cachapa con queso: una princesita yanqui

He looked at me with distrustful eyes: I looked like a gringa, after all, and Venezuela, a once open and accepting country, now lived in a climate of great anti-American sentiment. And still, his look locked with mine in a curious way. I stuck out like a sore thumb, I’ll admit, with my fair skin, blonde hair and light eyes, out in a dusty pit stop between the cities of Caracas and Valencia, in a sea of dark-skinned, dark-haired people. My husband and I had stopped for the prerequisite cafecito, a tiny plastic cup of rich caffeine that would curse through our veins until the next pit stop allowed a refill.

I sat in the parked car, watching the men and women saunter towards the goods beckoning at the counter: a box of cigarettes, a CD, a batido, or fresh fruit juice. My husband waited by the glistening chrome Gaggia coffee machine and I chuckled out loud thinking, this is what is so lovely about this contradictory country: parked in the middle of nowhere sits a luxuriously expensive espresso maker brewing out perfect cup after cup after cup.

And that’s when I saw him, each drawn to the other by our eyes : mine a clear blue, as blue as the sky allows on a perfectly pristine day and his, dark and muddled like fresh mud. His clothes were dirty and ragged, his flip-flops bore a huge hole at the heel and I sat in my air conditioned Land Cruiser with pedicured feet resting comfortably on the dashboard. He walked slowly in front of my car, carrying two plastic yellow buckets filled with something, never once taking his eyes off mine. Two worlds collided in one stare. I wondered what he thought of me, “una princesita yanqui” (a Yankee princess) most likely and immediately I lowered my feet but kept my stare. No, he was up to something, I realized. His gaze was now locked on mine and I detected the tiniest smile. I watched and waited, stealing a quick glance at my husband way over there sipping and purchasing more coffee. He was out of my range. It was just me and this man, whose stare was so dark and hypnotic, I couldn’t help but fall under its spell. He came closer and closer to my closed window and just when I didn’t know whether to be flattered or frightened he bellowed out a loud and proud:

“LA CACHAPA CACHAPA CACHAPA, VENDO LA CACHAPA CACHAPA CACHAPA, CON QUESO DE MANO, TELITA, LA CACHAPA CACHAPA, CACHAPA”

And I knew I was safe. And I knew I was doomed. I had fallen for this scruffy man…and he sold cachapas. Next to arepas, cachapas, golden corn pancakes served with a chunk of fresh white cheese on top, are Venezuela’s most popular snack. Immediately I lowered my window and was greeted by the warm sweet smell of toasted corn pancakes wafting from his yellow bucket. I bought five. The fresh white cheeses he offered (telita, de mano, and guayanes) were so outrageously delicious, I bought them all. I would have taken the man home but my husband had returned by then and, with a shocked look on his face and two cups of coffee, took notice of the mountains of sweet corn and cheese precariously balanced on my lap and gasped:

“Alona, are you all right?”

And I was all right. I was down right great. Because when you park your car in the middle of nowhere, only to get the best cup of coffee in the universe, and you have the good fortune of finding the cachapa man, life, my friends, is good. Life is great.

I celebrated this goodness all in one go, making sandwich upon sandwich of my creamy corn pancakes and their accompanying salty cheeses. The cheese would ooze and give to the heat of the cachapa, making for a delirious experience, and, as the Land Cruiser kicked into drive leaving a trail of dust in its wake, my eyes looked for those of the cachapa man only to find he had already locked gaze with another woman sitting prey in a shiny red Mazda. This was a man of many talents, I thought to myself, as I took another tasty bite of my cachapa and let everything else go.