Chapter 30: Day of the Dead

Chapter 30: Day of the Dead

Guatemalans believe the barrier between the realms of the living and the dead is at its most porous on Day of the Dead (Dí­a de los Muertos) and the All Saints Day (Dí­a de los Santos), so it’s an auspicious time to communicate with family ancestors by attaching messages to barriletes (kites) and letting the wind carry the messages up to the heavens. The best places to witness the flying of these ceremonial kites are during the balliletes fiestas held on November 1st in the central highlands near Santiago Sacatepéquez and Sumpango.

Day of the Dead isn’t just a spiritual tradition for ballileteros or kite fliers, it’s also an opportunity for every Guatemalan to eat fiambre, one of the country’s most revered foods. The time, cost and effort of preparing the more than 100 ingredients that go into fiambre elevates the meat and vegetable salad to an exalted position in Guatemalan culture. Just mentioning fiambre is enough to make a grown man swoon with desire.

It’s not typically eaten in San Vicente so I’d never tried it. But this time I was in Guatemala alone, which gave me some flexibility in family obligations. I conferred with Thelma.

“If you go to San Vicente on November 2^nd that will be enough,” she said. “That way you can go to the ballilete fiesta on Nov. 1st and eat fiambre with us.”

Although thrilled to be able to sample it for myself, I worried where we’d be eating. I knew that vendors with pushcarts would be selling it at highway intersections but the combination of shredded chicken and raw lettuce made it sound like a perfect storm for salmonella. If I was going to risk a gut wrenching meal, I wanted it to be as authentic as possible. There’s much rivalry between cooks when it comes to fiambre with each cook proud of her signature style and recipe. Oscar had told me how the ladies in his neighbourhood dropped plates of fiambre off for his widowed 86-year-old father hoping to impress him.

I didn’t have to worry. Hortensia, Marilyn’s mother in law would be making ours.

“She’s been working on it for three days,” said Thelma, with the frown on her face signifying that was far too little lead time. I was glad it was Hortensia putting her culinary reputation on the line and not me.

On Day of the Dead, I awoke to a smorgasbord of refried black beans, fresh French bread, corn tortillas, sliced papaya, scrambled eggs and dulce de ayote, a special Dia de los Muertos dish. Made of chilacayote, a long-necked squash that’s chopped into pieces with the skin, pulp and seeds intact, it’s steamed in rapadura, pure sugar cane juice and generously spiced with cloves and cinnamon. Lime leaves and orange peel keeps it from becoming too sweet while molasses gives it a rich mahogany colour.

Thelma had prepared the dulce de ayote a day in advance, marinating it in spiced syrup until it was as heavy as a waterlogged Halloween pumpkin.

“It’s rich in iron and vitamins,” said Thelma “Perfect for cold weather.”

After breakfast, I washed dishes, stacking frying pans with crusted-on residue of refried black beans and breakfast plates on the counter in the small kitchen, while Thelma decorated the day’s cakes in her bakery. Taking the day off meant she’d have a backlog of orders.

“Doña Michele, no,” Mary protested, hip checking me away from the sink. But I was bigger and had been around long enough that I had some say in household affairs and managed to wrestle the nylon pot scrubber from Mary’s hands “You help Thelma with the cakes and I’ll wash.”

Dish duty in Guatemala was a world away from the procedure I’d grown up with in Canada. There it was conducted with surgical precision: My mother would arm us with morgue-worthy blue rubber gloves and blast Sunlight dish soap into scalding hot water until the sink was filled with suds and our glasses were foggy with steam. Each glass, dish and pot was washed, rinsed and carefully dried. If the water wasn’t hot enough or the tea towel fresh enough, people could die. We took dish-washing seriously.

In Guatemala, I ground my nylon scrubber into a tub of hard dark blue detergent mixed with remnants of leftover food in a circular motion until it picked up a thick film of soap. Then I took each dish from the counter, scrubbed it and placed it in the empty sink. Once the sink was full, I filled a bucket with cold water, doused the whole batch of dishes and put each dish in the drying rack. No tea towel or hot water in sight.

