Ballet Chino "Thousand Hands Guanyin"

Ballet Chino "Las Mil Manos Guanyin" De un amigo en Nueva York, recibi el video que se encuentra para verlo, (o bajarlo), utilizando los links a continuación. Vale la pena bajarlo. El video pesa 35.5 MB y me demoré en bajarlo, con nuestra versión local de "banda ancha", diez y ocho minutos. Gocenlo !!! Vicente A. Verlo en Web Bajarlo a su PC Mensaje Original: There is an awesome dance, called the Thousand-Hand Guanyin, that is making the rounds across the net. Considering the tight coordination required, their accomplishment is nothing short of amazing, even if they were not all deaf. You read correctly !!!. All 21 of the dancers are complete deaf-mutes. Relying only on signals from trainers at the four corners of the stage, these extraordinary dancers deliver a visual spectacle that is at once artistic, intricate, entertaining and very beautiful. Its first major international debut was in Athens at the closing ceremonies for the 2004 Paralympics. But it had long been in the repertoire of the China Disabled People's Performing Art Troupe and have traveled to more than 40 countries. Its lead dancer is 29 year old Tai Lihua, who has a BA from the Hubei Fine Arts Institute. The video was recorded in Beijing during the Spring Festival celebrations this year. Saludos, Claudio Miguel Traducción: Hay un ballet admirable, llamado "Guanyin de las Mil Manos", el cual se puede visualizar en un video que ya se encuentra en muchas partes del WWW. Considerando la admirable coordinación requerida, el espectáculo por si solo es impresionante para cualquier cualquier "ensamble" de danza, con bailarines que no sufran de sordera. Usted ha leido correctamente !!!! Todos los 21 integrantes del elenco son sordomudos. Utilizando tan solo señales de sus entrenadores, ubicados en las cuatro esquinas del escenario, estos extraordinarios bailarines presentan un espectáculo que es artístico, coordinado, entretenido y de una belleza sin par. Su debut internacional fue en Atenas en las ceremonias de clausura para los Paralympics del 2004. Pero el ballet ha estado ya por varios años en el repertorio del "Ballet Chino de Personas Discapacitadas" y ha sido presentado en más de 40 países. Su "Prima Ballerina" es Tai Lihua de 29 años de edad y ostenta un título profesional del Instituto de Bellas Artes de Hubei. El video fue grabado en el Festival de la Primavera, en Beiging, en el 2006 Saludos, Claudio Miguel

Gran película "camp" thailandesa.

Gun-Slinging Cowboys in Colorful Thailand By A.O. SCOTT Published: January 12, 2007

There may be crazier movies than "Tears of the Black Tiger," Wisit Sasanatieng's Thai cowboy melodrama of betrayal and forbidden love, but I can't think of one that is quite so mad about its own craziness. What is most startling is not Mr. Sasanatieng's compulsive, fetishistic assembly of bits and pieces of the movie past; this kind of pastiche has, over the past decade and a half, gone from novelty to cliché. The source of the movie's seductive appeal lies less in its vivid fakery — the mock vintage-Technicolor hues, the musical and visual quotations, the miasma of camp hanging in the air — than in its disarming sincerity.

Magnolia Pictures Supakorn Kitsuwon, left, who plays Mahasuan, and Chartchai Ngamsan, as Seua Dum, portray fearsome outlaws in "Tears of the Black Tiger."

I doubt many of the lurid pinks and yellows and washed-out greens that fill the screen are found in nature, but those tears mentioned in the title nonetheless seem perfectly genuine. They spring, rather late in the story, from the eyes of Seua Dum (also briefly known, for unexplained reasons, as Rapin), a peasant's son who grows up into a fearsome, melancholy outlaw (and also, along the way, into a shy, nerdy college student). Chartchai Ngamsan, the actor who plays Dum, may have a limited range of expression, but he uses it to maximum effect. His performance is a series of matinee-idol poses and delicately lighted close-ups, and his face is the principal vehicle for the film's grand, throbbing emotions. Many of Mr. Sasanatieng's images are borrowed from westerns, spaghetti and otherwise, and his unbridled appetite for histrionics serves as a reminder that those oaters were not called horse operas for nothing. But the convolutions of his narrative, which twice leaps backward in time in the vain hope of making sense, may owe more to Chinese sword and martial arts movies than to the frontier epics of John Ford or Sergio Leone. Film scholars will debate whether the bloody faces, exploding heads and flying severed limbs betray the influence of Sam Peckinpah or a source in Asian cinema closer to Mr. Sasanatieng's home. Really, though, the possible antecedents for the movie (which finally arrives on American screens after dazzling critics at the Cannes Film Festival in 2001) lie so thickly on its surface that you almost expect footnotes instead of end credits. You could pause after every scene to track down allusions overt and accidental, and once "Tears of the Black Tiger" is available on DVD, plenty of fans will do just that.

