Central
America
I am
Ka-ka-w. I am power and wealth, good fortune and health. Accompanying rulers
into the afterlife, I am libation, the last drink of the sacrificed to Calchiuhtlucue
and Tonacatecutli. I'm the annointing oil, smeared on infants' foreheads,
faces, fingers, and toes. A lovely maroon-colored pod, I am born on a tree
so delicate, so meek, it is sheltered by one larger, whose fronds protect
me from the sun and wind. Moss, lichens, and tiny silken orchids cling to
the bark near where I reside in this paradise. I am the chosen one, surrounded
by thousands of waxy pink and white blossoms that huddle together, never
to mature into full fruit. My flesh is tinged deep gold when plucked from
this lush Mayan garden. And then I am transformed: dried, roasted, and fermented;
pulverized into powder and added to boiling water; sweetened and flavored
with honey, chili peppers, dried petals of ear flowers, vanilla, and spices.
I am vigorous, my whole being surges like a frothy cataract when poured
between vessels. Bubbling into foam, I slide down soldiers' throats as they
drink me hot from a calabash gourd, arched necks relishing each drop, fortifying
for the coming battle.
Central Mexico
Quetzalcoatl
brought me here. He taught them how to make me into cacahuatl,
granting power and wisdom to my people. Xochipilli watches over me, as
he does the sacred plants and fungi that convey my people to the sun realm.
All things on Earth have both the lightness and invisibility of the spirit
as well as the heaviness of death. I am no exception. Drunk cold by warriors
and kings after a feast, I transport their spirits while nourishing their
bodies. Sometimes I am bathed in achiote, the bloody hue of human
sacrifice. I am precious, traded as dried nibs for merchandise at the
market -- eight for a prostitute, 10 for a rabbit, 100 for a slave --
more valuable than the vessels in which I am hoarded, these great lavish
urns of Aztec gold.
Spain
My
nights are haunted. Ghosts from my homeland pillage my dreams with tales
of the ravaged. I long for the trees that cradled me softly in that sun-drenched
paradise. Shuddering, I wait in the darkness of this damp stone lodge
for the fear to subside. I am grateful for the gentle hands of my wardens
-- Jesuit monks -- who grind me into the drink, chocolate. I am
whisked into a froth with molinillos that whir when flicked between
sweaty palms. Served hot with sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon, or anise,
I am processed in stealth, a coveted commodity. Until my true value is
revealed to Europe, I remain secreted away in this monastery, trembling.
Vatican City
The
secret is out, enjoyed by the elite throughout the continent. It is here,
where blood boils under rich robes and behind closed doors, that jewel-encrusted
Crowns plot my fate. I am ciocolatto, providing thick layers of
gold to the coffers of the rich. Desired for my delicate fragrance --
ambergris, musk, jasmine, and citron -- and savored by devout clergy as
sustenance during the long Lenten days, I am controversial: forbidden
fruit or a precious potion? In the end, as popes expire behind the brocade
of their bed curtains, I have become a drink for men of silk, not sackcloth.
West Africa
The
harvest is soon to come. But it is the hands and hearts of those who pluck
me that bleed, carried first in chains on stench-filled ships to Ecuador,
Venezuela, Paraguay, and Brazil. Now here, in a land whose gods are more
ancient than my own, I have arrived, brought by the Portuguese. Ripening
slowly and rejuvenated by equatorial sun, I bide my time until snatched
from the tree, a ripe, golden pod living in a fecund Eden. The knowledge
I've gained is sluggish in me. So far from home and stripped of my ecstasy,
I don't bring delight to all.
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by
Carly Hutchinson
