays, Gualaceo has an amazing fruit and veggie market; Chordaleg is renowned for a wonderful array of local crafts including jumpers (pullovers), scarves, and Sigsig not only has a strange, modern metallic piece of art in the town’s centuries old plaza, but it is the perfect place to learn about the history of the Panama hat.

Yes, the Panama hat. We’re not in Panama, Dorothy, we’re talking Ecuador.

Legend has it that President Theodore Roosevelt brought the hats to popularity in North America when photos were taken of him wearing one while visiting Panama. But that’s not the only story. As the hats were shipped through the Isthmus canal in Panama before they hit the shores around the world, someone mistakenly thought the hats came from the country famous for its canal. Who knew one person’s misunderstanding would lead to the rest of the world following suit?

Ecuadorians call their hats sombreros de paja toquilla (hats of toquilla straw), but they’re used to tourists referring to them as a Panama hat. Available in a range of colours for both men and women, the Panama offers perfect for protection from the sun and makes a pretty awesome souvenir that will lead to some interesting conversations upon return to your home country.

The fedora is the most common style of Panama hats in North America, but in the U.K., the Optimo is the most popular. Another style, known as the Teardrop, or C-crown, is shaped like a tear when viewed from above and it’s worn with the point of the tear position at the front of the head. This particular hat is very popular with the indigenous women in the region of Cuenca.

Other styles include the Breton, Plantation (Gambler), Snap brim, Pork Pie (think Buster Keaton), Stingy brim, Boater and the Trilby.

As with most crafts, the price boils down to the quality of product. Although there doesn’t appear to be an official grading system, vendors will happily inform you of theirs and after a few hours wandering in and out of shops and stalls, you’ll get a feel as to what is good quality and what isn’t. Most people look for the fineness of the weaving, which can definitely help when choosing a hat of high quality, but the consistency of the weave and minimal gaps, bumps, and holes are what make the difference between a good hat and a fine hat.

Another way people judge the quality of a Panama hat is the whether you can roll it up and pass it through a wedding ring—I kid you not. The first time I saw this done my eyes bulged and mouth fell open. I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen. It can be done but only if the hat is of very, very good quality.  Expect these hats to cost you USD150 or more. Some craftsmen might sell you a USD20 or USD60 hat and tell you it’s possible to roll up your hat, stick it in a box and unroll it again and it won’t lose it’s shape. I’ve seen enough examples where this didn’t ring true. Consider yourself informed…

While the hats in Sigsig are absolutely beautiful, it’s the ones from Montecristi, near the coast of Ecuador, that have the Panama hat enthusiasts raving. Renowned for their flawless craftsmanship and supple weave while remaining strong and in-shape, the Montecristi hats have been around since the 1600s.

Even though the Panama hat is still popular, the art form is dying. In towns like Sigsig and Montecristi, where the master weavers rely on their handiwork to support themselves and their families, the younger generations are pursuing careers in other fields. In its heyday, Montecristi had nearly 2,000 artisans weaving hats, but today there are less than 50, and some Panama hat experts will say it’s less than 20. Regardless of the exact figure, the skill required to weave a beautiful, high-quality Panama hat is in danger of being lost to the world. I don’t know if there’s such an organisation such as Endangered Crafts of the World, but it would be amazing if such a group exists. Hmmm…. I’ve just had an idea. Anyone want to join me?

And for those who are interested in learning a little more about the people behind the hats, here's a mini-documentary that gives some food for thought.

Delectable Delights and Daring Dishes

By Alli Sinclair

Now, no one can ever accuse me of not being adventurous. In my backpacking days it was usually me that came up with harebrained schemes that resulted in many fellow travellers shaking their head and saying, “No way, I’m not doing that! Are all Australians crazy like you?” This adventurous spirit didn’t just include scaling mountains and visiting places I really shouldn’t have, it also included food.

When someone asks me about a country, I tend to base my decision on the friendliness of the people and the quality of the food. Everything else is icing on the cake. Turkey is on top of my list for excellent food, but Latin America tops the list of bizarre local dishes. Here’s a rundown on some I have tried (or had others try and got their feedback because, really, everyone has a line that can’t be crossed):

Cuy, Peru

It took alcohol to get me to try this. Lots. Of. Alcohol. Cuy, or guinea pigs as we know them, were traditionally a food only eaten by indigenous people in the Andean highlands but since the 1960s, cuy is eaten by people all over Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, and Colombia, including foreigners.

