Smart Fish And Dubious Rice

One of the reasons for my visit to Spain this summer was to see a fish farm called Veta La Palma for myself. I discovered it through one of my all-time favourite TED videos by Chef Dan Barber entitled How I Fell In Love With A Fish. (Time Magazine also wrote an excellent article about the operation a couple of years ago)

Without reiterating too much of Chef Barber's excellent account, Veta La Palma is a sustainable fish farm in the mouth of the Guadalquivir river south of Sevilla in the Andalusia region of southwest Spain. Truthfully, calling it a sustainable fish farm is selling it short. Their vision is not to simply sustain nature's balance but to slightly and gently improve upon it where they can - all while supplying restaurants and markets with fish at a profit. In the words of my host at Veta, chief biologist Miguel Medialdea, "The point isn't to make use and conservation compatible. The point is to use in order to conserve."

Excellent stuff! I would never heap anything but huge piles of praise upon those responsible for Veta La Palma, including the benefactors of the farm, Hisparroz - the very large Spanish food conglomerate and world's largest packeted rice producer. That a huge corporation can and did create this fish farming masterpiece at a profit should be a wake-up call to supporters of our environmentally disastrous fish farms here in Canada and elsewhere.

That said, before I arrived at Veta La Palma, I drove through a perfectly flat, immaculate, brilliantly green landscape of rice fields for about 30 kilometers. In the middle of all of these wet fields sits at little town called Isla Mayor which, aside from a paper factory plus a little tourism, is a town built for and by this major rice-producing area. The contrast and contradiction to what is happening just downstream of Isla Mayor struck me immediately.

Isla Mayor

En route to Isla Mayor, the sky was busy with crop-dusting airplanes. At one point I spotted five of them airborne, busily spraying the rice fields. As I approached the town, one of the planes was just ending a spraying run ahead of me. I quickly closed the car vents yet still inhaled some of the chemical cloud moments later. I wondered what it was that I was smelling and why the plane's spotter on the ground waving a long white flag was completely encased in a white chemical suit on a 37°C summer day.

Then I entered Isla Mayor. I immediately noticed loads of signage for something called Viper. 

Dodge doesn't sell cars in this part of the world. Calgary's semi-pro baseball team certainly wasn't playing here. Could it be a heavy metal band on a summer tour? Then I saw a clue.

Of course. When nature looks more perfect than nature normally does, agro-science companies are often nearby. It's hard to find Viper on a non-Spanish google search. It appears that in North America this herbicide goes by the name of Clincher. I found it interesting that such a synthetic-chemical-enhanced environment lived next door and upstream to the spectacular Veta La Palma. Happily, Veta doesn't take-in the runoff of the rice business from the Guadalquivir but rather introduces water to its canal system at the bottom end of the estuary in the form of tidal flooding from the Atlantic ocean.

If Veta La Palma can naturally and profitably produce something as environmentally complicated as their 1,200 tons of marketable fish each year, and improve life for dozens of bird species and countless less-visible creatures along the way, can't we do the same for rice or any other crop for that matter? The pros, cons and contradictory studies of man-made agricultural chemicals is being hotly debated everywhere. Hasn't Veta La Palma proven that there is another, more natural way with less inherent risk?

I think so. I hope so.

Storks in a rice field

Of Pods, Shacks And A Good Read

As I type I am at 34,000 feet, doing 516mph, 902 miles from Montreal above Goose Bay, Labrador. Oh, and it’s -47C outside and sunny for the weather-curious. 

I’m in an Executive Class ‘pod’ on an Air Canada Airbus-somethingorother traveling from Paris to Montreal. I just woke up from a nap having consumed the better part of a bottle of Drappier Champagne, a glass of Bordeaux, a glass of port, foie gras, a nice salad that included micro-greens, beef tenderloin, a selection of cheeses, ice cream and chocolates all served course-by-course by smiling, attentive flight attendants. I get hot, moist towelettes regularly. The ‘pod’ part means I have my own compartment with a seat that has seven adjustment buttons. The one marked “zzz” turns it into a flat bed more than long and wide enough for my 6’2” frame. Short of a private jet, travel doesn’t get much more opulent on this planet.

