Cassa(va) Blanca Part 1

As time goes by and the regular routine sets in, I find myself reminiscing on not just the incredible theocratic activities but also the day by day activities of Orealla. My personal goal (which I plan on applying wherever my adventurous adventures take me) was and is still to integrate into the cultures of my current location. Anyone who knows me knows how much I LOVE hands-on kind of work. It'll come as no surprise, then, that one of my favorite moments experiencing Guyana culture was making cassava bread. The entire process takes approximately 3 days but seeing as I only got to participate in only 2 of said days, this will ergo be a two-part blog post. Fortunately they weren't easy days to forget, I remember every detail...

CASSAVA ADVENTURES DAY 1 (technically day 2 but eh)

November 16

The previous day (Sunday the 15), our adopted Amer-Indian grandmother, Janet Hendricks (otherwise known as Tete*), had approached our little gang and had offered us a chance to help with this quintessential task of making said bread. Naturally, we jumped at the opportunity to help! The beginning process would have been walking to her cassava farm uphill to gather the needed tubers. Sadly, it rained on what would have been our first work day and we ended up missing Tete going to harvest. She's a spunky granny, and quite the hard worker! She did not give up on us pitiful foreigners and told us to come back Monday at 3 to continue helping.

The four of us (Ribz, Charlie Brohard, Josh Westfall, and yours truly) prepped ourselves in the frumpiest work clothes, ready to tackle the work! We walked the 5 minute distance to the Hendricks house and found Tete and her friend Claudia already busy. We were put to our respective tasks: Charlie, Josh and I got put into scraping and peeling duty, while Ribz oversaw cleaning the cassava. The particular batch of cassava they had harvested was bitter cassava, a main staple but potentially deadly. Why, you ask? If not peeled and cooked correctly, bitter cassava gives off cyanide. You can imagine that we took our cleaning process VERY seriously. The Hendricks had the assembly line figured out to a T: grab a cassava root, chop off the end, scrape off all the brown bark-like skin, drop it in a quake or basket, wash it thoroughly, grate it, repeat. The locals do this quite regularly, so it was highly amusing to watch us amateurs going at it.

Here's looking at you, kid

Once the cassava was grated into a wooden trough and the juices ran off into a bucket, we were introduced to a most important tool of the trade: the matapee.

Shaped like the body of an anaconda, this cylindrical strainer is woven from reeds traditionally. There are two loops attached; one is on top where the opening is, whilst the other hangs below the sealed end. It is meant to hang from the top loop high enough above the ground to allow a bowl or bucket to be placed underneath. A large stick is then put through the bottom loop, and that's where it gets interesting. The grated cassava gets placed inside the matapee until almost full, and one person sits on the stick below to pull and drain out all the liquid from the cassava mush. This has to be done carefully so as to not force the mush to pop out into the liquid below, which is highly valued as a cooked sauce called cassareep. The trick is to SIT VERY STILL. Since the heaviest person there gets the privilege of stick-sitting, obviously to our delight we watched poor Jonatán try to converse and get the job done without moving. If you know my brother, I will leave how that went to your imagination...

Tete showing us how the pros do it

Two of us equaled one Jonatan #heftybai

After the cassava was squeezed of its poisonous liquid twice, it was popped out of the matapee to dry outside the rest of the night. This was the final bit to remove the cyanide prior to being turned into bread. At this point (between 5-6 pm) Tete informs us that the first part of the process was finished. We would be more than welcome to help with the actual bread making if we would arrive there the next day at 5 am. Here are the responses from each of us:

Adventurous A: Of course! We'd love to!!! *bounces excitedly*
Charlie: Mmmm sure. Ok *blinks twice* I'll come. *scrunches face thoughtfully*
Josh: *laughs maniacally* great, I'll see you at 9 then.
Ribz: *also laughing* you're joking, right Tete?

Tete: *eyes widen* I AM NOT JOKING. *sighs* You are not Amer-Indian...

That did it for me. As soon as this adorably feisty little lady said that, I knew that I HAD to be there at 5 am sharp. I was determined to become an honorary Amer-Indian and not wimp out on her. The opportunity to prove my willingness to integrate was too good to miss.

We gathered all the cassava juice and rolled it back to the main house, where it would cook for several hours in a GIGOSMIC pot on a rapid fire. In the meantime, in typical hospitable Guyanese style, Tete invited us sweaty young folk to eat dinner with the whole Hendricks clan. While Ribz stayed upstairs with Tete's gregarious grandson Matthäus, the rest of us stayed downstairs at the bottom watching the future cassareep bubble and brew furiously. As we settled into the calm lull of conversation, I inwardly rejoiced at the feeling of home that Sis. Hendricks and her family had extended towards us. Jonatán and I were taken in and treated so very kindly, a true example of the worldwide brotherhood. These friends, as honest as the day was long, were becoming family...

Future Cassareep

In process Cassareep

 I would like to say that the adventures of the day ended on that high note, but alas, that would not be the case for us. Josh took his leave first, feeling very tired, leaving Charlie, Ribz and myself to head back to the boys' house before dropping me off at Sherine's. After our goodbyes and promises to return early the next morning, we started walking in the dark. Ribz took the front with his head torch, as I tried to put on the flashlight app on my ever-present tablet. As I turned it on, all I felt was my entire left side collapse and fall straight down. Unbeknownst to me, the little wooden bridge right outside of the Hendricks house was rotting away on one side and I'd made the terrible mistake of stepping on that spot carelessly. It was only about a 2 foot drop into a ditch, but I could feel pain radiating from my entire leg. Holding back tears, I got out onto stable ground, only to see my left foot soaked in blood. I could see that my big toe was the culprit, a large ugly gash angrily gushing red liquid all over my flip-flop. The boys helped me steady myself and lit the way back while I limped along. Every step only exacerbated the wound. Ribz, being the gentleman he is, offered to give me a piggyback ride, but I didn't want to get him all stained. With wounded toe and pride, we made it back with no other incidents. After a thorough cleaning with some vodka at hand (and a couple of swigs for pains sake haha), I got the toe wrapped up and ready to go. Fortunately no stitches were needed, much to my mother's relief. I now bear it as a trophy from that day.

Whew, well that's it for the first half! Hope you have enjoyed it as much as I have enjoyed penning it. By the way, if you want to see my scar, just ask next time you see me. Just kidding, just kidding.... or am I?!? Hmm maybe instead of your last thought being a bloody toe, here's the gorgeous sunset prior to my injury!

"This scene could TOTALLY be in Vietnam. Except with more rice patties. And Asians." - Joshua Westfall

That's better.

Stay tuned for the next post!

Love,

The Adventurous A.

*Tete is the local Arawak word for grandmother