My new perspective on bacteria, germs and sanitation was a stepping stone into a new view of reality which helped me adjust to travels to other parts of the world. On a volunteer assignment with CESO in Russia I’d learned to eat expired food products. Previously, I would toss food as soon as it hit its best-before date. But in Russia, I had ordered my weekly groceries by pointing to items on shelves at a local government run store. The stern-faced shop woman would invariably hand me the oldest item on the shelf. If I objected she’d yell “Nyet” so I regularly ate year-old salami and boxes of cereal dating back to the Bolshevik revolution. On St. Petersburg’s long winter nights, I entertained myself by seeing how far past the best-before date I could go without getting sick. I stopped at 6 month old yogurt not out of ill-consequence but because it was time to return to Canada.

“Buen trabajo – good job,” said Mary coming to check my dish-washing progress. We were ready to go. Sumpango was located on Highway #1, north of La Antigua, Fuego and Agua volcanoes and west of Guatemala City. This meant it was theoretically less than an hour away but hoping to avoid traffic Daniel took a circuitous route. We detoured through residential neighbourhoods, down back alleys and over countless topes or speed bumps past people carrying wreathes of white and blood red chrysanthemums to family cemetery plots. Vendors sold holiday sweets and warm atol de maiz, a corn drink. Bells chimed special masses at neighbourhood churches and street processions with full brass bands added to the raucous scene.

“Photo, photo,” shouted Daniel out the car window to two teens dressed as diabolical conquistadores in the town of Barcenas. Their elaborate outfits were more ceremonial dress than costume with white knee-high boots, black capes with gold trim, white masks and enormous red, papier-mâché headdresses with two-foot tall horns. They struck suitably macabre poses before heading off.

The sky was a brilliant blue and the winds brisk in Sumpango– a perfect day for kite flying. Daniel parked and we joined the throng of Maya climbing a gash in the mountainside. Dressed in ceremonial finery, their woven clothing of sparkling blues, magenta and emerald made it seem as though I was surrounded by a living, moving rainbow. A young woman beside me, a small child strapped to her back, struggled to carry a large duffel bag. Sweat poured down her face.

“Can I help?” I asked gesturing to her bag.

“Yes, yes,” she said passing me a handle.

The bag was so heavy I gave an involuntary “oomph” as I took my share of its weight. A sloshing sound echoed from inside the bag.

“What’s in there?” I asked

“Atol de elote,” she said, picking up her pace now that her load was lighter.

Sweat now dripped from my face and I slipped in the dirt, my strappy snakeskin sandals no match for the sandy soil. I considered going barefoot as she was. Soon, we’d left Thelma behind and I was in a sea of vendors jockeying for position before the tourists. An older Mayan woman was already selling pretty little octagon kites in kaleidoscope colours. Behind her, in a small grassy plateau, children ran holding their kites aloft while cows grazed around them. It was an unexpectedly peaceful scene given the arduous march on the trail.

Once we reached the top of the hill, the young Mayan woman gave me a nod of gratitude and disappeared into the crowd. I bought a large bag of jocote, a red-skinned fruit the size of a large grape, and munching on my snack, took in the scene.

Given the spiritual significance of los balliletes or kites I’d expecting a solemn scene of people silently flying their kites with sombre expressions as they communicated with their ancestors. Nothing could have been further from reality.

Soccer tournaments, beauty queens, loudspeakers blasting music, vendors hawking balloons and kids running helter skelter create a carnival scene. Bleachers were packed with thousands of spectators facing an army of kites being held upright by the ballileteros or kite fliers at the opposite end of a green field set in front of volcanic mountain peaks.

Each row of kites was progressively larger than the one in front of it until the final row of enormous kites 20 metres in diameter and the height of a two storey home.

“Follow me,” said Thelma as she wove her way through the crowd to where two boys in matching striped t-shirts and shorts, readied their kites for the children’s phase of the competition. Their father explained that they were competing for the honours for best design, theme and size bestowed by the Comité Permanente de Barriletes Gigantes de Sumpango. Preparations had begun 40 days earlier when 70 groups in four categories: giant, voladores, especiales and children -- had begun constructing their kites in community halls and schools in the region. Now, they were putting on the final touches.

“All kite materials are natural,” the father pointed. Glue was made from yucca flour mixed with lemon peel and water while the ropes were made from maguey, the same plant used to make tequila. The kite was of bamboo and paper.