Magnolia Pictures Stella Malucchi plays a woman in the center of a doomed love affair.

Luckily, the movie tosses off its compendium of real and imaginary cinema trivia not with a knowing smirk, but with a swoon. As a boy, Dum falls in love with Rumpoey (Stella Malucchi), the daughter of a local big shot. She bosses and teases him while he fights off bullies and endures cruel punishments on her behalf. His stoical masochism — and the sight of him being whipped by his father — melts her heart. But circumstances and class differences keep them apart, and Dum, only a year after leaving college, becomes the top gun in a gang of bandits led by an angry fellow named Fai (Sombati Medhanee). Meanwhile, Rumpoey carries her metaphorical torch (often through literal rainstorms). Her eyes glassy with resignation, she prepares to marry an ambitious police captain (Arawat Ruangvuth), who volunteers to lead the mission to wipe out Fai's gang. Really, though, the plot summary is both tiring and superfluous. The two lovers rarely smile; the villains have impressive facial hair; and the double-crosses and revelations are accompanied by harmonica and slide guitars filtered through Ennio Morricone, and Thai pop arrangements by Amornbhong Methakunavudh, the music supervisor. The camera takes in all the color with the voracity of a child devouring scoop after scoop of ice cream. Ms. Malucchi, as lovely as the young Elizabeth Taylor, is the still, sad point in the midst of a good deal of hectic violence and half-submerged homoeroticism — a paper doll in a world of flexing action figures. She may be the love of Dum's life, but there is far more heat and intimacy in his relationship with Mahasuan (Supakorn Kitsuwon), the second-best shooter in the Fai gang, who hops from rival to sidekick and back again, his lip curling under his thin, crooked mustache. Back in the old days, the genres that sustain "Tears of the Black Tiger" — weepies and wuxia, as much as westerns — were loaded with psychosexual subtext, implications that Mr. Sasanatieng emphasizes without bringing them to the surface. Sublimation just for the fun of it may not be as interesting — or as much fun — as the kind enforced by social norms or cultural taboos, and the intoxicating madness of "Tears of the Black Tiger" is in the end too willed, too deliberate, to be entirely divine. TEARS OF THE BLACK TIGER Opens today, January 12 2007, in Manhattan. (In Thai, with English subtitles) Written and directed by Wisit Sasanatieng; Director of photography, Nattawut Kittikhun; Edited by Dusanee Puinongpho; Music by Amornbhong Methakunavudh; Production designer, Ek Iemchuen; Produced by Nonzee Nimibutr; released by Magnolia Pictures. At the Film Forum, 209 West Houston Street, west of Avenue of the Americas, South Village. Running time: 113 minutes. This film is not rated. WITH: Chartchai Ngamsan (Seua Dum, a k a Black Tiger), Stella Malucchi (Rumpoey), Supakorn Kitsuwon (Mahasuan), Arawat Ruangvuth (Police Captain Kumjorn), Sombati Medhanee (Fai) and Pairoj Jaisingha (Phya Prasit). Copyright by The New York Times 2007

Intergración generacional en organizaciones

Mixing it Up The generations go at it over work protocols Text by Matt Villano Illustration by Christopher Silas Neal January 10, 2007

