A Vegan In Oaxaca

Itanoni

February is turing into March and Oaxaca is hot.  Hot and polluted.  The cars are old, hanging onto life, and their fumes are invasive and persistent.  It's noisy too.  The 500 year old Santa Domingo Church is across the street from my (hot) studio.  The church seems keen to get everyone 'up and at 'em' at 6:45am, when the bells begin their seemingly random peel.  Over the weekend the post-dawn bell jams were joined by random and unnerving fireworks, released into the street.

Upon arrival, I quickly decided to avoid the crowded Zocalo.  Swams of people, buying gawdy balloons, souvenirs and eating al fresco among the craziness.   Funny, for a girl in search of peace and reflection I'm doing a great job of honing in on the busiest places on Earth!  But I have this sense of time, rushing, sprinting by.  I want to see it all.  Do it all.  Taste it all.

My reasons for visiting Oaxaca where numerous.  But primary No.1?  The food.  Oaxaquenian food. Oaxaca is said to be the land of the most diverse range of chilies in the world, the land of world renowned gastronomy and MOLE.  A sauce  made in all manner of ways but beginning with basic components; chocolate, herbs, spices, garlic, chile and azucar (sugar) and/or banana or plantain.  My taste buds and romantic heart have long hungered for Mexican cooking and pre-hispanic culture.  I'm feeding on both.

If you come, you of course would have already consulted www.happycow.com  but I'm here to tell you my version of events.  Save you time and energy.  If you've no plans to come, well no matter, read on anyway.

Despite hating Oaxaca upon arrival it has grown in my favour as I've uncovered a little of what the small colonial city has to offer.  You can read more about my adventures at www.indialeigh.wordpress.com.  Here….it's all about the food.

Calle 20 de Noviembre is a street known to tourists as chocolate (cho ko la tey) row.  Three major players draw in punters..nose first.  Cacao beans are ground on site to produce a paste of the famous Oaxacan chocolate.  Used by Oaxaquenans for mole and hot drinks, enjoyed at the beginning and end of days.  I worked my way around each store.  Tasting the minuscule samples of the pastes from plastic spoons.  The flavours were quite different.  I have to say one mole I tried in Le Soledad, tasted like piss.  An odd flavour to be sure.  Only Mayordomo made me stop.  They offer decadent drinking chocolate. Me want.  My request for 'sin azucar (no sugar) and sin leche (no milk) raised a few eyebrows, but the chocolateria snapped a generous amount of squares from a bar of (almagro…100% cacao) kept under the counter, and poured steaming water into a green clay jug.  She then proceeded to use a wooden whisk to emulsify the ingredients produce a bubbly froth .  It was bitter, rich and utterly delicious.  I swivelled side to side on my bar stool cupping my drink as I watched the chocolate grinders create huge trays of thick, dark paste. The tienda (shop) was a sensory heaven.  The inhalation of chocolate fumes a welcome respite from the dusty streets.    The chocolate is sold all over town.  It is usually VERY sweet.  More sugar than chocolate (me no gusta!)  Unless, like me you seek its purest form.

RESTAURANTS

The Oaxacans I have met have a strange understanding of 'vegetarian', let alone try and get them to contemplate a vegan.  The 'vegetarian' restaurants listed in Happy Cow, are not.  Don't be fooled by the listing of chicken and ham etc.  These are NOT fake meats.  They are real animal.  A true vegetarian restaurant currently doesn't exist in Oaxaca.  My advice?  Write a list of the 'sin' (without) ingredients you don't want to find in your meal.  Show it to them.  Get them to read it more than once.  In several of the places I have gone, they've said 'yes, yes' it is vegetarian, or si, si it is 'sin azucar' (without sugar) and when I've pressed them just to be sure, I've found out it isn't.  A cooking class I attended had the chef tell me the other participants were vegan (in fact they loved their meat) and that he was vegan also (so NOT vegan).  I think they just want to please, and some think vegan means 'organically grown'.  The concept of gluten free is little known too, though some shops exist that will supply pasta, and products with amaranth (versatile little, protein packed, grain-like seed).   So, be EXTRA vigilant.  Don't be down hearted though, there are options.  

