I cringe as I see today's dessert being carried from the kitchen on a blue plate. Papaya. There could be various reasons for my Pavlov's reaction to the fruit. How the mottled colors of the fruitīs carcass, an array of oranges, greens, yellows, and browns, could be a thriving sample of leprosy or other similar exotic skin disease. How the black, round seeds roll around covered in papaya-slime. But today my response to papaya is for a different reason. I am weary of repeating the same scenario we have been playing for at least a week.
As the papaya on the blue plate is ceremonially brought to the table, the others I am dining with lift their dessert plates to be adorned with the orange fruit. I meekly avoid eye contact with Marcelo's mother and my dessert plate lies lifeless on the table. After everyone else is served, we dutifully begin.
Anita: Mercedes, don't you want some papaya? She holds out the plate of papaya and spears a juicy piece with her fork, as if this were to entice me.
Mercedes: No thanks, I'm fine, really. I quickly grab my glass and take a drink, hoping to thwart further conversation on the subject. I fail.
Anita: After eye-balling me for a few seconds, Mechita, have you tried papaya before? Are you sure? I don't believe you. Here, go on, just try a little bit. Just try it. She continues on insistently, pushing what's left of the papaye plate
onto my own. A little bit, a bite, in Bolivian speak, is actually a plateful.
This is a battle. The battle of two strong women--Ana, a brooding-hen type mother who is determined to display hospitality by nearly force-feeding papaya to her guests, and Mercedes,
the head-strong exchange student, who, after nineteen years of eating what she likes and stopping when she's full, recognizes the gut instinct that says "No good. Finished eating."
What we have here, as I see it, is a culture-clash. Neither woman is trying to hurt the other, on the contrary, she is trying desperately to accept the other, meanwhile not wanting to budge from what is "normal."
Ana's role as mother doesn't allow her to rest until she is absolutely sure that each and every guest has been stuffed to the brim with heavy Bolivian cuisine.
I feel guilty about refusing the hospitality. Itīs not that I absolutely hate papaya and would never touch it in my life, on the contrary, I have eaten more papaya in the past four months than I have my entire life...but the point I am trying to make
is, if I am not hungry, I do not want to eat. If I do not like something, I donīt want to eat it.
Am I really that awful?
Perhaps part of my indignance comes from the fact that I spent the past year living mostly on my own, but anyway when I lived at home, the feeding rituals are slightly different.
For the most part, if there was something served that I didnīt like, I wasnīt forced to eat it, and if I was full, I wasnīt guilted into eating more.
I know that if I lived with any Bolivian family there would be similar situations, but I think the differences are amplified by the fact that I am living with a family that actually cares about me, who cared about me before I even got here.
This is the way Ana knows how to show that she cares, and I know that it is as difficult and awkward for her when I (politely) refuse more food, as it is for me when she offers it.
So, does this mean I should just surrender to the Persistence of the Papaya, or any other fruit, vegetable or meat and gain a couple kilos? I think not. The key is to finding a balance in between pride and humility. Instead of the bulbuos, splotchy papaya,
letīs try those finger-sized bananas, which are perfectly portioned and with a skin as delicate as tissue paper. And instead of the heaping mountains of rice with my meal, causing me to feel guilty when I donīt finish
(not because I am starving myself, but because with soup, potatoes, and a slab of meat, there is no room for more than a couple spoonfuls of rice), letīs try more moderate and realistic portions. While these little steps may seem petty and meticulous,
I believe that they will relieve, slightly but surely, the strained relationship of giving/receiving.
