La Viajera

Passport & Plate - "Tante (Aunt) Siemke's Recipe"

eakeith — Fri, 14 Mar 2014 09:27:45 GMT

Ingredients
-500 grams of chicken breast, sliced in small pieces
-2 large onions
-70 grams (a very small can) of tomato puree
-4 tablespoons peanut butter
-3 teaspoons ketjap manis (An Indonesian sweet soy sauce, this is available in the international section of most major grocery stores)
-2 teaspoons sambal
-1-litre of canned peaches

How to prepare this recipe
1. Fry chicken and onions in a wok or large saucepan.
2. Add tomato puree, peanut butter, sambal, and ketjap manis.
3. Add peaches, pouring in the extra peach juice from the can to taste. Normally half of the can or the full can of juice gives a good amount of sweetness.
4. Let everything simmer for a few minutes, stirring occasionally.

Serve over a bed of rice.

The story behind this recipe
It was known as "Tante (Aunt) Siemke's Recipe." Nothing more, nothing less. As far back as I remember, this recipe of Indonesian and Dutch influence has floated around my family, which in itself spreads across continents. Growing up in an ethnically-homogeneous Canadian town, I was notorious for eating only "white food" as a child -- pasta, bread, and rice. No colour, no spice, no flavour.

When my mother cooked this dish at home, I always refused to try it.
"You don't know what you're missing out on, my family would say.

It was when I was ten and first visited Europe that I learned the truth in their words. There I was in my great-aunt's Dutch kitchen, finally matching a face to Tante Siemke as she cooked the recipe that I had long associated with her. This time, I knew I had to try it.

"Delicious! Our favourite!" my parents exclaimed as she placed the dish in front of us, her face beaming. The recipe wasn't her own invention; years earlier, she had ripped it from a magazine, but to us it didn't matter. So while she hovered over me in a land which seemed very foreign and yet familiar, I truly tasted Tante Siemke's Recipe for the first time.

I would be lying to say that I liked it that day. What I now consider a rich blend of sweet and savoury, exotic and comforting, was at the time overwhelming. But tasting that dish in that small-town Dutch kitchen made me realize one thing: the world can be as tiny or as large as we make it, and one certainty that can connect us across the distance is a shared love of food.

Since then, I've abandoned my dull, white-food diet for a diverse palate. Whether it's sampling guinea pig in Colombia, eating tapas in Spain, or gorging on crocodile in Zimbabwe, I've learnt not only to open my eyes to new cultures, but also my mouth. Today, I live in the Netherlands myself and the recipe that once taught me to appreciate foreign food is now something I serve on my own table.

Photos: Peru Inca Trail

eakeith — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 11:24:00 GMT

Photos from the Inca Trail

Sharing Stories - A Glimpse into Another's Life - The Boy Who Sees Beyond the Shadows

eakeith — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 11:17:36 GMT

The porter's eyes twinkle as he passes me the soap. It's dark along the Inca Trail, but moonlight fills the campsite as hikers prepare for bed. As I wash my hands, I ask his name. He winks when he hears my Spanish.

"Aderlin."

The name slides off his tongue into a soup of Quechua vowels.

I find a grassy spot to sit nearby. He hesitates, but approaches. We gaze at the starry sky. Looming mountains split the world into light and dark.

"Did you like dinner?" he asks, bridging the silence.

I nod, and ask if the porters had carried the trout all the way from Cuzco.

"We fished while you were napping."

I blush. A lazy tourist, was that me? I thought I was tough for tackling a four-day trek, yet I’d hired someone to carry my gear.

"How long have you been a porter?"

He brushes aside his thick, black hair, tucking it under his "chullo."

"Two years, but I've worked since I left home.”

"How old were you then?"

"Seven. Now, I’m 23."

I pull at the threads of my alpaca sweater – a gringo tourist staple. We’re the same age, but my idea of work is sitting in an office, making more an hour than he does in two days.

“Why so young?”

“All of us children were sent to Cuzco to work.”

