PLACES THAT INSPIRE
Masa, My Body
corn flour reflections from the side of the road
By Zachariah Brown | @35.ism
Photographer and storyteller Zachariah takes us on a road trip through Guatemala, guided not by maps, but through the aromas, stories, and history built by corn. Here is his reflection on culture, community, and the dough that built civilizations.
I’ve always been deeply invested in corn. That’s a strange thing to say – I’m well aware and I’ll stand by it. But as John Lennon once said, “I’m not the only one.” Of course, he was talking about dreamers. And when considering the importance of corn, here I make no distinction.
I crossed the border from Belize into Guatemala on June 10th. It was, as it had been every day, sweltering hot in the Yucatan. My driver, a kind spectacled man named Mr. P, picked my partner and I up from the bustling Aduana y Migración – the border crossing. Our passports dutifully stamped, we greeted Mr. P and hopped in his van. We were headed to Tikal, the famed and ancient Mayan city lost deep in the jungle. But this instance, as recorded on many a dirty Jeep’s bumper sticker, the journey was as important as the destination.
“Perdón, señor, uno momento. Parada para una foto?” Mr. P nodded, looked back and laughed. I had spotted a sign, “Se Vende Tortilla”
We pulled to the side of the road and I hopped out, camera in hand. Mr. P and I walked to the small stand where a woman was moulding masa dough quickly and elegantly into flat discs. She tossed them onto a smoking comal, a large stone pan heated by coals. The smell was incredible. I asked for a photo. She smiled, nodded, and continued her work.
I think it’s a good time to explain my passion. Corn is important. From the Indigenous peoples of North America all the way down through Central and South America, it has been the staple crop for thousands of years. It fueled civilizations. It is exceptionally diverse. And most importantly, it can be made into masa – corn dough. Masa is created through nixtamalization, a process by which corn kernels are broken down by slaked lime. From there, it’s mixed with lard, water, and salt, and becomes… everything. Soft steamed tamales, cheesy pupusas, sandwiched arepas, fried chips, and griddled tortillas. It’s also deeply spiritual. The Mayans believed that the Gods made the first humans out of masa, that our flesh was corn willed into being. Not so different from the bread and wine I grew up taking at Communion. A food so necessary it is godly. So ubiquitous it’s a cultural rite.
We continued down the road, stopping by the lakeside to cool down.
But it was the tortillerías on every single corner that drew my eye. I asked to stop many more times. Greeted by many more smiles and laughs.
What to me was singular was to the women who sold them a daily trade. A group of women at one stand worked together, laughing and making jokes while they crafted. Why the heck did I want photos, they asked. “Para mi? Esto es especial.”
We continued down the road, stopping by the lakeside to cool down.
But it was the tortillerías on every single corner that drew my eye. I asked to stop many more times. Greeted by many more smiles and laughs.
What to me was singular was to the women who sold them a daily trade. A group of women at one stand worked together, laughing and making jokes while they crafted.
Why the heck did I want photos, they asked. “Para mi? Esto es especial.”
My last request was lunch at a pupuseria. My partner and I had already eaten an entire bag of plain tortillas from one of the vendors. Unbelievably rich, salted, soft, and smoky. They needed nothing. But as we stopped, I asked one last time for a photo and one more time I was obliged.
The owner stuffed masa with fresh queso blanco, griddled it, and in no time at all my partner and I were splitting a gooey pupusa which we topped with homemade curtido, spicy and fermented.
We had to go. Mr. P was getting restless, but was too polite to say anything. Patience and graciousness are abound in Guatemala. In my lovely partner, less so. So we drove onward to Tikal.
Yes, I’m deeply invested in corn but I’d like to up the ante. If you were born anywhere in the Americas, you should be too. It’s very special. It’s a lifeline, a culture, a religious expression. But if you’re a skeptic and not prone to waxing poetic on tortillas, it is, at the very least, delicious. And that’s enough to care about.
To see more of Zach’s photo essays and travel stories, follow him on Instagram @35.ism
A huge thank you to Zach for sharing his photography and reflections with our community. Next time you hold a warm tortilla, we hope you remember the art, hands, and history behind it.
Explore Zach’s other piece: Notes from the Clouds: Morne Trois Pitons, Dominica