Sunday, May 18, 2008

213: Turning into Corn

Some of you have been asking for family updates. Here they are:

Sergio:
Sergio joined the U.S. Marines as a new recruit four weeks ago. Although this has been a near-lifelong dream for him, it's been tough going. Not surprisingly, he writes that the military-issue boots hurt his feet (by contrast, he only wore sneakers and sandals in Africa); that the heat and humidity have become a daily torture (quite a change from the dry weather back home, especially given the rigorous work-outs every day), and above all, his long and unpronoucable name is killing him... (Poor guy! Unlike Elsita who took up our offer a few years ago to legally change her name, Sergio chose to retain the hyphenated double-surname we mistakenly inflicted on our children. You can imagine - Much as we loved the egalitarian ideology of our approach at the time, now we feel very guilty for the hardship we caused!)

In general, Sergio reports having a lot of second-thoughts about the path he has chosen, but at the same time he is determined to make it through the process. Bravo to him! This would be no mean feat. Within the first three weeks of Boot Camp, his group of recruits already dropped from over 80 to 72 -- with three-quarters of the training still in front of them.
Elsita:
Meanwhile, what we hear from Elsita is absolute delightful. You can read her whole blog at
Elsita's Blog, but we have excerpted a few paragraphs below (with her permission):

Corn, or “Maíz”, as it is called in Spanish, is the staple food of El Salvador... In fact, during the course of my time here in Central America, the presence of corn has been almost overwhelming in my day to day life (in a good way). As I may have mentioned before, my work placement is with a Salvadoran non-governmental organization in the field of sustainable agriculture and food security. From what I can tell, my work here basically involves becoming a corn farmer.

At the moment, in the rural communities with which my organization works, farmers buy hybrid corn seed to plant every year. Hybrid corn is nice because it is bred to give high yields, resistance to diseases and other desirable characteristics. Due to a biological phenomenon known as hybrid vigour, the crossing of two inbred corn lines results in the first hybrid generation showing the best of the parents´ most desirable characteristics. Breeders manipulate the pollination process of inbred lines in order to achieve this. However, in the second generation, mediocre characteristics of the grandparent corn resurface, so yield and disease resistance decrease. What this means is that seeds collected and replanted by farmers for the next year do not become particularly productive plants, so the farmers inevitably become dependent on purchasing the seed every agricultural cycle. In addition to this, they also must purchase fertilizers, insecticides and herbicides that go along with the hybrid seed, and as you might imagine, the costs add up quickly. Why do farmers buy hybrid seed? Apparently, seed companies operate intense propaganda schemes that lead to the notion that hybrid corn is intrinsically better than open pollinated varieties. Similarly, transgenic (genetically modified) corn is also on the rise. It is the most expensive seed available, and also thought to be better than other varieties. Transgenic corn also requires chemical inputs (fertilizers etc), and it is genetically engineered to not produce viable seed for replanting, so again, farmers depend on buying the seed every year.

The overarching goal of my job is to find sustainable alternatives to all of these practices. My main project is to figure out ways to productively breed Creole Corn (a non-hybrid variety), or to put it more specifically, to figure out how to select the best, strongest, healthiest seed for replanting next year. My first assignment at work was the reading of a 400 pg manual in Spanish entitled ``El Maíz en los Tropicos: Mejoramiento y Produccion´´ (Corn in the Tropics: Improvement and Production). Slow reading but fun stuff. Since then, I have done lots of online research, and put together a short manual with descriptions of possible techniques. In the upcoming months, I will be going into the field and testing out the theory. Hopefully the experiments will then be the basis for development of solid breeding methods that can be used by future farmers as an alternative to buying expensive hybrid seed and related inputs. My biggest worry aside from actually carrying out this project, is making sure that it can be sustainable after I leave, given that I´m here for only one harvest. Thus, I want to work very closely with the farmers who know a lot more about planting corn than I do, incorporate their normal cultivation methods in the Creole Corn experiments, and through that process hopefully generate a lot of interest in the results.

And in case you thought I would gloss over the most well-known symbol of Latin American cuisine you will not be disappointed as I further describe my food adventures. I refer of course to the tortilla – the staple, the bread, the unfaltering companion to all meals, the beginning and the end, the little yellow disc of warm toasted goodness. Between the tortillas, the pupusas, the elotes (corn on the cob), the atols (hot corn drink), the tamales (doughy corn dish) and other popular meals, I rapidly realized that not only am I turning into a corn farmer, but I am in fact, turning into corn myself.