Itanoni is a restaurant dedicated to masa..of the non-GMO kind.  Cooked traditionally atop a comal (terracotta oven) with lots of filling options.  Take a Spanish dictionary, when I visited no one spoke any English.  I tried three types.  One folded triangle (tetelas), filled with hongos (mushrooms). A 'de ese' rolled and stuffed with frijoles (beans), flor de calabaza (squash flower) and hierba santa (a local herb..with very subtle minty flavour) and a yellow corn taco stuffed with heavenly, butter-like avocado.  Washed down with a refreshing lemonade made with hierba santa, lemons and mineral water.  Cost..just over £3..total!

ORGANIC MARKETS AND HEALTH FOOD STORES

At Rayon Rayon #411 and Xicoténcatl there is an Organico Mercado, there is a daily (closed Sunday) organic mercado. The produce is scarce but there are two open air restaurants and two organic coffee baristas. 

Friday and Saturday a small but beautifully formed organic market is held the grounds of a church in Xochimilco district The sellers have tortillas, beautiful fruits and vegetables (Kale, I found kale!), nopal, freshly picked herbs, artisan sauces and a few handicrafts.  You'll find lots of ex-pats and travellers here shopping and eating under the shade of a tree.  I found a Korean woman selling a small selection of vegan cooked take away food, pastries, Spanish tortillas etc.   

My scouting has found a couple of great little stores that have some vegan products and a good supply of organic vegetables and fruits.   Xiguela (great organic vegetables and products, some Asian products too) and Bambu (Margarita who owns this place is so nice) #414 Col. Centro.  They have gluten free, soy free and vegan hamburgers made with seeds and veggies that are delicious. Lots (by Oaxaca standards) of health foods.

GENERAL COVERED MARKETS

Calle de 20 Noviembre has the Buenito Juarez mercado.  There is where you buy the best MOLE paste in Oaxaca (in my opinion).  Hunt out (and you will need to its a bloody assault for the senses in there..you could get lost for days!) Almita, at Local 180 (tel: 51 669 12) Her mother makes amazing mole negro and it is totally vegan (some moles contain caldo de carne) It is rich, multi-layered, with a gentle heat and I was told, sugar free.  Sweetened by caramelised plantains and raisins.  It keeps for ages in the fridge and forever in the freezer.  I don't think I'll get it through UK customs, so I went on a cooking class to learn how to make it.  I'll write of my adventures in Oaxacan cooking in the next post.

PRODUCTS

A few products I've been devouring with little restraint are a local Oaxacan drink- Tejate -, sold in big vats by street seller but full of sugar, and god knows what else.  Not wanting to do without an experience of a new flavour, I tracked down in a powder and sugar free.  It is made of maize, toasted cacao, mammy (a local fruit) seeds and flowers.  It's flavour is sweet and distinct. I have been adding it to my green breakfast smoothies in place of protein powder (I've not been successful in sourcing any in Mexico)

Also, an Oaxacan cooperative sell Amaranth products (food of the Gods, enjoyed since pre-hispanic times…a complete protein and actually a seed not a grain but it is used as such) , all gluten free and mostly vegan; flour, sweet popped-seed bars and these amazing, slightly hot, citrusy, crunchy (probably fried but not greasy) sticks.  I LOVE them.  Way TOO much.

I'm taking the 6 hour bus back to Mexico City in a day or so.  I've much more to post for D.F.

Come back for more Mexico City eats and my experience in the real home kitchen of a mescal drinking cooking teacher in Oaxaca!

Besos,

India xx

A Vegan Travelling In Buenos Aires

Travelling. Learning to dance with Buenos Aires [with photos]

Lunes Noviembre 19th, 2012

Argentina has been frustrating for me.  My progress, like a Tango, forward back, forward back.  A side step here and there.  Argentina is the man.  My body alert to his warmth.  My feet react to his.  I was as autonomous as the Capital.  Now I’m gripped in its veins.