As chief operating officer at Brody Professional Development, a training and consulting firm in Jenkintown, PA, Pamela Holland has heard just about everything. So she wasn't surprised last year when a client called asking for guidance on whether to allow a frenzied twenty-something to take that day off to care for her sick sister's kids. Nor, later, was she surprised by the polarized opinions in her own office about how the people there felt the situation should have been handled. What did surprise Holland, however, was how cleanly opinions split between age groups. Those over forty, such as Holland, agreed they never would have taken a personal day for a reason like that. The 30-somethings in the crowd, including senior facilitator Amy Glass, and some of the younger employees said they would have taken the day but lied about why. "Every generation had a unique take on the situation," remembers Glass. "At that moment, it became clear that every age group sees work a little differently." Glass's epiphany was nothing new. Employees that comprise the workforce of today range in age from under 21 to over 65, bringing a variety of perspectives together. Overall, this diversity makes the workplace richer and more accessible to customers of every age. In many cases, however, bridging these generational differences can be quite a challenge. Generations 101 The workplace certainly isn't what it used to be. In years past, employees started young, worked their butts off, and gradually moved their way up the corporate ladder. Under this paradigm, young folks held entry level jobs and old folks did the managing. Rarely, if ever, did workers cross these generational lines. Gradually, however, as corporate mergers and downsizing redistributed workforces, hierarchies changed. Older folks, laid off from previous jobs, began seeking entry level positions after switching careers. Younger folks, considerably cheaper than their elders, rose to the top. The result: a generational melting pot. Today, according to a recent study from the Society for Human Resource Management, workers break down into four age groups: Traditionalists, or those born before 1945; Baby Boomers, who were born between 1945 and 1964; Generation Xers, who were born between 1965 and 1980; and Millenials (or Nexters), who have birthdates after that. Steve Miranda, the organization's chief human resources, strategic planning and diversity officer, says a workforce with so many various perspectives is brilliant in its multi-faceted nature but often struggles because of disconnects and miscommunications that arise from the differences among age groups. "It's both a curse and a blessing," says Miranda, who works at SHRM headquarters in Alexandria, VA. "In order for it to function properly, an employer must identify differences between generations and make sure everyone understands how to overcome them." The discrepancies Perhaps the most obvious differences between generations pertain to workplace communication. Cam Marston, president of Marston Communications, a consulting firm in Charlotte, NC, notes that while older employees prefer face-to-face contact, younger generations embrace less personal options such as e-mail, text messages, and instant messenger. "Why send an e-mail when you can just walk around the corner?" he says. "Technology has prompted a lot of older people to ask themselves questions like these when they interact with young people at work." Divergent communication styles are only part of the problem. Chuck Underwood, president of The Generational Imperative, a consulting firm in Cincinnati, says that as technology and telecommuting have facilitated a more mobile workforce, different generations may be perceived to have different work ethics. Traditionalists and Baby Boomers, for instance, are accustomed to a workday that revolves around the hours of 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Gen Xers and Millenials, on the other hand, might take three or four hours of personal time in the middle of the day, but log on from home after dinner and put in the hours they missed. "People from older generations are used to thinking that success is determined by how visible you are and how much time you spend working there in the office," says Underwood. "Today, younger generations are proving that success can be defined in different ways." Finally, of course, generations relate differently to employers as a whole. Kathy Sheehan, senior vice president at GfK Roper Consulting, a market research firm in New York, says that because most Baby Boomers and Traditionalists watched their parents spend entire careers with the same firms, they tend to be loyal to employers. Gen Xers and Millenials, on the other hand, are more skeptical. Sheehan says that since younger employees bore the brunt of downsizing and layoffs that forced their folks to find new jobs, these employees view employment as much more of a temporary phenomenon, a simple means to an end. "In many ways, each generation's attitude is a reaction to what they saw from the generations before them," says Sheehan. "Baby Boomers are likely to say a job is a career, while Gen Xers will tell you a job is just a job." Other issues There are subtle differences between generations, too--little things that fly under the radar of consultants but seem pretty major in offices across the country. First on this list is attire. While it was customary in years past to wear suits and skirts to work, the workplace in recent years has become far more casual. In many industries, this change has sparked controversy. While older people feel that appropriate workplace attire is formal, young people are comfortable wearing khakis, flip-flops, and T-shirts. Kacy Douglas, marketing manager at Positive Networks, a technology company in Overland Park, KS, said this casual attire seems unprofessional. "Anything you would wear on a weekend probably wouldn't be appropriate in the workplace," says Douglas, who is in her 30s. "It doesn't matter how old you are." Language is another sticking point. While older employees cut their corporate teeth in environments that embraced formalities, Gen Xers and Millenials applaud equality. Sarah Baker Andrus, director of academic programs at Vector Marketing in Olean, NY, says this difference leads to interactions that some older folks may interpret as disrespectful. Case in point: Greetings. Older generations are more accustomed to referring to managers with traditional prefixes, while younger generations prefer first names only. What's more, younger generations tend to use slang more freely, replacing simple phrases like "good day" and "sincerely," with "yo" and "peace." "We find that our current generations are used to an immediacy of communication and express themselves without a lot of filters," says Andrus. "In a creative environment, this is an advantage, but it always can be perceived the wrong way." Overcoming differences None of these differences is insurmountable. The first step to overcoming generational differences at work is to raise awareness about the things that make each age group unique. Many companies incorporate age sensitivity into more comprehensive diversity training efforts. Dena Wilson, talent manager at AFLAC, a life insurance company in Columbus, GA, said her organization offers workshops about generational differences as part of its annual Diversity Day program, which also includes lectures and training about overcoming racism, sexism, and religious intolerance. "Just as employees may struggle with accepting differences in race or religion, they can have trouble understanding differences that stem from age," she said. "We do this to broaden the perspective." Another way to overcome the gap between generations is to embrace it. Miranda says that at companies such as General Motors, Best Buy, and Philip Morris this process revolves around reverse mentoring, a program through which younger employees coach older ones on technological innovations. However a company seeks to transcend generational differences, open-mindedness is a key. Robin Bond, managing partner of Transition Strategies, an employment law firm in Wayne, PA, says if employees aren't sure how to treat colleagues of any age, they should ask the colleagues how they wish to be treated and act accordingly. "It's important to put yourself in the other guy's shoes," she says. "When you're sensitive to whom you are dealing with, you'll be amazed how much farther you'll get."