But I digress… The tortilla! The tortilla is an unleavened circular corn-bread that is hand-flattened by women everywhere I have visited so far. Unlike the North American tortilla, it is slightly thicker and much smaller. Within my first week of cooking at home, I embarked on my very own food adventure: trial-and-error tortilla making. With disbelieving roommates in attendance, I started my first tortilla attempt by slowly adding water to “harina de maíz” - corn flour – to reach the consistency that I had admiringly observed at street stands all over. So far so good: I rolled the dough into balls, then flattened them into discs and fried them in oil. Very tasty, but wrong! In fact, there is no need for the oil frying. Locals place tortillas on “comals” - large sheets of metal, heated from below that permit tortilla-making by the dozens. Now I leave the tortilla dough on the pan at low heat, flip over a few times and then eat the tortillas hot with veggies, meat, and sauce. Practice makes perfect: My roommates have concluded that I am genetically predisposed to know how to cook tortillas.

Bernd, myself, and more:
We’re doing well. We found a beautiful camping spot last weekend and enjoyed some great vistas – also an onslaught of curious creatures known (of all things) as the Namibian Corn Cricket. Their six-legged coordination and bobbing antennae were amazing to witness, as you can see from the photo below.

Next week I'm off to New York, Washington and El Salvador for a 3-week combination of work and vacation (the latter being girly-girly and mother-daughter stuff – just fabulous!). This is Bernd's gift to me after his trip to Mongolia and Elsita's graduation last year -- but I'll miss him a lot.

Finally, I want to update you on a completely different matter: You may not believe it but our Kosher-meat rabbi from Israel is back in the country (you remember: the one who wanted to convert all the local abattoirs into producing kosher meat for export and then ran afoul of the political authorities). Now he decided to export long curlicue kudu-antelope horns to become shofarim (for blowing on Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur in the synagogue) – apparently, with great initial success. Fortunately, he has given up his bid to become Chief Rabbi of Namibia, so this time everyone is happy. (Except maybe for the kudu, although he only takes the horns from those who already died.)

Friday, May 2, 2008

212: Four Weeks, Five Countries

(1) Cote d’Ivoire
I spent last week in Cote d’Ivoire (Ivory Coast), helping the local Family Health International office plan their work with orphans and other vulnerable children. Between the extreme poverty, recent history of civil war, and ravages of HIV, this is really tough place. But like the hardy bougainvillea vines or the colorful wax-print fabric favored by the local women, I also witnessed hints of brightness that periodically burst forth and provide hope for a better tomorrow.

Here is a good Sergio-story: On my first day in Abidjan I hadn’t realized that my hosts scheduled lunch at the US embassy. Earlier that morning I had dutifully locked my passport and personal valuables in the hotel-safe, so I arrived at the embassy gates without any picture-ID. Under the circumstances, the US Marine on duty couldn’t let me inside. As I waited, I remembered the date was April 21st. “This may not help my situation, sir,” I said to officer, “But as it happens, today my son starts basic training as a Marine in Parris Island, South Carolina.” The young marine looked at me again and drawled. “Parris Island? I remember it well… Wish your son the best of luck from me.” Then he hesitated and added, “Now, let’s see if we can get the person you are supposed to meet from the embassy to come outside and vouch for you, and then you can proceed with your lunch.”

I worked hard during the week, so by the time Friday came around, I was ready for a break. A local University professor invited a colleague and me to his home for a traditional Ivorian meal (ground cassava, fish-soup and fried plantains), and afterwards we invited the professor and his wife to a concert by the singer Oumou Sangaré – “la diva de la musique malienne” – at the country’s largest outdoor performance arena. Sangaré is known for her songs against polygamy and female genital mutilation – and sure enough, the audience was mostly made of women: clearly, the well-to-do and professional elite of local society.

My colleague bought VIP tickets in order to ensure good seats. To enter the arena, we had to pass through 10 layers of security, but each time we passed by one guard, someone escorted us to the next, and so on. Although it was almost 10pm by the time we arrived, the music was just getting started. As I looked around, I could scarcely believe the display of gorgeous West African fashion: each woman looking more decked-out than the next, in tight-hipped dresses, huge cloth-headscarves, and flowing shawls. For the next two hours, my eyes feasted on the glittering sequins, satin appliqué, colorful lace, and mounds of bright colors. People stood on their seats, rocked with the music, and danced in the aisles. At times, there was more “show” going on in the audience than on stage. The music pulsated – I found myself clapping and swinging as well – and was interspersed with traditional African praise-singing, line-dancing, and hooplas of joy.