Do I deserve this luxury? Did I work harder for it or possess some special attributes that 99.99% of the world didn’t and doesn’t?

A few weeks back I was in one of the least fortunate parts of Tegucigalpa in Honduras. I visited the hut of a lady nicknamed Conchita. The 12’ by 10’ hut was made of various pieces of scrap metal, wood and some plastic and the floor was uneven dirt. There was a bed that looked about a century old with a mattress that looked like it was from the US Civil War. There were a couple of chairs and a few knick-knacks here and there. I saw no taps and I don’t know where Conchita's toilet was, but my inability to speak Spanish didn’t allow me to figure out the plumbing details. I’m estimating Conchita is in her eighties. She is thin and beautiful with spectacular long white hair. She wore what I am sure is her one and only dress and I can’t remember what, if anything, she wore on her feet. She is cheeky, laughs and cries alternately moment by moment, and asked my host, Alejandra, “who the good looking guy was”. Flirting with me aside, I’m pretty sure she was considered a "hottie" in her day. Not long ago her lifelong husband fell down the steep, twisty, rain-eroded 'path' that leads to their home and spent four months trying to recuperate in the bed. Then he died.

Conchita doesn’t work and has no income, no family and no support from the state. She relies on others for most everything in these, the twilight years of her life. There are free clinics for her to use, but no way to travel to them unless someone from outside the slum offers. It is rare to see any vehicle in her neighbourhood.

What did I do that Conchita didn’t in deciding our fates? Was there a fork in the road where, had we chosen each other’s path, she could be looking down at Goose Bay waiting for her pre-landing snack of grilled chicken and I could be sitting on her bed hungry?

Is there a better way? Though the gap between rich and poor in the world seems to be widening, it is nothing new to our species. 

I was recently in Avignon gazing at the magnificent Palais des Papes (Palace of the Popes). It is a massive building, thrown up in the 12^th century to house the three sitting popes who had fled Rome. Where similar buildings took a hundred years or more to construct in those days, this one was knocked off in thirty years. Imagine the resources, both backbreaking and financial, to pull something like that off. I’m pretty sure there was an abundance of poverty and hunger surrounding that palace while the church poured resources into housing its three CEOs.

Back to 34,000 ft ….. why me and not Conchita? Near as I can figure, there are three main reasons.

1. Luck - I was born into a solidly middle-class Canadian home. I never wanted for anything from that perspective - nutrition, education, love and support, a stable/sensible government.
2. Hard work - I chose a trade and applied myself to it, though I have by no means worked any harder than most of the world does. 
3. Luck - I met and married a very hardworking lady who travels a ton in her work (thus the spin-off Air Canada upgrade to the pod for lowly old me).

Luck, hard work, and luck. Is it right that some of us have so much while a couple of billion don’t? There are plenty of directions we could go on this. From a scientific standpoint, the entire cosmos (including you) is made up of vibrating molecules all linked together. The "one love" Bob Marley sang of means to me that if someone somewhere is hurting, I am hurting. There is the opposite end of the spectrum too. The one that says that not helping others is simply wrong. There is even a religious approach, though why the world's major religions all agree that helping others is good, yet the pope still lives in a palace, is beyond me. 

A book landed on my lap recently that explores just this question, and does it very well. In The Eyes Of Anahita, by Calgary author Hugo Bonjean, describes itself as an adventure in search of humanity. Prompted by his son's question of, "Dad, why do people have to pay for food" the book's central character explores impoverished areas of South America in a quest to answer his own riddle of, "Are human beings being human". Bonjean's novel echoes my belief that globalism isn't working if the western world is getting richer at the expense of the third world. I believe there is nothing wrong with wealth per se - some will have talents in-demand and some will work harder than others. I'm no advocate of an across the board wealth redistribution. There will and should always be some natural discrepancy driven by innovators. (Hey ... the USSR failed, right?) But when our wealth actually causes the poverty of others, something is amiss. Bonjean's book contains some great examples of this.