Guinea pigs are popular because they produce quickly, take up little space, and don’t eat much, plus their meat is high in protein and low in fat and cholesterol. The taste itself is gamey (like rabbit) and people serve cuy fried, boiled, roasted, or in a casserole or soup.

Peruvians eat around 65 million cuy a year, and it’s eaten as a celebration food for many religious festivals. This animal is so entrenched in the culture, there is even a painting of The Last Supper in a cathedral in Cuzco that has cooked cuy on the table.

My experience with Cuy was during the Summer Solstice festival in Peru. I’d been celebrating with friends who told me I couldn’t live in their country and not at least have tried cuy. I had been sitting in the sun at a restaurant, enjoying the local brew, Cusqueña, so it didn’t take too much persuading—until the cuy arrived at our table. The poor thing had been skewered, fried in fat and it looked at me with bucky teeth and arms and legs outstretched like it had just had a fright. I’m sure it did.

Not wanting to let my friends down, I bowed to the pressure and had a miniscule amount. I must add that I can’t stand anything gamey, so after my taste test I had to drink half a litre of beer to get rid of the greasy taste from my mouth. That was the day I discovered sometimes it is totally okay to say “no thank you.”

Anticucho, Peru

Beef heart skewers…really, what can I say about that one? Anticucho is served at many street stalls throughout Peru and locals delight in watching foreigner’s eyes bulge and mouths drop when they describe what this delicacy is. No, I didn’t try it, I didn’t have the heart (boom boom).

Calzones Rotos (Ripped Knickers), Chile

This is a Chilean dessert that tastes divine but it made it on my list of strange food because of the name—ripped knickers. Calzones rotos are flat dried pastry twisted into interesting shapes and topped with icing sugar. Yum yum. Add a cup of strong Chilean coffee and you won’t hear me utter a word until I’ve finished both.

Chirimoya, Andes (although some will argue Central America)

Chirimoya trees thrive in the tropics at altitudes of 1,300 to 2,600 metres (4,300 to 8,500 feet). It is now cultivated throughout the world but in my mind, Chirimoya will always be a South American fruit to me.

The name, chirimuya originates from Quechua, a language of the indigenous people of South America. Meaning “cold seeds” because it grows at high altitude, chirimuya morphed into chirimoya, a combination of Quechua and Spanish. The fruit has an array of varieties, textures, and shapes and the flavours can be acidy sweet or mellow sweet. Depending on the fruit and the person, people say it tastes like papaya, strawberry, pear, pineapple, apple, or banana.

I had a wonderful cherimoya supplier near the apartment where I lived I in Cuzco, and he would delight in offering the different variations to try. Not far down from the fruit seller was a lady who made the best fruit juices I’ve ever tasted and yes, chirimoya was one of my favourites.

How about you? What delicacies have you tried whilst travelling that you wouldn’t dare taste at home? Do tell!

At the Copacabana – Bolivia

By Alli Sinclair

I’ll admit it, I’m a sucker for pristine lakes with snow-capped peaks. Not only are they a photographer’s and hiker’s paradise, they bring a sense of peace to this chaotic world, especially after visiting some of South America’s busiest cities.

The first time I visited Lake Titicaca, I traveled from the Bolivian side. I’d journeyed from La Paz and was looking forward to finding solace from the horns, pollution, and swarming bodies of a busy city. Being the girly-swat that I am, I’d studied the history of the lake, pored over countless photos (no Internet back then), and created visions of this majestic lake in my mind. I’d imagined a stunning body of water but no matter how fruitful my imagination, I wasn’t prepared for the reality – Lake Titicaca rivaled some of the most beautiful lakes I’d ever seen (and that was saying a lot, especially after hiking through the Indian and Nepalese Himalayas).

Straddling the border of Bolivia and Peru, Lake Titicaca is the highest commercially navigable lake in the world and is rich in history, beauty, and politics. The name Titicaca translates as Puma Rock, a name given by the Incas who believed the lake looked like a puma chasing a rabbit.

