Saturday, February 6, 2010

Multiculturalism at its best

Every year Canberra celebrates the great melting pot with the Multicultural Festival. Apparently it goes for three days but our small family unit only ever attend for the first day - the food and dance spectacular. And I'm sure those of you who know us know which aspect we're mostly interested in!

Charles is adventurous beyond reason when it comes to food. Terrified of spiders he still seems to be fascinated with the concept of one day tasting deep fried tarantula. I would pay good money to see it - and since they really only serve it overseas I'll probably have to. As for me, I can usually pick what Charles is going to choose because it's almost always the very last thing you could persuade me to touch off the menu. Baby pigeon, lamb sweetbreads, roadkill platter...you get the idea.

The multicultural festival is Charles' spiritual home and, I have to admit, I too thoroughly enjoy the challenge of stepping outside my culinary comfort zones. We've been to the festival every year for as long as I can remember. After Charlotte was born we simply strapped her into a baby carrier and took her along with us. I have fond memories of her, aged four months old, blinking in bewilderment in her baby carrier as Daddy coated her in a fine layer of icing sugar as he consumed an olie bollen.

Olie bollen (literally translated to "oil ball") are a Dutch Christmas treat...think the contents of a Christmas cake in a batter instead of dough and then deep fried into a rough ball shape. They're so dense light occasionally has trouble escaping them and, for good measure, we Dutchies like to coat them liberally in icing sugar. After all, if you're going to stroll on the dietary dark side by flirting with liberal amounts of saturated fat, you may as well test the resilience of your pancreas while you're at it.

This year I tried explaining the allure of the multicultural festival to my favourite clog wog, my Dad. I explained how we stroll the rows of stands, looking for anything we've never tried before. I told him how almost every people on the planet have a stall...even the clog wogs. He brightened considerably at this.
"So you'll be getting some poffertjes?"
Er...no. The point is to eat something you've never tried before. Not something that was on the menu every Tuesday night while you grew up.
"How about olie bollen?"
Um...same thing Dad only it was once a year instead of weekly.
"So what's the point?"
To try something new.

Dad, while I wouldn't dare use the terms "elderly", "aged" or "getting on in years" does bring to mind other useful descriptive terms like, "curmudgeonly", "set in his ways" and "change-resistant". More on Dad later because just like Pip, he warrants a post all his own complete with a photo for identification and avoidance purposes. Suffice to say that this year I had been wavering over whether I'd attend (because I now have two little critters to monitor) but my little chat with Dad reminded me about how much I love going and I decided that I'd keep the tradition alive and go again this year.

So here we are Saturday morning gearing up for the festival. The kids are liberally coated in sunscreen, hats are donned and James sets up his caterwauling just as we get to the lift in the car park. Normally so relaxed, happy and contented, I can't figure out why he's suddenly decided that screaming as though I spent the morning bathing him in paint stripper is the order of the day. About twenty people waiting for the lift turn to stare at us and none of them look away. Fine, we'll take the escalators.

James does not stop the whole way down. We pause to buy him a bread roll and he sucks at it in between screaming and hiccuping. I can only think that some of the sun cream got into his eyes but Charles points out that when he can see me, he stops complaining. Great. I take Charlotte's stroller so Charles can push James and James can see me. Despite this, he keeps up the grumpy mini tantrums throughout the whole affair.

It's only 11 o'clock - which is the official start of the festival, but things are already in full swing. The stage features bagpipes and highland dancers - the food stalls indicate that we're in the Middle East. Knowing that the best food won't last long we quickly start our stroll around the globe. We're quickly enticed by Himalayan Momos - mince for Charles, spinach for me. Charlotte refuses to taste either and when we tell her she has to try something, she homes in instantly on what must be the only vanilla cupcakes in a 500 metre radius. We let her have one but tell her she will need to eat real food too.

To me the Multicultural Festival is proof of two things;
1.) The far-reaching influence of the Poms - demonstrated through the liberal use of mince and spinach in the fare on offer. A vast majority of the fare on offer seems to be a variation on parcelling up these two ingredients. Indian Samosas, Himalayan Momos, Turkish Golzeme...all are available in either mince or spinach and cheese.
2.) Almost every culture on the planet has figured out how to pulverise bits of an animal, stuff it into its intestine, fry it up and shove it into a piece of bread. I personally think the Germans do it best, although I usually forgo the sauerkraut and accompanying beer.

After watching the people around her for a bit and refusing to even look at what we're eating, Charlotte announces that she wants some "food on a stick". Thrilled that she's chosen something non-sugarey, Charles immediately hurls himself into the crowd and comes back triumphant with a chicken satay stick and some plain rice. Madam wolfs it down while Daddy experiments with a Salvadorian chicken tamale and Mama tries a pupusa. Madam announces she wants more. More it is. She then refuses to try anything that's not on a stick and I inwardly resolve to bring a bamboo skewer next year to thread absolutely everything onto. And then we continue on through the throngs that have shown up.

Navigating through the crowds would be a lot easier if it wasn't for the Sheeple (people sheep). Just like their ovine namesakes, the sheeple are gloriously vapid, totally oblivious to anyone but themselves and clad in snowy drifts of ignorance. They are the bane of my existence whenever I go anywhere with the kids in the stroller. It's hard enough in a mall but in a packed space like Garema Place during the festival, the people/sheeple ratio is worse and I begin to think of dark uses for bamboo skewers.

They stop suddenly. They veer 90 degrees without any warning and without looking. They stand in the middle of the flow of traffic mulling over decisions, chatting about where they'll go next, oblivious to everyone else trying their level best to get around them. They rarely make eye contact and they never apologise, even when their sudden veering plants their $4.50 gelato right between your breasts. In fact, the alpha sheeple are able to stare you down when this happens as though you're the one at fault. Life as a people sheep is never about anyone other than yourself and where you need to go and what you're going to do next.

Two hours into the experience and I've decided that what's required is a two-pronged approach. First, a row of spikes on the front of the stroller (and I'm still debating whether these should be subtle or obvious...I kind of like the idea of taking the sheeple by surprise). Second, a strong campaign for sheeple holding pens in all major shopping centres and at any large community event. Not to mention the herders to control them. "I'm sorry sir but you came to an abrupt halt in a clearly marked high traffic area. Please step inside the pen and remain here until you've decided where you'd like to go next." Either that or a short, sharp zap with a cattle prod to keep them moving in the right direction.

As the day heats up and the crowd thickens, James decides he's had enough and he abandons his small protestations in favour of a full on "look-at-what-my-awful-Mum's-doing-to-me" wail. I quickly steer out of the crowds and sit under the awning, nursing him, while Charles goes back for something sweet to cap the day off. He comes back with some deep-fried Greek tasties, hot and crisp in a layer of honey and sprinkled with crushed walnuts. Yum. It's the perfect end to our annual pilgrimage. As we leave and I look for the last time at all the smiling stall holders, the crowds sampling everything on offer, I can't help but think that cultural tolerance is something we should all be striving for. It's time to leave our ignorance behind us.

1 comment:

  1. as always, absolute crack up. sheeple is so appropriate, i have tried to come up with something that describes these aliens, i cannot tolerate them!

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