I'm practicing gratitude a little more often since I met Conchita. Though modest by Canadian standards, I live a golden life. And I realize that luck has played a significant role in that happening. In all honesty ..... just how many bad breaks are any of us from not necessarily ending up in Conchita's shoes, but possibly living outdoors like some of our fellow Calgarians do?

Honduras: In Conclusion

My first CESO assignment came to a close a couple of weeks ago and I've had some good reflection time in between. This was helped by the fact that I went from a country whose needs are great and challenges staggering, to a country of plenty.

My wife and I are hanging out in Provence on vacation. Specifically at the moment, we are staying a few days in Cap d'Antibes sandwiched between Cannes and Nice. In Canada we are solidly middle-of-the-road as far as income and lifestyle go. In Honduras, we would be conspicuous for our obvious wealth. Here on the French Riviera we are conspicuous with our little rental car in amongst a sea of Ferraris, Maseratis, enormous yachts, out-of-this-world hotels and restaurants, and fabulous villas overlooking the Mediterranean. How are such discrepancies even possible with all we know in today's world? More on that later.

I felt my two weeks in Tegucigalpa were worthwhile, but any time spent there would leave anyone wishing they could do more. I hope CESO allows me to return soon to do just that.

Alejandra, the owner/manager of Aparthotel Guijarros and myself spent a lot of time on (hopefully) improving the operations, internet presence/marketing, solicitation of guest feedback, decor, and the quality of food and beverage service within her business. As I've written before, this is not a hotel that is anything close to horribly broken and in need of an overhaul. Alejandra is extremely capable and already runs a tight ship. She is an astute hospitality professional, quick to react when change is needed, and her forward planning and ambition are exemplary. If my small contribution allows her to increase her occupancy and rates in the year ahead, and if she hires just one more Honduran, and if her increased business causes her to spend more in her local economy, I will be happy.

Thank you Alejandra. I suspect I learned more than you.

Your friend from the north,

Ian

 

Gonna make two shameless plugs here.

1. If you've enjoyed a Mexican / Costa Rican / Panamanian / Nicaraguan vacation, please try a Honduran one. There is a lot to see and do in this wonderful country full of beautiful, hardworking, hopeful people. Whether you are the backpacking type or prefer a beach chair in a luxury resort, you will be happy there. And frankly, they could use your dollars and the work it provides.

2. If you have expertise to share (and not just in tourism), a little time, and a desire to travel, consider contacting CESO for some very gratifying experiences. Mother Teresa put it best: "There should be less talk. A preaching point is not a meeting point. What do you do then? Take a broom and clean someone's house. That says enough."

Hasta luego ...........

Not Every Business Has A Guard. The Churches Don't.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention security in Tegucigalpa. Admittedly, it was my one and only real concern before coming here (you know ... the Toncontin Airport thing notwithstanding).

Consider:

• Per capita income is less than $2,000/year.
• 60% live below the international poverty line of $1.25/day.
• Half of the population is younger than 20 years old.
• Youth gangs are estimated at 30,000 members in a country of 8 million.
• All of Central America is a South American drug conduit for 'products' heading to that most loyal of customers, North America.

Guns are, everywhere. As a result, outside of most businesses you see everything from a uniformed guard with a military assault rifle or shotgun, to a guy in a t-shirt with a revolver stuffed down the front of his jeans.

Razor wire and video cameras protect everything.




Despite all of this you have to remember that very few tourists ever have a problem. By taking the same precautions as you would in most large North American cities, you won't interest the bad guys. If you are non-latino and walking around at night with a watch, rings, sunglasses, expensive sneakers and your Blackberry, you're asking for it. Dressing down seems to be the key. If one in a thousand people have a problem, it's real easy not to be that one.

