Food and Culture: Thinking Back to Chajul
I watched the food episode of Vox Media’s series “No Passport Required” and it showed me that what we eat is a reflection and reminder of heritage, origin, and family. Cooking has the power to unite people and bring a sense of belonging and home to any place at any time. Choices in the kitchen can reflect a living style and are closely linked with outsider’s perspectives of a particular place and culture. Taking the time to learn about and try traditional dishes from places you have never been is a window into understanding a different culture.
A few year back, I had an experience similar to those in No Passport Required when I travelled to the remote village of Chajul, Guatemala to bring supplies to classrooms and teach english to native Ixil students in local schools.
Throughout the trip, sharing food was one of the most comforting and happy activities. The most impactful meal was one that I had during a home stay with an Ixil family when they taught me how to cook Boxbol (“Bosh-Bowl”) the traditional Ixil dish. This is the story of my experience:
When I arrived at my homestay, I peeled my legs off the seat of a tuk tuk and stepped out onto a dirt road surrounded by lush green mountains. To my right, I could barely see a small tilting mud house because it was encased in tall corn stalks, the most sacred plant in Chajul. A chicken strutted out from below the grass followed by a small boy who was naked except for tattered pants. The boy (I later learned his name was Osmin) called something out in Ixil, summoning his grandmother who slowly parted grass shoots to gently step before us.
Entering the house was shocking. I struggled to find any resemblance between her dwelling and my own home thousands of miles away. Osmin’s grandmother Maria led me, my classmate Alma, and trip leader Spencer, up a stone path and we ducked under a sheet into her house. I could not imagine sleeping in Maria’s bed of crumpled blankets in the corner. Osmin chased his scraggly white cat behind us as we passed the open fire stove on our way to the backyard. How could they breath with this smoke billowing into their living room?
We settled in the backyard of the dimly lit house on straw matts in a circle. In the middle of our crossed legs, sat two bowls of Maíz and holas. “Recoja las holas…” Maria said, lifting up a leaf and smoothing it onto her matt with wrinkled delicate hands. We followed her lead, flattening our leaves. We watched maria scoop a palmful of Maíz paste and mold it into an oval. Boxbol crafting was harder than it looked, and Maria giggled softly as she watched her guests clumsily wrap their leaves. In Portland, most people do not know what Boxbol is, but in Chajul, crafting this meal is a skill to be proud of.
The Boxbol was done boiling and Osmin leaned over the pot, squealing with joy at the sight of the plump green pouches. Osmin shoveled the meal into his mouth, tossing a scrap to his cat. Maria closed her eyes, cherishing her first bites of Boxbol. I knew that Boxbol was a sacred dish to the Ixil people during their devastating civil war and in times of peace. Hoping to share Maria’s love for Boxbol, I took a bite. A sour texture and mushy texture flooded my mouth.
Although it was not my favorite flavor, I felt bonded to Maria after learning to make Boxbol. I was vulnerable during the process and relied on her expertise to share with me a technique and recipe that had been passed down to her through many generations of Ixil women. As we chatted over lunch, joy radiated from Maria’s wise eyes. She told me about her favorite things: walk to get water, watching the sunrise, and her favorite season was when the head of the corn erupted with yellow. In her free time, she likes to lay by the river and let the water wash her feet. I told her about my favorite place at opal creek where the light blue water ripples against smooth rock and a silent warm breeze floats through the valley. I attempted to explain the satisfaction that rushes through me when I walk out towards the brutal waves of the Oregon coast. We were able to connect over the simplicity and mystery of nature.
We spoke in Spanish which was a second language to both of us and were nearly 50 years apart in age. Although initially it seemed that Maria and I had nothing in common, Boxbol brought us together.
My experience in Chajul made me realize that I do not have a traditional dish that binds me with other Portlanders or Oregonians. perhaps that a result of living in America where diversity is a building block and point of pride for the nation. Part of me wishes that there was a food in my life that served as a generational and cultural link like Boxbol to the Ixil.