Even though Bolivia is a land-locked country, the majority of the country’s naval force is based at Lake Titicaca. The navy employs 2,000 personnel, has a naval school, and they own 173 vessels that patrol large rivers as well as this gorgeous lake. Bolivians believe one day they’ll regain the land they lost to Chile during the War of the Pacific (1879-1884) and this hope is so strong Bolivians celebrate the Dia del Mar (Day of the Sea) every year and ask Chile to give back Bolivia’s lost land. Perhaps one day, they might get a yes.

Copacabana is a village on the shores of the lake and is close to the Peruvian border. Sure, it has a beach, but it isn’t quite in the same realm as Rio’s Copacabana – there are no men or women wearing swimmers that disappear up their bottom, no tanned athletic bodies, and certainly no surf. But this sleepy town has it’s own uniqueness, especially when it comes to dining. I’ve never been a fan of trout but when I tried the fish pulled out from the lake only a couple of hours earlier, I quickly became a convert.

It’s worth staying in Copacabana for at least a couple of days to hike the trails leading to mountaintops that offer unsurpassed views of the lake and Andes, as well as discovering Inca ruins that can only be accessed by foot. And a must-see is the Basilica of Our Lady Copacabana, the patron saint of Bolivia. It’s easy to overdose on beautiful churches in Latin America so if you only intend to visit a handful, put this one up the top of the list.

Framed by bright blue skies, the whitewashed walls of the church make a spectacular entrance into this gorgeous house of God. It is believed the church was built on the Incan Temple of Fertility of Kotakawana, reinforcing Copacabana as a sacred place well before the Spanish arrived.

Legend has it that in 1576 some fishermen were caught in a terrible storm on Lake Titicaca. They prayed for help and the Virgin Mary appeared, leading them to safety. To show their gratitude they built a shrine in her honor. Another story is about Tito Yupanqui, a man who dreamed about the sailors and the appearance of the Virgin Mary. He was so affected by the dream that he travelled to Potosi to learn how to sculpt. He hand-carved the Virgin from cactus wood and carried his creation on his back across the 400 miles from Potosi. The sculpture was placed in the church and it is said that those who didn’t believe in the Virgin’s powers soon experienced crop loss. In the 1800s, another image of the Virgin was created and taken to Brazil’s most famous beach – Copacabana.

If you happen to be in the neighborhood around February 2-5 (it happens every year), stay for the celebrations that attract people from all over the world. The Fiesta de la Virgen de Candelaria has Aymara dancers from the region, plenty of music played by traditional bands, and lots of dancing, drinking, and eating. New vehicles, including trucks adorned with bling, are blessed with beer out the front of the church. On the third day of the fiesta 100 bulls are placed in a stone corral and brave (ie very drunk) revelers jump into the arena and try to avoid being gored.

Luckily, I had enough sense to avoid the bulls, but being included by the locals and dancing the days away is an experience I’ll always treasure. It’s been ten years since my last trip to this beautiful lake and I’m well overdue for another visit. Perhaps 2013 will be the year of returning to my favorite places in the world. I guess I’d better buy that lottery ticket…

Is it Cow or Chicken?

By Alli Sinclair

The Argentines observe their independence from the Spanish on the 9th of July every year. This celebration takes place in the middle of the Argentine winter, and as is the tradition with Argentines, they love to celebrate the special occasion with food.

The first Argentine Independence Day I celebrated in that country, I was travelling with an Argentine friend of mine. We were holidaying in Carlos Paz, in the province of Cordoba, and my friend was determined I’d take part in the celebrations, which included eating locro.

At the time, my Spanish was dodgy to say the least, and as his English wasn’t crash hot, we spent a lot of time drawing stick figures on serviettes and miming. It always gave us a good laugh, especially when we went to a restaurant on the evening of independence day and my friend tried to explain what ingredients were in Locro.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: “Locro. What’s in it?” I throw my arms thrown out in a questioning manner.

Him: “Es rico.” He rubs his stomach and rolls his eyes like he’s just tasted the best food on earth.

Me: “Yeah, but what’s in it?”

Him: He holds his arms out in a circle to signify a pot then makes a chopping motion like he’s murdering vegetables and proceeds to moo like a cow and oink like a pig.

Me: “So there’s no brrk brrk brrk?” I flap my arms like a chicken.