A voice from the loudspeaker announced the start of the competition so we hurried out of the way. The two boys, after tripping over each other momentarily, got into position with the rest of their team and with expressions of utmost seriousness began trying to hoist their kite. Once it was up in the air, it swayed sideways to reveal a lovely centrepiece of the Virgin of Guadeloupe.

The kite caught a breeze, lifted up to hang as long as an intake of air, wobbled briefly and then fell to the ground. There was an audible groan of disappointment from the crowd. Everyone had a soft spot for the kite of the Virgin. The Virgen de Guadalupe is not only revered for her ability to grant miracles but is also considered a patron of the poor and oppressed, a description which fit this community very well.

The kite flying tradition has evolved from being simply a way to communicate with ancestors to a community education and awareness program. Many kites displayed messages promoting womens' rights (No mas violencia), human rights and peace. It was a fascinating mix of indigenous Mayan tradition and political action.

“Otro opportunidad – another chance,” shouted the announcer to the cheers of the crowd.

We moved to the food stalls as the two little boys and their team set their kite up for relaunching. The air was fragrant with wood smoke from vendors grilling carne asado on open barrels and the sound of chiles being ground with mortar and pestles. We ordered two dozen tortillas negros, made of indigo corn and fresh off the comal, the round clay griddle, and wrapped them warm in brown paper to tuck into our bags. We bought elote grilled over coals, served with a wedge of lime, topped with coarse salt and served in a pale green corn husk as a makeshift plate. We tossed the husks over the fence where the cows grazed. Instant recycling.

Nibbling on tortillas and sipping sweet coconut juice, we watched the boys attempt to get the kite of the Virgin aloft for the second time. She fell to a crash after just a few minutes.

It was time to go. Below us on the highway, families carried flowers to roadside cairns. Athletic young men, serving as ambassadors for those who weren’t fleet of foot, risked their lives jaunting across two lanes of traffic to deposit plates of cake or carne asada for the departed. Chicken buses disgorged even more passengers, kicking up such clouds of dust, that the ancient ochre dust acted like camouflage paint and we barely recognized it. We lost Daniel in the process.

“Oh look, there he is,” said Thelma pointing to white speck on a steep green hill. The white blur was Daniel’s ubiquitous white T-shirt and he was scrambling up the cliff to dislodge a kite which had become stuck on a branch. A few minutes later he came walking down the highway, covered with sweat and a wide smile on his face. In his hand was a colourful kite.

He’d bought me a simple child’s kite.

“A recuerdo – a souvenir” he said.

Although thrilled with my little kite, I didn’t need a souvenir to remember the Day of the Dead. Everyone else may have been connecting with their ancestors but I’d forged a new bond with Guatemala, making my own connections with the people I’d met, the food I’d eaten and the sights I’d seen.

“Is it true fiambre was invented by the nuns at La Capuchinas?” I asked Daniel as we drove back to Guatemala City. I was curious about its origins.

According to Elizabeth Bell, a historian in Antigua, fiambre was invented in the 1700s by a nun who lived at the Convento de las Capuchinas, a nunnery with soaring archways, ornate stone foundations and squat pillars. According to the legend, she didn’t have enough food to make a proper meal for priests visiting on All Saints Day, so she scoured the pantry, collecting and remixing leftovers from previous meals – everything from slices of cheese to boiled potatoes-- to create a new dish. Over the centuries, the dish had evolved to become a ritual, where the variety of ingredients was as important as the sharing it with neighbours, family and friends.

“That nun story is a fabrication like la llorona,” said Daniel, dismissively. Ever the pragmatic and practical, he wasn’t too taken with spirits and ghosts. In Guatemalan folklore, la llorona is the spirit of a beautiful woman who drowned her children to be with the man she loved. When he scorned her, she killed herself and now wanders the world wailing “Aaay, mis hijos” for her lost children. Her cries can often be heard near a house where someone has died.

Given the legends surrounding fiambre, the dish turned out to be nothing like what I imagined.

Instead of the colourful hand-painted platters I’d expected, at each place setting was a Styrofoam carton similar to what you might get at Manchu Wok. I opened my carton and peered inside. At first glance, the mound resembled Ensalada Mixta – the composed salad popular in Spain—I recognized white asparagus, hard-boiled egg and sliced red beets. That where the resemblance ended. Like a chef’s salad on steroids, fiambre had all that and more. Much more. I counted at least six types of meat on the top layer -- hot dogs sliced into slivers, strips of ham, shredded chicken and sausage. .