Matt Villano, a writer and editor based in Half Moon Bay, CA, never has answered to a boss younger than he. Once, working at a tuxedo rental store in high school, he managed an older worker. For a week. Until the worker quit. Copyright by 2007 Herman Miller Inc. Terms of Use

Varia Favorites 002

La calle cómo pasarela

January 4, 2007 Fashion Diary Where You Least Expect It By GUY TREBAY HAS it ever seemed clearer that fashion is not about clothes? Has it ever appeared more inevitable that the cult of the designer is slated for the cultural slag heap, there to join all those other monuments to the outmoded notion of the grand career (retrospective albums, DVD collections, the Great Novel)? Robert Wright for The New York Times Public Runway A tunic dress from the blink-and-you-missed-it Roland Mouret collection for the Gap. Fashion, like an awful lot of other stuff in the culture, is cracking apart before one's eyes. You're doomed if you try to see the field as some powerful system run by chic sadists ("Bore someone else with your questions," said Meryl Streep's Miranda Priestly in "The Devil Wears Prada," snapping at her simpering minion in the weary tone of a burned-out dominatrix). Fashion doesn't come just from the runway anymore, if it ever really did. And it doesn't come from "Project Runway" either. Rather, it seems to happen spontaneously and then spread like some mostly benign contagion, a germ carried in the air and contracted in this store, that magazine, this corner of the city and in ways that fashion bibles rarely bother to note. Trends emerge, apparently from nowhere: they are fashion. This process can be intoxicating to watch. Suddenly young people in rock bands like the Decemberists and My Morning Jacket begin dressing as if playing a rock club was no different from running copies behind a counter at Kinko's. In place of stage costumes, they favor cheap sweater vests and no-brand thrift shop jeans. They make such a success of looking frumpy that their frumpiness develops into a style despite itself. How can one tell? Well, already last season in Paris, Sarah Lerfel, a farsighted owner of the celebrated boutique Colette, was talking about a trend that sounded a lot like the Return of Grunge. Elizabeth Lippman for The New York Times EARLY ADOPTERS Devendra Banhart (with glass) presents a furry freak image. Fashion in that sense is a Möbius strip, a flexible circuit, both variable and closed. Designers shine one season on the face side of the loop, the arc turns and suddenly you can't see them anymore. A year ago the name of Roland Mouret — a self-taught son of a French butcher, holder at some point of most every job there is in fashion (stylist, model, gofer, art director) — was on everyone's lips. The hobbled skirts and elevator stilettos he promoted in the fall of 2005 were greeted by some as precisely the antidote to a sartorial landscape grown neutral and drab. It was meant to happen in a big way for Mr. Mouret. The fix was in at Vogue. And then ... well ... nothing. A couple of movie people were spotted wobbling down that purgatorial road to nowhere, the red carpet, in his creations. Some stores, like Bergdorf Goodman, bought the collection. Yet the predicted breakout did not take place; the gyre turned and Mr. Mouret faded away. Until late this November, when, with hardly any fanfare, there he was again, proudly adorning the racks at the Gap. The Gap? "I was interested in the opportunity to make my designs available to a broader audience," the designer said, after a small capsule collection of his was shipped to select local Gap stores, including one on 17th Street in Manhattan, where the actress Lucy Liu was caught waiting with an armload of $88 tunic dresses outside a dressing room. (They quickly disappeared.) Was Mr. Mouret selling out? He was not. He was just doing what every designer from Stella McCartney to Karl Lagerfeld to Vera Wang has recently done, buying his ticket to board the mass-market gravy train. As it happens, this is a fine thing that has happened to fashion, since the democratization of design is a value that has been trumpeted by every theoretician of the applied arts since the Bauhaus. It is thrilling somehow to see visual ideas first created to be pitched to the rarefied tastes of a group of mandarins leak out to the broader population. It is a pleasure to realize that our tastes, after all, are not formed at the whim of some underfed dictators of editorial chic. And there is a lot of fun to be had in tracking the serendipitous way that cultures, both high and low, unexpectedly collide. Think of how hipsters have suddenly started looking like Paul Bunyan. Think about how the grizzled, bearded look now affected by half of