Him: He shakes his head and moos and oinks again and we both dissolve into laughter which causes the waiter to frown and tsk-tsk us.

The waiter eventually arrived with our dish and the aromas made me want to rub my stomach and roll my eyes just like my friend had done. We added chimichurri, a spicy sauce popular in Argentina and dipped bread into the casserole-like meal. That was the moment I fell in love with locro, and now, even after all these years, when I’m craving some comfort food, I make locro and it always does the trick.

For those of you heading into the cooler months of the year, here’s a recipe for Argentine locro. It’s easy, although a tad fiddly, but I promise you the effort will be worth your while. Just remember, the secret is to cook it slowly over a low heat for an extended period of time.

This recipe is borrowed from the wonderful blog, Seashells and Sunflowers.

Ingredients

1 cup dried white corn (hominy)
2 medium onions, coarsely chopped
2 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
2- ¼" thick slices of smoked pancetta or slab bacon, cubed
2 chorizos colorados or other slightly spicy sausage, sliced
2- 1" thick pieces of osso buco (beef shanks), or similar cut
2 ears of fresh yellow sweet corn, cut the kernels off the cobs
1 tsp. ground cumin
1 tsp. paprika
2 bay leaves
salt to taste
½ tsp. freshly-ground black pepper
1 ½ c. butternut squash, peeled and diced small
1 ½ c. yams, peeled and diced small
1 large baking potato, peeled and diced small
2 plum tomatoes, cut in small wedges
chopped green onion for garnish (optional)

chili oil (see directions)

Directions

Soak the hominy in 2 cups of water overnight (a minimum of 12 hours).

The next day, prepare the chili oil in advance by soaking a teaspoon of ají molido (or crushed red pepper flakes) in a tablespoon of olive oil for 2-3 hours.

Place the onions, garlic, pancetta, chorizo, and osso buco in a large stewpot. Cook over medium heat until the onions are translucent. Add the fresh yellow corn, cumin, paprika, bay leaves, salt, and pepper. Continue to cook, stirring regularly, for roughly 10 minutes. Add the soaked hominy, including the soaking water. Add hot water to the pot to about 2 inches above the level of the ingredients. Add the remaining vegetables, stir, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer, covered, stirring every 15-20 minutes, for at least 2 hours.

At this point, uncover the pot and remove the bay leaves. Remove the pieces of osso buco and discard the bones. Cut the meat into bite-sized pieces, then return it to the pot. Continue to stir over low heat, and using the back of a wide spoon or spatula, press the ingredients up against the sides of the pot so that the starchy vegetables and tomato break down into the soup (the corn and meat will resist being mashed). As you continue to stir, mash, and cook; the soup should gradually thicken. Continue until the locro reaches the rich consistency of a stew. Add salt to taste.

Serve in bowls, and garnish with green onions and a touch of chili oil.

Passion on a Plate - Te Mataré Ramirez

Photo by Arte & Fotografía as SABRINA Y HECTOR

By Alli Sinclair

Buenos Aires is a city that simmers with passion. The cobblestoned streets are jam-packed with men and women who look like they’ve escaped from a Parisian catwalk, and with tango dancers strutting to passionate music played in the plazas. Sexiness is in the genes of the Argentines, and over the past two decades they’ve taken it to a new level with the aphrodisiac restaurant, Te Mataré Ramirez.

The name of the restaurant translates to “I’ll Kill You Ramirez” and no doubt there’s a good story about cheating lovers who earned it that name. Designed for the over-18 set, this restaurant is dimly lit and clad in red velvet, as soft jazz plays throughout the dining room. There’s the “Open Mind” bar and I’m not quite sure if there’s a wedding ring check-in at the door.

Couples at various stages of their relatioonships canoodle in corners and sip champagne or else indulge in the sensual delicacies the restaurant offers. The names of the dishes alone are worth a visit. Here are some examples from the dessert menu:

Amantes Que Se Comparten (Lovers Who Share)

Hasta Gritar De Placer Y Dolor (Until I Scream with Pleasure and Pain)

No samplers, as far as I know.

These are by far the most tame because reading the menu is akin to thumbing through the pages of an erotica novel.