It feel uncomfortable.  My limit is finding its edge.  Will it extend further than I thought?

I realize now, I’ve been seeking something that has no place here. My eyes were blind to the spirit of the city, as I fought to feel the heartbeat of its people.  Buenos Aires is holding time, clear in its intentions.  ‘Follow’ it says, don’t lead.

I give in..up!   It is not San Francisco.  I cannot dance with Argentina whilst my heart is settled at the feet of another.  It is breaking me down.  Words, accents fall about my ears like the springtime violet Jacaranda blossoms.  I understand little.

In the last week I have been forced into intense situations.  Forced to make myself understood.  I’ve used flailing hand gestures, drawing pictures in the warm air around me, eye brows frowning and raising as my eyes grapple to reach connection, plead for understanding.  My  apartment keys broke in my lock.  Bundy, the petit, azur-eyed lady who brings me from my sleep each morning, as her broom sweeps the single path through the patch of green beside our building.  Her face inscribed over the years with her goodly actions.  As I implored her to understand.  ‘no, key, ho llegar!‘   She let me take her hand and guide her up the stone steps to my door.  I pushed the metal back and forth, rapidly in the bronze lock. ‘no entrar!‘   ‘it no work!’.    A few moments of us, eager with our gestures.  She took my hand.  We walked from the building, down into the street.  We waited as the traffic sped from right and left.  The green walking man lit.  I felt her move.  We smiled, we shook our heads.  I rose up my shoulders and showed the open sky my palms.  We smiled, again.  Safely across, we entered a male domain.  Shelves of small boxes. Layers of dust.  Bronze and silver keys and hefty locks strung all about.  Five minutes of babbled conversation between a stocky guy with hair like an Irish setter, he looked back and forth.  From me to her.  A black briefcase was lifted to the counter.  Opened.  His wiry hair disappeared behind the lid.  A clinking of metal.  A nod of satisfaction.  The lid folded.  The locks thumbed in stereo.  We were off again.  Now three.  We traversed the black and white stripes on the tarmac, as our walking time was counted down on the crossing.  I smiled to my left.  To my right.  I lifted my shoulders laughing then drawing my hands to fists to gesture rubbing my eyes.  Two arms from different bodies reached to gently pat my bare shoulders.  There, there.  A wordless language.

After much banging and oiling the door opens to my apartment.  Sigh!  Kisses and hugs all around.  This doesn’t seem much of a stretch into intimacy in a country where strangers naturally greet with a planted kiss.

I fire up my computer and Google Translate lights my screen.  I type ‘hero’ in English and it spits out the Spanish equivalent.  He smiles.  His oil stained fingers clumsily search the keys.  D.U.L.C.E forms in type on the interface.  I need not seek the translation to my native tongue.  SWEET.  We both smile. He leaves, furnished with a few $ pesos.  Bundy opens her arms full width.  I’m drawn in for another hug.

Two days later.  After a failed and attempt to buy a bike from Craigslist Buenos Aires (bunch of chancers!  selling a bike with a flat and buckled tyre), I walk thirty blocks, sticking as close to marble and stone buildings as I could, seeking shade.  The Bicicleta Naranja (The Orange Bicycle) rental and city-tour tienda (store).  After ten minutes of scant Spanish and a flourish of pink pesos, I’m proudly riding my clanking, rickety cruiser down the cycle lane.  Happy as a clam in the ocean.  The next day, I arrange to meet a friend I’ve made from the gimnasio and we take off along the park to bike the few short miles San Telmo.

San Telmo is the barrio where the tourist flock to see the legendary tango, pounded onto cobbled streets.  It is heaving!