Williamsburg this winter was only a short time ago derided as an affectation of gay bears, a small minority of hyper-masculine men who affect potbellies, clodhoppers and lavish chin whiskers. We are talking full shrubs here, not mangy soul patches, the kind of beards that gay bears once seemed to be the only ones to flaunt (the better to attract each other at bars and roundups like the annual Bearapalooza or the Furball in Canada). Paulo Ferreira Reis/Getty Images The Brazilian model Raquel Zimmerman, whose face is the template for cyborg beauty. Is it because atavism runs deep in fashion that the style abruptly leaped across the population boundaries and has now made a startling appearance among the ranks of cool young men, mostly straight? In the late summer of last year, one spotted a scant few beards around town; then, come autumn, whole blocks of the Lower East Side were crawling with guys who looked like the musician Devendra Banhart, who in turn seemed to have copped his look from Peter Orlovsky, the poet lover for three decades of Allen Ginsberg, the late literary genius who, after his first visit to India, affected a beard woolier than anything you'd see on a mud daubed sadhu. By this past holiday season, whether at clubs and bars like Supreme Trading or Black Betty in Brooklyn, the bearded hipster-mullah-hippie look had proliferated to the point where one could barely distinguish musicians from the local Hasidim. (In the case of the popular rapper Matisyahu, an Orthodox Jew, the distinction was moot.) Shifts of taste and style are trivialities, of course, without any serious meaning. But they do perform one important function, as Proust pointed out: they notch our hours and moments and decades and leave us with visual mnemonics, clues by which to remember where and in which dress and what jeans (and wearing what cologne) one was at a particular time. Tracking the way styles evolve gives us insight, too, into the forms of beauty we choose to idealize. Models who were vacant optimistic cheerleader types prevailed in the politically clueless 1970s (Christie Brinkley, Patti Hansen, Shelley Hack); brooding brunettes took over during the Age of Reagan (Linda Evangelista, Cindy Crawford and Yasmeen Ghauri); and off-kilter aristocratic types (Guinevere van Seenus, Stella Tennant, Erin O'Connor), emblematic of upper class women, came to the fore during the second Bush imperium. What fashion now prefers as a beauty ideal is another type, the robot, personified by the stunning Raquel Zimmerman, a blond Brazilian of German heritage whose physical proportions are so symmetrical that many designers use her body as a template. That Ms. Zimmerman also has a kind of vacant cyborg aspect cannot be altogether incidental. Possibly this is the reason why Louis Vuitton hired her for a new ad campaign in which her face has been made up and manipulated so aggressively as to render her less humanly expressive than Lara Croft. Was this intentional? Who knows? But it is no stretch to extrapolate from Ms. Zimmerman's popularity to a time when live models will be dispensed with altogether, in favor of creatures written in CGI. That is not to suggest there is a master plan. There rarely is. Or is there? The guessing game keeps fashion fun for observers, that and its magpie habit of plucking from the cultural grab bag anything bright or unexpected with which to keep us amused. Elizabeth Lippman for The New York Times Signe Conway pads through the city in bedroom slippers. I am thinking of a microfad recently noted among privileged young women in elite neighborhoods of the Upper East Side, the wearing of bedroom slippers on the streets. "It started at boarding schools two years ago, when every single boarding-school kid was wearing them," Signe Conway, a senior at the Convent of the Sacred Heart, explained last week, as she stood outside Yura & Co., a coffee shop that doubles as a private neighborhood clubhouse. Ms. Conway, 17, was wearing a pair of fuzzy suede moccasin-style slippers, the sort lined with shearling and with a roll of fur turned down on each side. The slippers are sold by L .L. Bean; they caught on when girls' school administrators banned the wearing of the now ubiquitous Ugg boots. Like flip-flops in January, slippers on the sidewalk flout logic. They blur lines. They catch the eye and jolt one into the subtle realization that boundaries between public space and private are permeable. The gesture is small but it reminds one that fashion is a monumental system built on coded details. If one suddenly decides to colonize the sidewalks and treat them as though one were home in the bedroom, it is fashion that issues the license to proceed. Copyright by New York Times 2007