My message? Don't let the stories scare you. This is a wonderfully diverse place with beautiful people and lots to see, do and eat. You should come.

Honduran Fast Food

You could say the whole of Tegucigalpa is a drive-through restaurant. But not in the same sit in your car in a line-up / speak to a voice coming from a menu board / sit in a line-up / get handed a bag of food kind of way. Here you sit in your car until the food comes to you. Fruit, gum, cotton candy, you name it.

The best yet was yesterday. A lady selling flowers and a few fruits and vegetables from a roadside stand had plastic bags of slivered, unripe, green mangoes. After a few quick instructions from my trusty host, Alejandra, rock salt, vinegar and chili sauce were sprinkled in the bags and they were handed through the window. After a couple of shakes, the "mango verde" car-snack was ready. Spicy, salty, crunchy, with a little sweet n' sour going on.

A shy Mango Verde vendor

Reality Check

My host, Alejandra, took me on a little trip today with a couple of her church-group friends to visit some individuals they help and offer support to. We drove to a neighbourhood not too far away. They call them neighbourhoods. North Americans might use the words "hillside slums". Little one-room 'houses' for the most part. Dirt floors, scrap metal/wood/plastic walls and roofs, sometimes no plumbing or power, the odd chicken or skinny little dog. Certainly no cars. You get the picture.

I'd only ever seen these places on television screens. It's a whole other experience to see them live and add-in the accompanying sounds, smells and textures. I think I would have found it even more sad than I did had not everyone there greeted me with a sincere, warm smile, a handshake or kiss, and an equally warm and inviting, "Buenas dias. Mucho gusto!" The reality is my average old Reef sandals represent two month's rent in those parts.

As these things seem to do, it ended in irony. When driving out of the area and back to the hustle, bustle, cars and motorbikes of Tegucigalpa I saw a young lady walking along the street in a dirty old t-shirt with Obama's face on the front. Underneath it said "Change".

Translating Bread

When I arrived I noticed a skookum new Cuisinart bread machine in the kitchen. I think it had never been used because the thick, complicated, all-in-English user manual was too daunting to figure out.

One of my very best friends since I arrived in Honduras is Google Translate. In case any of my CIDA or CESO associated friends haven't discovered it yet, it can quickly get you out of a jam when communication hits a brick wall. And in 58 different languages. Compared to online translators of the past, it's remarkably accurate as long as you're not writing a book with it. It can even speak the phrase to you out loud or you can speak to it, so no typing. Better yet, there's an iPhone app version.

So now, with some recipes translated, the hotel is making fresh bread every day. White yesterday, whole wheat and cinnamon swirl today.

This is a shot of a couple of the ladies proudly displaying their first creation.

I Have a Secret

Shhh ..... come close ..... I have a secret about my real job teaching at the Southern Alberta Institute of Technology (SAIT). Here it is: I learn more than my students do.

The same is true here at Aparthotel Guijarros.

The 8 staff here have plenty of interaction with the guests occupying the 10 rooms. They certainly solve challenges creatively as they arise. But, do they really know what guests are thinking? As consumers, do you always voice your opinions? Are you more likely to voice them if your feedback is anonymous? And easy to do? If you can do it on your phone while you are waiting for your flight at the Tegucigalpa airport? I think so.

I spent this morning creating an e-mail to be sent to departing guests. The usual "thank you for your visit" stuff, plus two embedded links. One that leads to an online SurveyMonkey guest feedback form and one that leads to the Aparthotel Guijarros page on TripAdvisor.com. Given a few months of feedback from both avenues, Guijarros should have a precise indication of their areas of opportunity as far as improvements go. (and, equally, what they should not change)

What does this have to do with my secret? A Canadian who's Spanish is limited to ordering beer and a young Honduran who speaks slightly more English than that can spend half an hour together and figure out this whole e-mail / SurveyMonkey / TripAdvisor thing using a made-up 3rd language. With many laughs along the way.