It was Sunday.  All the fun happens along one long and narrow street.  It is basically a HUGE street market.  Mostly curios and object d’art, displayed neatly upon sheets on the floor.  The buildings flanking the street are old, crumbling mixture of art deco and neo-classical splendor.  Narrow entrances that stretch back for many metres.  My Argentinian friend and I were particularly taken with an building such as this. The small entrance opened onto a checker board stone floor, worn from years of footsteps and probably many nights of impassioned dancing.  Off it were about 20 little rooms, each one owned by

1000’s of keys that had no mate.  Creepy faced antique dolls with matted hair, bottles, jars, thimbles, wooden shoe-makers blocks, and delicate hanging lace.  My friend was kindly teaching  me how to use my new camera.  I’d been overwhelmed upon arriving in Buenos Aires.  The heat, the new language, new place to bed down, shops full of everything and nothing that I recognized.  Except wooden crates brimming with bright, fresh vegetables (veduras).  Thankfully, these are universal, mostly.   Therefore, the thought of then in addition to this, crashing on into learning how to work a camera with dials and buttons and a menu that was foreign to me, would have certainly crushed me.  I snapped like fury.  At anything and everything.  Ten minutes alone were spent getting shot after shot of years old siphon bottles.  The Argentines drink more soda than anything else according to the little flyer the market holder gave me.

I grew more and more frustrated, my trusty point and click was sadly missed.  We knew each other, it did what I wanted.  This new hefty beast appeared limiting.

We found a ‘natural’ restaurant along one of the side streets.  It was like a human avery inside.  A light filled space for people to perch.  At last I had a decent meal.  I was thankful for my friend who painstakingly read out every item on the menu.  Satiated I practiced a little Spanish… ‘Muy rico’ I offered, with a confirmatory, universal thumbs up.

Then Argentina struck me again.  I had beamed happily as we completed our walking circle, my heart skipping a little as I saw my new precious orange friend.  My friend waited patiently by with her bike as I set my bag down to hunt in its cavernous space for my lock key.  I hunted again.  Hands feeling into every corner.  I spilled the contents of my bag on to the dusty pavement.  Bits of paper with fading scribbles, receipts, train tickets, purse, the comb I never use, apartment keys…but no lock key!!!

I was frantic. Aghast at the air head I’d been.  What was it with me and locks in this country?  Was it a sign?  Oh, no!  Mierda!

My curious happy glow slowly dulled as we went back to every place we’d visited.  All I cared about was finding the single key, strung on the dirty orange rope.  Nothing.  NADA!

I carried my heavy heart back to the underground.  I apologized to my friend for ‘ruining’ the day.  She shook her head and replied in the softest of accents, that would have charmed a hardest of hearts…‘shit happens!’

I’m like a child, totally spent at the end of each day.  I fall heavily, into bed when most Argentinian’s are going out to play.  I don’t know how they do it.  Clubs get ‘started’ at 3am.  Their afternoon turns to evening at nine.  3 hours after we say the day is drawing to an end.  At 2am, families walk the streets slurping on creamy, cold helados (ice-creams) when most Brits are tucked up in bed.  Most days I have forgotten something.  One day I walked out of the house to the other side of town to a cute, hipster cafe, to get some writing done and my bag contained the power lead, my camera was in there and my purse.  Whoop!  But the computer?!  at home on the sofa in its case.

Hopefully, my head will regroup sometime soon and natural flow and competence will be resumed (with a few hundred Spanish words..the ability to read as well as a Spanish kindergarten kid, and many happy moments to look back on).

Traveling, like learning something new is not always all skittles and roses.  It can be hard to adjust.  The newness daunting.  The pull to seek ‘sameness’  can be all too great.  It takes experience to know it really is ‘all good’.  When the whole picture can be viewed (enter Ms. Hindsight!).

My purse is $60 pesos for a new lock.  I’m still intent on enjoying my time.

Onwards

5 Top tips for better travel – Learning the art of Slow Travel. Buenos Aires.

Posted on November 9, 2012 

Day 4 – The city heat continues mimic  a roasting oven.  Unusual for this time of year I am told.  A phrase not uncommon these days.  A lack of breeze holds the constant plumes of vile cigarette smoke static at nose height. Urgh!

