Traveling South

The food spooned into the bowl looks appetizing to an empty stomach, even if the first glance suggests something is amiss. Broth, rice, chunks of various meats, and what looks like skinned potato--filling and nutritious. The taste is unplaceable.

"What is this we're eating?" asks the leader of the expedition.

"El corazon," says the elderly woman who owns the ranch.

"Heart," I say, and chew more cautiously. I had seen them removing the organs from the large, skinless mass of flesh out back that had once been a cow. How very American of me to think they tossed them away. How very wasteful of a life.

"And what's the other type of meat?" the leader asks. As the only two at the table not from South America, I recognize the guarded look of surprise he wears for the meal.

Our hosts try to sound out the word in English, but their mouths fumble over too many vowels. Someone produces a dictionary with English translations, and and our leader reviews the entry to which the ranch owners insistently point.

"Courage?" he says, perplexed. "That's an idea. You can't eat that."

One of the word smiths frowns and reviews more words in the book. "You know, where is the place where beelay is kept?"

"Bee-lay," I say, turning the word over and thinking about vowels. "Bee--Bile? Oh, you mean the gallbladder."

"Gall," says the leader. "Ah, yes. Like in, 'You got a lot of gall.' You've got a lot of courage. I get it."

I look down at my plate. I guess it wasn't potato after all.

I grab a piece of bread and study my dish more carefully. The dark burgundy meat must be the heart; it is firm between the teeth and feels like regular beef as I chew. The only tell is the increased taste of iron. I grind my teeth and decide this must have been a strong heart, full of hope and strength.

The gall bladder is another story. It is yielding in texture and quickly turns mealy in my mouth. It's strange taste reminds me of the terrible, grisly pates that the wealthy eat, as if the dregs of an animal could be refashioned as a status symbol.

It takes everything, every scrap of will I can drag from the corners of my exhausted body to suppress my gag reflex as I chew and swallow the mushy, wrong-tasting organ. Sips of water only spread the flavor instead of washing it away. Only alternating bites of heart with the rest of the meal allows me to finish the bowl, consume enough nutrition to keep me fit to work, and avoid insulting our hosts.

It is a time before I realize I was concentrating so hard on just eating that the conversation has moved on around me.

"Plans have changed," the expedition leader was saying to me. "We're needed in the city to finish obtaining some clearance papers. You can stay here and do some field work on your own for a couple of days."

"Where will I stay?" I ask, wary of how this will play out. I already have the data I needed for the project for which I'd prepared, but I suppose he doesn't want me hanging around reading a novel and base camp for the rest of the week. Problem is, I can't drive the field truck. How will I get to this ranch every day?

"We'll arrange for you to stay in the empty house on the hill," the expedition leader said. "They're remodeling it."

The house on the hill was the family home at the turn of the century. The son of the woman who cooked us hearts is remodeling it to be as it was 100 years ago. It is a beautiful relic, filled with antique furniture, history, love, and ghosts...but no heat or electricity. Nothing against the dark night of a foreign land except what I carry with me.

"All you'll need is a flashlight," says the leader absently, staring at his bowl.

I nod, and take another bite of courage.



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This is all true. I wrote this on the back of my Argentinian flight itinerary while sitting at the creaky kitchen table of the 'house on the hill' the day it happened. True fax.