Gabriela learned how to send out internet guest comment cards. I learned a whole new form of communication, increased my Spanish vocabulary, and learned even more about the ways and culture of how Hondurans think and work.

Have I told you I love it here?

A Day Trip To The Country

Yesterday my host, Alejandra, picked me up at the hotel and we drove into the mountainous countryside south of Tegucigalpa to visit the two market towns of Santa Lucia and Valle de Angeles. Beautiful historic towns, warm people, lots to see.

The drive itself was an adventure. Aside from a panorama of endless pine-covered hills, there was always plenty along the shoulders of the roads - cows, horses, dogs, people sleeping (I think/hope?), children darting across the road, old cowboys on horseback complete with rifles and bandoliers, endless shacks with people grilling corn over oil barrel barbecues, pickup trucks with beds full of people.

Santa Lucia street scene

Market street - Valle de Angeles

Dogs enjoying the shade - Valle de Angeles

The kitchen of Delicio di me Tierra restaurant - Valle de Angeles

Colonial church - Santa Lucia

'Recycled' mural created by Valle de Angeles children using .....

..... soda cap liners.

Found It

International restaurants are making inroads here, particularly Chinese and ..... well ..... these ones .....

I've gotten used to the ingredients that Honduran cuisine revolves around. Rice, beans, corn and wheat tortillas, plantains, avocados, an embarrassment of spectacularly ripe tropical fruits, a simple almost mozzarella-ish cheese called olancho, mantequilla cream (like slightly beaten whipping cream with a touch of salt), eggs, beef, chicken and pork.

Today I discovered what can be considered the national dish of Honduras. Sopa de Mondongo - a beef broth with tripe, corn, plantains, cabbage, potatoes and squash with hints of clove, coconut milk and chillies. Hearty and wonderful.

Funny thing is, it is only served on Sundays. And I mean only. You won't find it anywhere Monday to Saturday.

Food

One of the tasks agreed-to on this assignment was to tweak, play with, and hopefully improve the menus and their delivery.

A little background for you - Aparthotel Guijarros is a modest 10-room hotel in one of the nicer parts of Tegucigalpa. There are lots of embassies and a big private school nearby. Alejandra's team consists of a front desk/administration gal, a maintenance fellow, three housekeepers/cooks, and a couple of guards. (more on guards, pistols, rifles and shotguns later - it's a fairly big part of life in Tegus)

Most guests only eat breakfast at the hotel. When they show up in the dining room, one of the delightful three housekeepers pops into the kitchen to quickly and expertly prepare a different Honduran dish each day. And the food is great. My only real task is to play with the presentations and make a few other esthetic suggestions.

Early on I impressed upon Alejandra that her specific demographic of traveller is usually looking for authentic, local experiences. They also like to learn something and have stories to tell when they get home. She and her staff were quietly ..... too quietly ..... doing great things along these lines already. Each time I ask about an ingredient I get a great story. Things like;

"This hot sauce is fantastic! Can I see the bottle?"
"Oh ... the girls make it from the chillies that grow by the pool"

and ...

"Great coffee Alejandra. Is it Honduran?"
"Of course. A friend of mine grows it and roasts it just outside of the city."

How fast do things happen at this little hotel, in a culture perhaps not known for making things happen fast? One evening over dinner I suggested to Alejandra that they make their own tortillas instead of buying them. The next morning at 7am she told me, all matter-of-fact-like, that housekeeper Melissa's mothers grinds corn each day at home and that Melissa will bring some each day to make the tortillas. Right then and there Marta called me in to the kitchen to give me a lesson in true tortilla making ..... then proceeded to laugh at me when I couldn't  get them perfectly round like her. (She's been making tortillas for most of her 33 years .... I might have some catching-up to do on the whole tortilla thing)

The food part's easy. They are already authentically Honduran.  They just need to brag about it a bit more to their unsuspecting guests.

Done and done.

Marta shows Canadian-boy how it's done.