The food itself deserves the sensuous titles it’s been given. Melt-in-your-mouth salmon, salads with fresh herb dressings, and chocolate sauces that really do make your taste buds want to scream with pleasure. Nothing here is rushed, and diners are encouraged to take their time and soak up the atmosphere and bask in the company of whomever they are sharing their meal with.

Te Mataré Ramirez offers a show each night, and depending on when you go, it may be actors boasting about their conquests, dancers performing sensuous moves to haunting music, or a movie you definitely wouldn’t want your grandmother to see. All of this is done tastefully; nothing seedy about the place. The waiters are excellent at being discreet but are around when you require their services. Not those kinds of services, mind you. Get your mind out of the gutter!

Te Mataré Ramirez is one of the most unique restaurants I’ve encountered, and the quality of the food alone means this place merits a visit. The atmosphere, although not to everyone’s taste, will certainly be remembered for years by anyone who dines there. This is a restaurant that promises to give its patrons an experience of the senses, and there’s no doubt, it lives up to it’s promise.

When History Collides With The Present – El Ateneo Bookstore

Photo by Stanley Wood

One of the fun parts about writing fiction set in exotic locales is the opportunity to incorporate historical sites into the story. The current book I’m working on, a mystery set in Argentina, has afforded me the chance to set a major turning point for the plot and characters in one of my favourite places in Buenos Aires, an old theatre that is now a thriving bookstore.

El Ateneo Grand Splendid, situated in Barrio Norte, once was the Teatro Grand Splendid. The theatre opened in May 1919 and with a seating capacity of 1,050 patrons, the venue hosted a variety of concerts, including some of Argentina’s most renowned tango artists – Carlos Gardel, Robert Firpo, and Ignacio Corsini.

The building was the brainchild of Max Glücksmann, who originally came from the Austrian Empire and immigrated to Argentina in 1890. In 1914 he founded Nacional Odeon, a record company that helped put the tango on the world stage. His empire expanded to include exclusive copyright to all the hits his record company produced, as well as controlling sheet music and the silent movie-house business. He could easily have been despised by performers, but instead, they admired him after he introduced the royalty pay system in Argentina.

With the money and reputation behind him, Glücksmann commissioned the construction of Teatro Grand Splendid. In 1924, Radio Splendid, another business of Glücksmann’s, broadcast from the building and made recordings for his studio label. The theatre became a cinema in the late 1920s, and was the first place Argentines could watch movies with recorded sound.

Carlos Gardel -- one of the first performers at the theatre

Teatro Grand Splendid continued to screen movies right up until the year 2000, when Grupo Ilhsa, which owned a publishing house and other bookstores, leased the theatre to convert into a bookstore and music shop. Where the theatre seats once stood, there are now rows upon rows of bookshelves. The stage that hosted some of Argentina’s greatest talents now serves as a café, allowing patrons to relax with a hot cuppa and take their time perusing books of their choice. Reading before purchase is encouraged. And if you’re a person who needs peace and quiet to read, find one of the many sofas tucked away in the balconies that overlook the stage. In the afternoons, a pianist plays and that’s when you can also appreciate the theatre’s wonderful acoustics.

Despite the renovations, El Ateneo has managed to retain the ambience of an elegant theatre. The central dome is well preserved and shows off the magnificent fresco painting by Nazareno Orlandi, celebrating the end of the First World War. All the ornate carvings, frescos, curtains, and lighting remain true to the original building and its intended use.

Frequently named as one of the world’s best bookshops, El Ateneo deserves every accolade it receives. With over 120,000 book titles, a million people walking through its doors every year, and more than 700,000 books sold annually, this bookshop hasn’t lost any of its charm and is a welcome contrast to the “big box” bookstores you’ll find in other parts of the world.

If you don’t speak Spanish, fear not. The store has a wonderful selection of fiction and non-fiction books in a myriad of languages, including English. And if you’re after souvenirs, then the photography books and wide selection of Argentine music, including pop and tango, will have you lugging one very heavy bag back to your hotel.

Any modern renovation of an historic building is a great risk. Managing to find the line between past and present is a delicate balance, but the very savvy architects and designers who worked on El Ateneo Grand Splendid deserve a very big pat on the back. It’s not very often a bookstore becomes a tourist attraction, but El Ateneo Grand Splendid will go down in history as the bookstore that seamlessly combines old-world elegance with a modern twist.

Photo by David