Tour gastronómico con Carlos Ordoñez C.

Diciembre 28 de 2006 - Exótico tour gastronómico con Carlos Ordóñez Caicedo, un cazador de recetas Este mimo y actor es el creador de un irreverente restaurante en la 24 con Lexington de Nueva York y dueño de uno común y corriente en la La Reforma, de México. Conocedor de Ionesco, coleccionista de algunas de las once mil vírgenes y de todos los santos amén, de máscaras lloronas y risueñas, de animalitos de madera de los 5 continentes y prolijo investigador de todas las herviduras y sazones que en el mundo han sido, Carlos Ordónez, en ese trasegar suyo de más de medio siglo por campos y montes, por ciudades y pueblos buscando en ollas, hornillas, braseros, parrillas y anafes la quintaesencia gastronómica, tenía algún día que pasarse su trago, o mejor, su bocado amargo. Fue en la Alta Guajira. Cuando la marimba. Buscaba los secretos del friche. Escogió la ranchería más lejana. Lo recibieron con bulliciosa bienvenida, sobre todo cuando habló con enrevesado acento gringo (su juventud fue en E.U.). Pero pasaron 2, 3, 5 días y nada de la receta. Una tarde salió de la enramada donde dormía y sudaba en un chinchorro a casi 40 grados y se topó con una especie de 'bahía' de mínimo 30 televisores y camionetas Rangers. ¡UUmmhh!, se dijo. De inmediato, sus 'anfitriones' los condujeron con severa amabilidad al árbol de trupillo donde se protegía del sol bebiendo agua de un jagüey mientras contaba cabras. A la mañana siguiente apareció su ángel: 'está secuestrado, averiguan quién es, creen que puede ser espía', le dijo un universitario guajiro que visitaba su familia. Llegaron las aclaraciones y desde luego la receta: carne de chivo sofrita, guiso de tomate y cebolla que, rociado con la sangre del animal, se convierte en una salsa algo espesa. Y el gran secreto del plato: "Se hace con lo que haiga: si hay de esto, con esto, si hay de todo, con todo". En su apartamento -exquisito templo de lo profano y lo religioso- piensa ahora que es un plato nacido en la supervivencia. "¡Vi hacer un friche con sardinas de lata! Pero sabroso". Ordóñez conoció los deleites de la cocina en su hogar en Cali, de donde tan pronto le asomaron los primeros pelillos salió a recorrer mundo, de mano del Ballet Folclórico de México, de Jodoroswky y su teatro y de otro clásico español, y también de su propia mano. Antes, había recorrido el país con Gloria Triana. Y siempre, a partir de cada expresión folclórica, buscando los entresijos de la gastronomía de donde estuviera. Hasta que Colcultura lo invitó hace un par de décadas a regresar para hacer un libro sobre nuestra comida. Así fue. Llegó al país y lo recorrió de nuevo. El proyecto se derrumbó cuando tenía 2.400 recetas, que se convirtieron en las 750 del Gran Libro de la Cocina Colombiana. Aparte, ha publicado otros siete libros. Sus jornadas por todos los recovecos de nuestra geografía, conociendo costumbres y mañas, lo convirtieron en cazador de recetas. Más que búsqueda, lo que hace es un auténtico safari. Con reglas precisas para atrapar algo tan difícil como es lo oculto que tiene algún platillo para que sea único. Aprendió que un cazador de recetas nunca debe revelar su condición, porque suponen que se convertirá en el competidor "de al frente". Pero tampoco ser tan misterioso porque lo confunden con los enemigos naturales de los marchantes de plazas y mercados (santuarios de la mejor cocina): la DIAN y las secretarías de