Food In The Belly

I sit with the sounds of a generator humming in my ears, the stench of 80% DEET insect repellent up my nose, and a stomach full of food which I am optimistically hoping my immune system will fail to recognise was unlikely to have been prepared following any of Dr Bob’s rules (peel it, cook it, boil it or forget it for the non-developing country traveller types). Dr Bob, I apologise now for breaking almost all the rules at once, but I just have no idea how to solve the food problem when hospitality is the key to many a door, and I’m a girl in need of keys.

I could now begin to regale stories of endless cups of cha (tea) complete with three (or four or five) teaspoons of sugar, or/and salt (yes, salt), and powdered milk (melanine anyone?); of ‘mishti’ which are balls of boiled cheese soaked in sugar syrup (for those of you who know my ‘spit out face’, recall mental image now); or of … well, no, you get the point. I could. But then I would sound like every other ‘other’ who is lucky enough to get invited into people’s homes and sit on their plush lounges, eat with their silver spoons, or drink coconut milk on their dirt floor, whatever the case may be. So I won’t.

Instead what I will regale you with is the stupendous discovery that I can learn to cook! And I mean, ‘look out everyone coz’ Jamie is in da house’ kind of cooking too, not your Women’s Weekly variety. (um, ignore the gangsta/Oprah accent you just adopted mentally in your head – Jamie is a pom – I apologise). Mum, Sally and Amy in particular, I know you have your doubts, but I’m serious. Take a look!

What you see there, people, is a loaf of wholemeal bread made 100% by hand.

That loaf was made from flour lugged on my back for over 7 hours + a missed train ride, and made with 3 hours of measuring, mixing, kneading, rising, kneading, rising, baking (insert super cred for developing country-like behaviour). And that’s not all folks! You should see my fruit salads! And vegetable curries! And chickpea, pumpkin and cous cous mash, and… mmmmm If I wasn’t so full of salmonella right now, I’d be licking my lips. 

[As an aside, why is pomegranite not found in everyone’s fruit bowl? Those little purple beads of juicy goodness are not only an amazing colour, but add a pep to the average apple and banana combo I’ve completely fallen for!]

See, it’s true, I’ve become a regular Donna Hay; a Neil Perry in the making; a f*%$)@#... wait, no you’re right, Gordon’s glory days are gone if those pesky tabloids are to be believed (yes, even in the Dish I know this) so I’ll skip him. The next thing I want to master is oven-baked veggie patties to go with the tinned beetroot I’ve been saving. It really is the small things.

While we’re on the topic…

One thing I simply can’t get used to is the whole eating with your hands thing. And I’m not talking about pizza, a sandwich or even a sushi roll (which I don’t eat with my hand anyway because nori stinks!) – I’m talking rice. Curry. Dahl (of the runny-soup-flavourless variety). Diced and sliced vegetables. Fish. Leg of mutton. Chilli. Everything. For anyone who thinks learning to eat with chopsticks is difficult, I challenge you to eat soup with your fingers and then get back to me.

Now, the problem I have with eating with my hands is that it’s really bloody hard to eat it at the right temperature. Oh, and the bit where it goes against everything I was ever taught about eating food from slurping and burping to playing with my food and licking my fingers. Ok, and the fact that Bangladesh puts a whole new meaning into the ‘make sure you wash your hands’ command. You'll know what I mean when you see where I ate lunch today:

Not quite Cafe Sydney, is it? And note the pond next to it. That's the water they use for cooking. Seriously.

But really, I’m most annoyed by the fact that if I try and eat it just after it’s served, it burns my fingers. If I wait for it to cool, I’ve got about a two minute window to shovel it in before it becomes a lukewarm pile of yellowy mush – cold to the touch and boring to the tastebuds.

Reality Check

Wow. I love that I’m not waxing lyrical on my blog about the ways of the world and how spun out I am that I just spent all day filming in a remote corner of Bangladesh, coaxing villagers who have never seen a movie before to relax in front of the camera:

while trying to keep the kids out of the shot who swarm me wherever I go in the hope that I’ll focus my lens their way. And let’s be frank, they’re in with a bloody good chance considering evidence like this:

So I can’t imply that it’s all their fault I’m not about to win an Oscar for Best Documentary. 

But no, no no – I’m giving all this air time to something most of the world doesn’t get enough of - including the aforementioned villagers I’m trying my best to turn into the new Brad Pitt’s of the world:

It doesn’t make me feel guilty at all. Really it doesn’t…