ellaviaja's journal

After twenty years, I had finally made it back to the land I called home for the first seven years of my life. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and released a huge sigh. I opened my eyes and looked down at the fruit of our twenty four hour labor: a cleverly stacked plate of several varieties of potatoes; assorted meats such as lamb, beef, chicken and guinea pig; cassava; corn and fava beans. This gift from the Incas is called Pachamanca – “pacha” meaning earth and “manca” meaning pot.

I wondered how I was going to devour this blessing from the Incas. My aunt walked past me and said, “You know the Incas are probably looking down and having a good laugh at your lame attempt to eat it with one hand”. She was right. So I rolled up my sleeves, placed the plate on my lap and got down to business. As I sat there admiring the homage to mother earth resting my plate, I couldn’t help but think about the events that had taken place 24 hours ago…

The earliest memories I have of a Pachamanca was playing with my cousins and then fighting with them for the crunchiest bits. However, this time around we were all adults and quite capable of peeling garlic, washing potatoes, cutting pieces of meat and using a mortar and pestle to grind the delicious herbs.

I realised that Pachamanca is not just a method of cooking: it is a celebration. A celebration that means preparation and which demands community involvement. As the meat needs to be marinated overnight, my grandmother’s kitchen had turned into an ant colony with my grandmother playing the perfect part of the queen ant. She walked around inspecting that we were all following her instructions and, once approved, we were sent to bed. As I turned off the kitchen light I could smell the aromatic flavors about to seduce the pieces of meat.

As the ingredients were all being covered up my grandmother told me that before she married my grandfather she was ordered to make a Pachamanca by my great grandmother. She failed miserably but my grandfather loved her anyway. My grandfather placed a cross on top of the Pachamanca, held up a bunch of coca leaves and started making an offering to Mother Earth in Quechua, the language of the Incas. Although I was unable to understand what he was saying, it was magical because for the first time in my life I too thanked Mother Earth for her generosity. It was the first time I felt such a strong connection to my family, culture and understood the connection between man and nature.