Since R (sister, the elder) and G (brother in law) returned to Guyana in time for Ramadan, I had the opportunity to go places to break the fast, since Ramadan is a time for feeding people, you can always bring along an extra person. When we broke fast in mosques, whether they were in the city area or across the river in the country, everything is just a reminder of the past. Like enamel cups.
Apparently in Guyana there are no worries about lead or whatever that can seep into your food from beneath the enamel layer. The first mosque I went for Iftar (breaking of the fast) in Ogle, I had a serious flashback to the old days in Cottage (homeland village), where the only thing you ever used, good for hot and cold, drinks and soups, were enamel cups. But that was nothing compared to the Iftar in G’s home village. I have to admit to some jaw-dropping when the cups came out – so many, I swear they had hundreds for the masses. And so many to wash!! That’s why paper, plastic and styrofoam were invented, people!! (Yes I know, concern for the environment and all, but we have to conserve water and detergent too).
But it was nostalgic, certainly, the enamel mugs and the glass bowl-plates, filled with steaming rice and hot hot hot dhal. Fingers only of course. Which is fine by me, I was brought up right, even though we have drawers full of cutlery in our mosque back home. I can eat anything with my fingers. However, I do have to admit that maybe, just maybe, my fingers have been a little spoiled. Perhaps they are not exactly insensitive to the heat of food fresh from the fire. I didn’t spill anything, I didn’t yelp in pain or anything, but – note to self – next time volunteer to serve food with the other women (yes, here men do not really serve food, a practice which exists in Trinidad, certainly, but not in Cottage, not when the Imam has 3 daughters and has to go home to my mother) and then by the time I eat, I may actually be able to spend more time eating and less time nursing my red fingertips, which can possibly make one look like a tourist. Not that I looked like a tourist. Well maybe a tourist, since everyone knows everyone there, but I didn’t look incapable of fitting in, I hide my foibles well in large crowds. And I did NOT get the dreaded “you want a spoon?”.
There were even some traditions that I am too young to remember being used in Trinidad – fireside cooking, for example which only happens back home when you have a river lime (despite the name, this can take place by the side of any body of water – a puddle by the side of the cane field if it’s a particularly severe dry season or you’re not really allowed to go to the river without adults (where you gather to cook pelau or curry duck) and even then, they may use a ring stove with gas, if the “river” is within easy reach of a car. Some people (like us) still have a chulha, or clay fireside, but if other people are like us, the last time we used it was for lamb kebabs a few years ago, when Dad wasn’t there and we didn’t want to mess around with large amounts of coal for the bbq grill.
But back to Guyana, there in the mosques, when preparing for Iftar, will always be a row of these firesides. Now, I don’t think that “fireside” is what you imagine it to be…and in any event I am using the term we use in Trinidad. Imagine a metal cylinder (old, heavy and rusted from age) with an opening on the bottom of one side where the wood goes in. The pot (here it is called “karahi”) is heavy cast iron, sometimes 2′ in diameter at the top requiring 2 people (enter the men) to lift it using elongated metal hooks. It sits on top of the fireside and you turn it with long wooden paddles, or really really big pot spoons. We use those huge pots but not being a land of wood and water, we use big heavy gas-rings. I wanted to take a picture of the firesides, but I didn’t want to draw attention – when I was taking pictures of the pepperpot at an Iftar by someone’s house, her son ran over and insisted he could hold the camera, he’d washed his hands, really just give it to him, he wanted to put his fingers all over the screen and lens, come on, please. My picture of the quintessential Guyanese dish is therefore not quite in focus.
Despite having large rivers (Trinidad can fit in that one, remember!) and huge enamel cups and pots and the ability to consume enormous amounts of rice, the Guyanese disappoint when it comes to roti. They make these individual size rotis, no matter what the occasion. No bigger than the ones I used to make in Edinburgh, using a skillet or griddle. Why? For someone who grew up going to functions and weddings in the village, or elsewhere, and seeing the men and women (making wedding roti seems to be peculiarly more male than female, the only thing my grandfather could cook and was in charge of every Eid, was a sweet requiring hot paratha). They roll out the rotis (whether dhalpuri or paratha) on tables and put them on tawahs that can be more than 3 feet in diameter. THAT is making roti. But no, I now live in a foreign country. I brought my own regular sized tawah (big enough) – R says the Guyanese laugh at her large family sized one. One wonders if they faint when they see our mosque/temple and village sized ones. Unfortunately, small roti means small rolling pins (bailna) so although I said I’d buy wooden items in the land of wood, I am regretting that decision now. You live and learn.
Seasonings are different here too. For starters, you can’t serve food without having the bottle of ketchup. Even in the restaurants and hotels, they’ll have the bowl of ketchup out. I know Trinis eat pizza with ketchup, but it is tomato-based, there is a logical connection, really. They eat it with rice. No Trini dish would be complete without chadon beni (bandania – tastes like coriander, possibly called Mexican cilantro). They don’t use it here. They don’t even have it. Savages. Cool thing R and I discovered though. We needed a herb similar to mint for Eid, that R had seen in the market, but she never remembered the name.
We went to the market in Bourda (night market during blackout – fun) and G asked for what sounded like mariampo. So we thought, ok we’d try to remember the name. However, during a futile search for plain yoghurt and rose water in the supermarket the next day, we happened upon locally packaged Dried Sweet Basil, otherwise called “Married Man’s Pork”. Apparently strange names are not the sole purview of Trinidad and Tobago. Wonder what the single man’s pork is seasoned with.
One thing I am sure of, there are more culinary adventures on the way. Can’t promise that the quality or variety will be that great. I think the main problem is, many foods are very similar to Trinidad’s but they’re not quite the same, and that’s the rub, as it were. The difference makes it worse no matter what, when I compare. Guyanese just won’t be able to win this one. No one comes to Guyana for the food (except for the pepperpot), they come for gold and diamonds (I may have mentioned this).
That’s why I have a fully stocked kitchen, straight from T&T.
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[...] • Eating In Guyana courtesy Chennete, explains that small rotis are the norm in that country [...]