I’m beginning to be fully present in my temporary space.  Day 2 I wanted to go home.  I recognise this, after years of travelling, that my body likes to spit it’s dummy out of the pram, so to speak.  It kicked out at having to deal with smells, sounds and sights so utterly foreign.  I am sure my face wore a frown and I felt agitated and stressed from not being able to communicate.  But one adapts.  And fast.  I have come to know that if I don’t feel comfortable in a place that all I need to do is use up some shoe rubber and go find somewhere that I do.

Day 3.  I awoke and felt strangely irritated again. I not to analyse why and got on with the task of getting ready to head out.  It took me ages to sort myself out.  A swathe of things to remember to put in my bag, making the bed, and gathering essentials; camera, map, money, etc. Walking 30 yards up the street, cooled slightly by the spit of water from overhead air con units, a feeling just literally sank into me.  I was happy.  The high-rise, the dusty pot-holed streets, the constant noise, people everywhere, suddenly was not grating on my nerves.  My skin adapted to the heat and opened my eyes and began to look around. And I liked it.

I headed downtown, to the worlds widest street with it’s 14 lanes of traffic.  Pleased with myself at remembering my camera, my mood wasn’t dulled by omitting to put the memory card in it.  I failed to be a tourist and take the obligatory snaps.  So I ‘borrowed’ a shot from the inter web.  

I passed along narrow streets that flank de Julio.  It was dusty.  Lined with small electrical shops and the ubiquitous kiosco, selling candy, sandwiches and water.  It felt seedy.  It WAS seedy.  What appeared at a distance, to be large shards of peeling paint on street lights, upon inspection were faded square of paper with images of ‘women of the night’ offering their wares.  The area wasn’t far from my appointment with Expanish.  A Spanish language school that promised to deliver the basics and get me ‘shopping until dropping’ or making new friends.  My excitement at mastering a smattering of greetings and being able to buy a bottle of water, reached no pitch of fever.  My tutor, a long skirted   girl with sun kissed skin and a rojo (red) birthmark that travelled like an estuary down her right arm, seemed preoccupied with something in her head and failed to rally the elderly American couple and my French Canadian neighbour into any attempt at dialogue or interaction.  Instead we read the hand out and watched her write words on the white board.  I came away exhausted, from the heat, the frantic 20mins spent walking up and down the street to find the schools entrance and 2 hours spent sweating in a class that taught me little.  Apart from the fact I didn’t want to return to either the class or the area.

I took a chance at offering a local the question ‘donde esta?’ and after smiling and waving my hands a lot to show I couldn’t understand what one man was saying, followed the line where his finger was pointed and took my first ride on the SUBTE.  The oldest underground in Latin America.  There are only 6 lines. Not very extensive but it gets you to the places you need. After a fashion, I figured out that the entrance on one side of the street takes you East, the other side..West, North or South.  $2.50 ARS (Argentine Peso) 32p!  gets you where you want to go.  And back to my studio with the vestige comforts of home.

My next SUBTE trip took me to Belgrano, an conclave of Chinese immigrants selling lucky charms of waving cats and cheap fashion.  The internet had offered a suggestion of a visit to Casa China.  An inexpensive Asian market where the meat free among us get supplies.  My studio is a few blocks from the line and I take a new route each time I alight from home, so as to mind map the streets and start to build a sense of space.  A camera (when you remember the SDC card!) is a handy upgrade from the crumbs dropped by Hansel and Grettle as they picked their way through the forest.  I take shots of landmarks, street signs and things that catch my attention that I may want to return to later,  in order to capture the route.  I never refer to it but it seems to fasten my memory for when my steps are retraced.  The SUBTE is a great place to sit in close proximity to static commuters and regard the cities inhabitants.  My expectations of native portenos (locals) being olive skinned and with dark, thick hair are completely at odds with reality.  Blonde headed, red headed.  Blue eyed, brown eyed.  Aquilined or soft.  Tall, stocky.  A country that began a long history of immigration, beginning with the Spanish in the 16th century, followed then by a succession of Italians in the 19th and a steady flow of Koreans,  Chinese, Central and Eastern European cultures along with other Latin American nationals would make for quite a mix.  In 1992 and 2003 alone nearly 3/4 of a million people emigrated to a country rendered a cheap place to live after the economic recession  saw the value of  the Argentine Peso plummet.