salud. "Primero hay que enterarse de la receta y del mejor sitio de elaboración. Se llega cauteloso a la plaza, busca un taburete estratégico y aparenta ser un chismoso que quiere saber todo: el nombre y la gracia del bobo del pueblo, el charco donde echarse un chapuzón. Pide uno o dos bocados de cualquier cosa mientras observa sin afanes la 'presa' y ¡zas! la pide. Viene la segunda parte. La difícil: conocer ingredientes y preparación". Ahí es cuando el cazador debe utilizar su arma precisa: la persuasión. La experiencia le ha enseñado que casi nunca sus 'fuentes' conocen de cantidades ni tiempos de cocción. Con paciencia y chistes les va sacando la lista de los ingredientes, saltando desordenadamente de uno a otro y tomando los tiempos mientras arma en su cerebro el rompecabezas culinario, descifrando el especial lenguaje que manejan: "cuando esté blandito, cuando huela a rico, cuando tenga el colorcito preciso...". Claro, casi nadie le cree que es para un libro y, en últimas, les importa, a propósito de ingredientes, un rábano. Por eso guardan en lo recóndito de sus ollas el secreto que hace al plato exquisito. Por ejemplo, supo de un dulce que hacen en Aranzazu llamado 'corcho'. No hubo poder divino para que le dieran la receta, solo que "se hace un meladito y se le pone mucho limón" (el cítrico era para dañar el sabor dulce). 20 años más tarde consiguió la fórmula. Igual ocurrió con la legendaria longaniza de Sutamarchán. Todos a una dijeron que había que ponerle "harto tomate molido" (así la longaniza se pudre en minutos). Pero acá sí se salió con la suya y consiguió con una cocinera de la plaza (para lograr su propósito tuvo que hacerle guiños y mostrarle la muelamenta) el ingrediente mágico: jugo de naranja agria. ¿Y de platos exóticos y apetitosos? "Maravillosamente muchos". Como el arroz de Molongo (Córdoba). Se corta por la mitad una palma real. Se le escurre el jugo con el que se prepara un vino celestial. Se le abre un huequito al tronco y se rellena con rala de pájaro. Se deja a la intemperie por 30 días, cuando aparecen miles de gusanos blancos. Se fríen en mantequilla y cebolla y se revuelve con arroz. Así de simple es este "verdadero manjar". Pero hay un problema. Como demora medio siglo en crecer, está prohibido destruir la palma. Es un plato clandestino, como mucho de lo que hay en ese departamento. Igualmente supo de las 30 recetas para bocachico que existen en la Mojana y el Alto Sinú, "región que tiene una cocina extraordinaria". Como la de Guapi, "capital gastronómica de Colombia, donde hay toda clase de camarones y pescados que preparan con una seductora salsa a la que además de los ingredientes habituales, se le incorpora el bulbo, rayado y secado al sol, de cum, una mata silvestre". Y ahora, a fin de año, este investigador sí que sabe de tamales. "Hay en el país 400 variaciones. Tengo 75 documentadas", y cita tres: Tamal 'manto oscuro' (Córdoba). Los ingredientes, los tradicionales. ¿La diferencia? La carne tiene el mismo tamaño que la masa extendida y ha sido expuesta un día al sol. Del Pacífico: con masa de maíz y plátano verde. ¿Su gracia? La única carne que lleva es de piangua, un molusco. Y el exótico: el de una tribu del Amazonas: la masa es de yuca brava (mandioca) y lleva de especial fríjoles y carne de mico o loro. Y para remate, ensalada de hojas de pringamoza, previamente cortados sus bordes, donde están las terribles espinitas. ¡Y bon appétit! Por René Pérez