“Do you like eggs?” said Benjamin to my right.

“Yes,” I nodded watching as he transferred slices of eggs to my dish.

“Ham?” I gestured with my fork at my carton.

The meal became a trading game, a culinary version of Go Fish. With 10 of us at the table, there were plenty of traders. To my left a young guy nicknamed “Mona” (monkey) I guessed due to his hirsuteness and long arms, was a big fan of sliced wieners.

In exchange I scored broccoli (nicely marinated in a spicy olive oil) and then swapped a strip of slippery mortadella for a tiny squash. There were no takers for the slices of Moronga, the Guatemalan black blood sausage, but I was able to swap chicken for sardines.

Hortensia’s fiambre was earning nods of approval. Thelma was a firm believer in her vinaigrette dressing -- other variations such as a mayonnaise or sweet and sour – were inferior so this fiambre clearly passed the test. Hortensia had also been careful to mix the ingredients without drawing the evil eye. Guatemalan superstition calls for cooks to banish people from the room at critical stages in a recipe so no watching “eyes” jinx its magical alchemy. The evil eye is blamed if fiambre turns out mushy rather than fresca (fresh).

Following the lead of others, I borrowed deep with my fork into the layers of fiambre and like a culinary archaeologist unearthed a crisp frond of pacaya at the bottom of the Styrofoam clamshell. I realized fiambre, like many national dishes, symbolized the country itself. One spoonful you discovered something delicious and the next something awful. Like the contrasting experiences I’d had in Guatemala over the years. The beauty of the lush volcanoes and the way they shape-shifted throughout the day yet could erupt and bring devastation at any moment. The peaceful patience of the people vs the brutality of the street gangs.

In the years I’d been coming to Guatemala, I’d often longed to experience only the beauty of the country and none of its scary underbelly but realized now that it would be like eating an incomplete fiambre.

Part of the beauty was the discovery and the exploration. Much Like fiambre, Guatemala was best experienced with family by your side, ready to help by digging in when needed.

Recipe: Plantain in chocolate mole

I’m not normally a big fan of plantains, the sweet cousin of the banana, but bathe them in bittersweet chocolate enlivened with chiles and cinnamon and I’m a convert. When shopping, it’s important to choose ripe plantains (they have black skins) as green plantains will be too dry and they won’t carmelize properly. Serve this dish in parfait glasses or, do as they do in Guatemala, and use a Styrofoam coffee cup.

Ingredients

• 
  Ripe plantains, peeled, cut in half crosswise, then lengthwise into half
  
• 
  Corn oil for frying
  
• 
  ½ cup sesame seeds
  
• 
  2 Tablespoons pepitoria
  
• 
  5 small ripe red tomatoes
  
• 
  1 small chile pasa (seeds and stem removed), soaked in ½ cup warm water for 30 minutes
  
• 
  1 ounce bitter chocolate melted
  
• 
  ½ cup white sugar
  
• 
  ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
  
• 
  2 to 3 tablespoons fine white bread crumbs
  

Method

1. 
   Heat 1/2-inch of oil in a skillet over medium heat. Add the plantains, a few pieces at a time, and sauté until lightly browned. Turn and sauté the second side.
   
2. 
   Remove to a paper towel-lined plate and repeat
   
3. 
   Sprinkle with a little salt and keep hot while you make the sauce.
   
4. 
   In a dry skillet, toast the sesame seeds and squash seeds until lightly browned, blend in a spice grinder and then set aside.
   
5. 
   Toast bread crumbs in the skillet and set aside.
   
6. 
   Toast tomatoes in the same skillet until browned and then peel off skins
   
7. 
   Prepare a smooth sauce in the food processer with the chile and its soaking iquid, the toasted seeds and tomatoes. Force through a strainer.
   
8. 
   Fry the sauce in a skillet for 5 minutes. Add the chocolate and water, sugar and cinnamon. Cook over moderate heat for 5 minutes and add toasted bread crumbs to thicken.
   
9. 
   Add the plantain slices to the mole and simmer slowly for 15 minutes
   

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