What else has struck me about the people of Buenos Aires, which of course is now reflection of the country at large (a city is a city, right?!) so far is their willingness to help without being asked (a man came to assist me, unprompted as I getting tangled in my map and my feet were pirouetting on the spot, in effort to decipher my location).  Also, everyone appears to kiss as a way of greeting.  Once, alighted on either left or right cheek.  Men too.  I don’t think it is just me witnessing the interplay between the largest gay population in South America.  No, after a Google search I see it is customary.

I got to try this out when I headed over to the uber trendy (and not unlike San Francisco’s Mission District), barrio (neighbourhood) of Palermo.  Hollywood & Soho.  I was meeting  with a private tutor I’d hired after ditching the ineffectual language school.  My desperation to be able to shop and be understood prompted me to try again.   I met with Vero, my tutor, in a hip cafe on El Salvador Avenue.  www.b-blue.com.ar, run by blueberry farmers, and did as custom saw fit.  The lesson was fruitful as was our little offering of gratis tapas – a tiny white plate of organico blueberries.  I came away with my neural pathways tonged, stretched and grown a new with seemingly non-sensical rules about verbs and conjunctives.  I wonder whether I’ll ever remember to change my ‘to be’ when speaking about something permanent or temporary?!!   I’ve planned daily meets with Vero from http://estudioverba.tumblr.com to see what magic she can perform with my memory for Spanish.

I think my self pep talk a couple of days ago has payed off.  Instead of wanting to know, do , see, have everything immediately I’m travelling slow.  If you have time to let life unfold somewhere new this is how I suggest you go about it.  Once I calm down and remember to do so, it always works.

Buy a notepad or two.  I have one for my food notes (I write a food blog at www.aveganobsession.com).  Brain dump the list of things you want to do or achieve in your time.  Be general and then get specific.  Trust me, with only a small effort these activities/desires will come into being in their own sweet time.

Be realistic.   Instead of wanting everything NOW.  Choose a handful of main sightseeing trips or goals that you want to achieve over your time.  If you do one a day, then you are doing well.  Remember, experiences take time to absorb and a vice like grip can hold back serendipity when it visits.

take time out every day.  Go to a park or a quiet church or cafe and just be.  Meditate.  Run or do yoga.  Zoning out is paramount in your slow travel.

My point and click has some pics to show you.  I’m off to the gym (gimnasio) up the street  to take full advantage of a 3 day trial.  The staff are super friendly, the equipment a little old and the ac is ineffectual (who knew I could sweat so much!), but I like it.

Use your camera as an aide memoir to help you remember landmarks for finding your way, useful places you may want to visit another time.  If learning  a new language photograph words or signs you may want to look up later.  Particularly useful for food labels if you have a special diet.  You can insert the list of ingredients in Google Translate and work out if they are suitable.

Get a map.  Plot the museums, places of interest, restaurants and cafes you hope to visit.  This way you can easily see where to eat in the area you are visiting and if there are activities close by.

At some point – in the fullness of time- I shall learn how to use the new dslr I brought with me.  At present it sits unobserved like Shrodingers cat, until the moment I deem it time to take it out and learn to use it.  I cannot do this a moment before time else all this new information I am gathering every day may tip me over the edge.  Slow Travel!

Ah, I have forgotten the joys of uploading photographs in WordPress (I copied this post from my travel blog www.indialeigh.wordpress.com).  Frustration and little control.  I hope to find a way to offer better shots.  It is random and unnavigable!  Stick with me.