Throughout the performance, people from the audience flocked on stage and fawned adoration at the singer’s feet. Large-muscled lackeys had to literally carry off about half the divining women in order to keep a mild sense of order. But this was also a lucrative business: every woman who came on stage had to pay for the privilege, and the rest of us got to see the money flowing – literally hundreds of thousands of Ivorian-francs by the time the evening was through. The men were the most ostentatious, however. Although a minority, they would come on stage to impress their women-folk: each would take out a wallet of money, kiss the singer, and then lavishly throw out bills one by one – all of which the lackeys gathered as they fell on stage. Part of the display was that Sangaré was supposed ignore all the distractions – that is to say, the songs must go on – uninterrupted, undistracted, like the sun that rises above the storm. It was exhausting to watch – but also an experience I will never forget.

(2/3) Ghana and Nigeria
After leaving Cote d’Ivoire I flew to Ghana. Whereas I had spent the past week struggling in French, suddenly everyone now spoke in American-English: Downtown Accra is modern, glitzy and eager for the tourist-dollar. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stay long – my next stop was Nigeria: the country I said three years ago would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I guess that just goes to show you can’t believe everything I write. Work forced me to come here again, not that I liked it any better the second time around. Nigeria is simply too intense and chaotic, worse than New York at rush hour 24 hours a day…

(4) Namibia’s South
What a contrast this was with two other recent trips: Four weeks ago, I traveled to the provincial capital of Keetmanshoop in the south of Namibia. I visit there about once a year and whenever I do, I make it my business to stop at the Keetmanshoop Jewish cemetery. Here it always feels like I am in the middle of nowhere -- the next town of any significance is three hours away by car. The cemetery contains just twenty gravestones, lined up in two rows. Although there aren’t any shade trees or decorative plants, it is fairly clean: Amazingly, the municipality still sends someone to sweep the place regularly and make sure that no damage is done.

No Jews have lived in Keetmanshoop for decades. The town’s most recent Jewish burial took place almost fifty years ago, and the majority of gravestones date back to the 1920s and 30s. With a single exception, all the gravestones contain different last-names. I always wonder at the transitory nature of this community, that almost no one stuck around long enough for there to be more than a single death in the family.


The one exception consists of two siblings, a boy and a girl, each dying in infancy less than two years apart from the other. Their headstones remain upright, but are now pocked-marked and dull after eight decades’ exposure to the relentless sun and blowing sand. Following the tradition, I always place three stones on each grave. As I do, I imagine the children’s poor mother, losing first one child and then another, and then seemingly moving on herself. Who was around to provide comfort her darkest hours? Was she more fortunate with child-rearing in the next place she lived? No one with this surname lives in Namibia any more, so I can’t trace how the story progressed. But I hope there is more to this family than what lies in this lonely and forsaken place.


(5) Uganda
I spent my next weekend in Eastern Uganda – a week before Passover – celebrating the Sabbath with the Abayudaya Jewish community (See
www.kulanu.org; then click on "Communities" and then "Abayudaya.") This was my fourth visit and I experienced a warm reunion. This community’s commitment, indigenous music and welcoming embrace never fail to inspire me. Contrary to most of what you see in Uganda, women are given an equal role in the synagogue and in communal life – although otherwise the style is quite Orthodox. Interesting times lie ahead, however: Come June this year, their rabbi will return after five years’ study at the Jewish Theological Seminary in Los Angeles – fully ordained and dreaming to start his own Rabbinical School for other African Jewish groups who also fall outside the mainstream, from Zimbabwe, Ghana, South Africa and elsewhere.
During my visit, the main buzz was about community development and expansion. The Abayudaya community has grown to 800 members and now boasts a guest-house, health-clinic, internet café, a fully-established secondary school, and a burgeoning primary school (still in need of assistance). Most recently, a former Seventh Day Adventist congregation about 20 kilometers down the road has given up its Christian practice and wants to become Abayudaya (i.e. Jewish). I was asked for my opinion: What should the Abayudaya do? Jews don’t proselytize, but this group approached the Abayudaya – not the other way around. Eventually, the Abayudaya leadership agreed that they must investigate more fully: Is this group attracted by the fact that the Abayudaya now have electricity, running water, and facilities that are unheard-of in most nearby villages? Or are they truly attracted by the faith-component: willing to be Jewish in the hard times, as well as they easy ones? At a minimum, they would recommend a two-year period of study and then the group could convert to Judaism, if they still want.
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