Avoiding his stare, I let my eyes fall to our legs, which almost touch at the knees. My feet glow in the night, but his are black; dry mud cakes his knockoff Adidas sandals.

“I'm studying to be a guide," he continues.

I ask what he’s learning and he clasps my hand eagerly.

"English and Inca culture. History is my favourite." He glances down, dropping my hand. My fingers tingle with the imprints of his calluses.

“I studied history too, in Canada.”

Aderlin sweeps his hand across the horizon. “Here, we follow a path that’s over 500 years old. Isn't it the most beautiful place to work?”

I smile and tilt my head back. I search for the Big Dipper and Cassiopeia but for me the southern sky is an unmarked map. Aderlin explains that Quechua people find constellations in the spaces between stars. “Urcuchillay” the llama, and “Mach’acuay” the serpent. I squint to make out these shapes but I fail to see beyond the shadows.

When a cool breeze picks up, I wish Aderlin goodnight. At five the next morning, I’m woken by a soft call at the flap of my tent. Aderlin carries a tray with cups of coca-leaf tea.

“Your maté, miss.”

He gives me a steaming cup. I don’t see him again until he hustles past on the steep Inca stairs, a 20-kg duffel bag bouncing on his back and a grin on his face.

My Travel Writing Scholarship 2011 entry - Journey in an Unknown Culture

eakeith — Fri, 25 Mar 2011 15:49:00 GMT

JEANS STREET

Indonesians seem to have a soft spot for SpongeBob SquarePants and strawberries. As my boyfriend and I wander down “Jeans Street” in Bandung, themed paraphernalia bombards us from every direction: T-shirts with strawberry designs, SpongeBob towels and sunglasses, and strawberry-bedazzled denim. The street boasts inexpensive textiles, and racks of clothing spill out onto the curb. There is no room for pedestrians. The gutter is our tightrope; we struggle not to stumble in front of the army of scooters that waits at the stoplight, ready to charge.

The clammy heat of the midday sun carries a tide of smells that assaults our senses. Burning rubber, cigarettes, and "mie goreng" – fried noodles that gleam through the glass panes of the snack carts.

A vendor sells souvenirs with the slogan “Bandung – The Paris of Java,” a call-back to the city’s colonial role as the cultural capital of the Dutch East Indies. Up ahead, I spot a two-storey KFC and a larger-than-life Spiderman that clings to a shop roof, and I wonder if that slogan is false advertising.

We pass the KFC and slip down the first alley to escape the chaos and stench of Jeans Street. Within moments, the air clears and the murmur of a river washes out the buzz of traffic. The alley leads to a small neighbourhood. Concrete shacks with corrugated metal roofing lean on each other to prevent from slipping backwards onto the muddy river bank. A man bathes in the chocolate water. He flashes a piano key grin.

We weave a path through the labyrinth of houses, which grow in size and quality as we move away from the river and up the hill. Doors and a splatter of paint appear, and corrugated metal becomes tile. Laundry bakes on the roofs and crowds the narrow passageways, so we find ourselves ducking under bras and baby blankets. A scrawny chicken perches on a crate of old Coke bottles, nibbling leftovers. Beside it, a woman watches over her shop. She sells fruit, water, candy, and brooms. Two children peek out from behind her with wide eyes. As we continue walking, we hear footsteps behind us and I spin around. The two kids shriek with laughter. They hide behind a corner. We clamber up a mossy staircase and the train behind us grows. Each time I turn around the kids scatter, just as baby crabs do when you lift up a rock on the beach.

Near the top of the hill, we discover some boys playing football. My boyfriend joins in, gesturing for our followers to do the same. He towers over the kids, so he makes up a one-man team. Team Indonesia runs, passes, kicks, screams, “GOAAAL!” The kids exchange high fives, but fall silent as we turn to leave. A little boy wearing a Batman T-shirt waves his arms and gives me a shy, gapped smile.

We leave the children behind, take the last set of stairs up the hill, and resurface on Jeans Street.