South American Memories in the Margins
Some days certain sounds, tastes, and scents instantly transport me to a time in life I thought I had packed up and stored away. It hits me with an unexpected force, so I push the memories back to the margins of my day. I force myself to think of something else because I lack the amount of energy reminiscing requires. Some days I am awakened and intrigued by a familiar feeling and I dive in with eye-watering conviction that I’ll find a fragment of home in my memories.
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Smells.
I get off the airplane, ready to explore a new, unfamiliar place. The warm and humid tropical air hugs me and in the blink of an eye, it opens a box of memories from another life. I’ve learned to sometimes let myself float downstream on this river of thoughts and memories before I drift towards land. If I fight the stream, I’ll just end up exhausted and stuck.
Apparently, the bridge between the aircraft and the airport is a perfect length for this. I hear the poignant sounds of frogs, cicadas, and monkeys harmonizing with the vibrations from the rainforest while the fragrance of wet wood, lianas, and colorful beetles permeate my lungs.
“Do you guys smell our childhood too?” the question stops in my throat as I realize that my siblings aren’t there with me. My heart tears familiarly underneath the scar tissue and the frustration of being so far away from them is converted into a little message on my phone. I continue to glide on the surface of the Amazon river, while caimans, nostalgia, and pirañas reside in the murky water below. One whiff of the air-conditioned airport and I am brought back to the present. I realize it’s time to leave the river.
Sounds.
I’m caught off guard as my ears fill with the hoarse calls of a pan flute, my heartbeat immediately syncing. The rhythms and music from the Andean people tug on the fringes of my attention and I close my eyes, letting the tears silently flow. Here we go again.
My mind soars with the Condor over the scorched Altiplano—the high plains—where the deafening absence of city-roars grants endless room to think. I caress the edges of the Andes mountains as my eyes rest on the familiar colors of the landscape, feeling the hard wind on my face, and the sun bleaching my hair. Herds of the beautiful and shy Vicuñas graze the plains underneath me as I once again take a deep breath. The air at this altitude is mockingly thin and I can hear my heart beating in my ears. I’m in awe of the generations of people tenaciously living here in adobe houses while herding their livestock on a day-to-day contract with nature’s merciless rule.
I’ve finally made peace with the fact that they’ll never consider me one of theirs. And that is ok, after all, I’m just a visiting gringa.
Taste.
The first spoonful of Sopa de Maní displays long lost faces. Each ingredient brings out a different memory; Tía’s coarse hands smelling of onions, the time my nails got black and blue after we played with the grinding stone instead of grinding peanuts on the patio, the scent of eucalyptus trees around me the first time I got chili in my eyes and sat outside waiting for them to finish protesting, Saturday mornings drowsily accompanying Tía to buy potatoes and carrots in the market where the stalls and people were covered by the mysterious blue tint of dawn.
Another spoonful and I’m tasting farewell dinners when the soup was seasoned with tears and promises, and the countless reunions colored with music, old jokes, and new lines accenting familiar eyes.
I finish the meal, grateful and exhausted by all the fond memories, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. The world continues to spin, and I wash my dishes, making way for new tastes flavored by new languages, unexplored sounds, and unexpected camaraderie.
- Edited by Radhika Sharma
*Tía: Spanish for Auntie