A Chilliquitos lunch.

Honduran breakfast w/ rice, beans, queso and fried plantains.

Some local sweets. Looks like marzipan - actually made from dulce de leche.

Mamoncillos. Bought these through the passenger window from a guy who approached the car at a stop light. Kinda like lychees, but not so sweet.

Toncontin Airport - not for the timid.

A few weeks ago, CESO sent me to Toronto for a three day pre-departure course in Intercultural Effectiveness training organized by the Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA) - standard procedure before a first assignment.

Twenty of us, heading to twelve different countries, spent three days pursuing the stated objective of, "to increase the effectiveness of people in the development field preparing to live and work in a different cultural context". This is the same course Canadian Foreign Affairs, military, RCMP, and aid workers take before shipping out. It was outstanding. Every bit of it relevant and immediately applicable. Damn, we do this stuff well in Canada!

On day two we had the opportunity to meet, one-on-one, with an ex-pat from the country we were travelling to. This was fantastic information and set everyone's mind at ease. My meeting with Manuel started something like this:

Manuel: The first thing you need to be aware of is the airport.
Me: You mean, be careful when in the airport. Pickpockets, porters, certain taxi companies, things like that?
Manuel: No. I mean before the plane arrives at the airport.
Me: Oh. Really?
Manuel: Yes.
Me: What do you mean?
Manuel: I mean the landing is very dangerous.
Me: Great.

I don't hold back from travelling at all, but I'm probably not the bravest flyer in the world. I don't like turbulence. I don't like odd noises. I have never slept even one minute on the 100+ flights I've taken. (Subconsciously, if something goes wrong, I want to be able to offer my assistance to the stricken aircraft and likely-incapacitated pilots. In reality, as a foodservice professional, I could probably get everyone coffee as the plane entered it's death spiral to the ground/ocean)

Did I foolishly spend much wasted time thinking about my pending Tegucigalpa landing on the Calgary-Houston flight, the motel stay in Houston, or the relatively short flight from Houston to Honduras? Uh huh. You bet.

Mercifully, it was over quickly. After plenty of banking, turning and low-level buzzing of the mountainous region around Tegucigalpa the 737 banked hard left (like, sideways vertical) very close to the ground. There followed ten seconds of fairly steep diving down a hillside during which local children played just out of reach of the wingtips and of being sucked into the engines. I recall  clothes lines and faces and was convinced we were about to land with someone's bras and futbol jerseys dangling from the wingtips. As soon as the runway appeared we slammed down onto it and applied full brakes because (it gets better) this runway is very short. A picture perfect landing meant we had all of 200 yards of runway left. 201 yards puts you down a small cliff and onto a busy highway.

Cool eh?

Cue the YouTube video of a 757 landing at Toncontin airport.

Toncontin has universal bragging rights as the 2nd most dangerous airport in the world. Maybe I'll see #1 on my next trip.

You gotta have goals.

Tay-goose-e-gal-pah

Yep ... say it with me. Tegucigalpa - capital of Honduras and snuggled neatly amongst Nicaragua, Guatemala and El Salvador in Central America.

I arrived yesterday for my very first CESO assignment. What's CESO? Think I'll let you follow the link and figure out that one for yourself. Briefly, my life in hospitality and tourism has led me to a 2-week volunteer stint helping a small hotel here in Honduras improve and tweak how they run their business.

I am staying and working at Aparthotel Guijarros with the owner/manager and mercifully-English-speaking Alejandra. She is completely delightful, passionate about her business, kind to her small staff and very quietly proud of her somewhat troubled country. After grabbing me at the airport (whooo-boy .... gotta tell you about that next) we met for about 5 hours over coffee and dinner where I scribbled pages of notes about what is working at the hotel, what she thinks might work, and what her vision is moving forward.

I spent today hammering thoughts and ideas into my laptop with the conversations of tropical birds and the city sounds of Tegucigalpa outside my window.

I think we have a plan.