Literary Safari

This was originally posted at Sepia Mutiny.

When I travel to a new country, my eyes are always peeled for a desi sighting. My recent trip to Brazil was no different. This is the second BRIC nation I’ve visited (with Russia and China left to go) and having heard about Indian Oil Corp., Hindustan Petroleum, and Bharat Petroleum joint venture earlier this year to start ethanol production in Brazil, I thought I might spot other signs of Indian investment. At the very least, I figured I would come across a Sindhi shopowner (the joke goes that even if you travel to the moon, you will meet a member of the diasporadic community of Indian traders, of which my family is a part). [more on Sindhis in Mark Anthony-Falzon's Cosmopolitan Connections: The Sindhi Diaspora 1860-2000. ]

But, there weren’t any Sindhis or Indians to speak of in Brazil. At least, we didn’t see any. (Well, there was one uncle type we ran into near the Ipanema farmer’s market, but he turned out to be a Mallu from New York, visiting his Brazilian wife’s family!)

We’d heard about Nataraj, the only Indian-run restaurant in Rio. It’s in Leblon, Rio’s most trendy residential neighborhood, and I figured we’d find a desi there. “It’s no good,” our New York uncle friend told us while he helped us shop for figs and sitaphal. “Don’t bother going.”

So we didn’t. (Now that I’m home, however, some scoping did yield a little write-up about Indian restaurants in South America here which pointed out that the restaurant is run by a family whose matriarch used to work for the British High Commission in Rio. “She had been doing special event catering for the embassy as a side interest and then one fine day she decided to open a restaurant – I’m glad she did. It takes courage to make a caipirinha with an indian twist.”

Dang. Missed opportunity for a good Sepia post. Next time I go to Rio, I’ll have to make it a point to go here.

Because Brazil is home to a multitude of skin colors, it’s easy to mistake Brazilians for Indians and vice versa so much so that many times, people mistook me and my husband for Brazilians and spoke to us in Portugese. There were, however, a few exceptions.

In Salvador de Bahia, the northern city which was the first capital of Brazil, from 1549 to 1763, a photojournalist came up to us during the 2nd of July Independence Day celebrations. “Are you Indian?” he asked. “Yes,” we answered. “Can I take a picture of you? First time I’m seeing Indians in Salvador,” he said.

Wow. I felt like an intrepid explorer, though I was quite certain I couldn’t be the first Indian in Salvador.

I was proven right. Later that day, in Salvador, we were at Rafael Cine Foto in Pelhorino, trying to get our camera repaired—and ahem, negotiating for a better price—when the shopkeeper (whose English was limited) asked us, laughing, “Are you Indian?” (I guess we carry our reputation as bargain makers around with us, wherever we go!) Later, my mother mentioned that her once-in-a-while Brazilian cleaning lady told her that there are lots of Indians who own shops at the malls in Salvador. I guess I should have gone to the mall!

Despite my lack of desi human spottings, there was no dearth of Indian influence—mostly of the exotic India variety—to be found in Brazil. [A brief photo essay follows below the fold.]

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Our friend Luis ran in the Rio de Janeiro Marathon today. Early in the morning, we walked the half block over to Ipanema beach where an entire lane of Avenida Atlantica in Ipanema was closed off –as it is every Sunday. That’s where we stood to cheer on hundreds of runners, all sizes and fitness levels. I am so motivated to get into shape in this city.

There was a live band playing covers of popular American tunes on the island between the wide avenue’s lanes.

And, then, there was the postcard view. Maybe this picture speaks the thousand words that I cannot.

Guavas are believed to have originated in Mexico or Brazil. They’re one of my favorite fruits and here in Brazil, goiaba is mixed into everything–drinks, ice-creams, cakes, and breads.

When the Portugese came, they brought their tradition of marmalade making with them. Indigenous guavas were used to make the omnipresent jam that is called goiabada. A slice of this jam with queijo de minas (a kind of cheese) is a perfect combination, and named Romeu e Julieta, after one of literature’s most perfect loves.

I’ve been having many amazing guava-based foods here in Brazil, but Luis’s mom Sylvia’s baked guava souffle was otherworldly. (O, tempt not a desperate man!)

It arrived at the lunch table last Saturday all fluffy and puffy, a pale pink cloud of warm, swirly delight that melted in my mouth. Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast. It was all I could do to not dive into this heavenly pillow.

Sylvia drizzled it with creme de cassis, and served it with vanilla ice-cream. Delicioso! (The ingredients are simple, I’m told: egg whites, fresh guava, cream (and maybe sweet condensed milk?). Whip it all together (a lot) and bake.)