Musings Over Nasi Goreng

Words by Guy van Egmond (he/him)

It’s been a long day. Getting up early, walking to campus, lecture, tutorial, lecture, lunch, tutorial. And my sandwich just didn’t cut it as lunch. I am hungry. Tired, cold, and hungry. But oh, do I know a remedy for that. Chop up some onion and mushrooms, scramble a couple eggs, grate a carrot (and apologise to Oma for the sacrilege). Whack that all into a hot wok with garlic and sambal, and toss it together like a man possessed. Throw in the rice you’ve had sitting in your fridge, slather it all in soy sauce and ketjap, and—at last— everything is once again right in the world. It’s a bold claim, I know, but there’s very little that’s better than wolfing down an entire wokful of hot and wholesome nasi goreng.

I’m halfway through my third bowl when I realise that I never would have done this at home. I probably would have had some toast, or snatched a slice of cake. My first thought would not have been to check my Indo cookbook for which soy sauce to use. Since I moved to Wellington, I’m less surrounded by my heritage, especially on the culinary front. No one else around me is making frikadel-pan or roti koekoes anymore. If anything, I should be more inclined to make a ham and cheese sandwich now, right?

I think I owe a bit of context. I was born in the Netherlands to Dutch parents. My dad’s family have lived in North Holland for 500 years, but my mum’s great-grandfather started a family in Indonesia (unpacking that colonial history is a story for another day). When her parents came back to the Netherlands, they brought with them generations of mixed Dutch and Indonesian culture. So I tick the ‘Dutch’ box on the census form, but call myself a Eurasian ‘Indo’ (tl;dr: I’m Dutch, but I’m not freakishly tall and can handle spicy food).

On paper, we’re a pretty poster immigrant family. We moved to New Zealand when I was 3, but still

speak Dutch at home (much to the struggle of my NZ-born siblings). It doesn’t feel like a big deal— we haven’t got any tricolour flags on the walls, and there are definitely no wayang dolls lurking around. We’ve never really celebrated Koningsdag, Pinksteren, or even Sinterklaas.

So why was it that when I moved to Wellington I started stocking up on fish sauce and sambal? Hell, I even dragged home a 5kg bag of rice from the store.

All of a sudden, I was turning to recipe books that I’d only ever skim read. In the first month, I made nasi kuning, orak arik, and soto ayam, which I’d never made before. Don’t get me wrong, solving any minor inconvenience with fried rice has been fantastic, but it took me by surprise how strong my cultural connection had suddenly become.

To use a cheesy analogy, an old fish asks two younger fish in passing, “How’s the water?” The younger fish swims on, then one turns to the other and says, “What the hell is water?” My point being: at home, Indo culture is like the water. It’s everywhere, and thus nowhere. But all of a sudden—fish out of water—I’m in a world where the only agent of my culture is myself.

Coming to VUW has meant diving into the most awesome mix of variety and expression I’ve ever encountered.

There are people here from all walks of life—it can be easy to fade into the sea of difference. But no one has my cultural background. It’s something uniquely personal for me to hold on to. I can stand out a little when I wear my batik shirts, or my wonderfully obnoxious jersey with ‘Nederland’ across the back. Seeing the myriad of cultural groups at the Clubs Expo and meeting other immigrant kids is comforting. We’re connected in our differences.

At home, I can introduce my flatmates to beschuit and poffertjes in return for a 'proper' butter chicken and the advice that Yorkshire puddings are awful. The flipside of my agency is that I don’t have to. I can keep it to myself when I want to devour a wokful of nasi, or keep a stash of speculaas. Unlike the bread and butter in the fridge, I don’t have to share my sambal or komijn kaas. And no one can judge me for spinning my BLØF CD on repeat.

Keeping my culture close to heart is important. It’s a direct link to my family and my heritage. I’ve got pages of my ancestors’ stories in my notebook, and moving away means writing my own chapter. It's bittersweet though, after living with my family for 18 years. We moved here together from the other side of the world, and moved many more times around Auckland. Coming to Wellington meant leaving them behind.

For me, food maintains that connection. I can't cook rice without remembering mum teaching me her foolproof method (100% success rate, it’s incredible). Thinking of rendang takes me back to trying to write down my Opa’s unbelievably vague recipe ($20 if you can find any mention of a measuring spoon). Hagelslag will always remind me of my little sister and brother, and I know Calvé peanut butter is my dad’s favourite.

These sentiments are not just mine either. Shifna, who emigrated from Sri Lanka as a baby, strongly relates her food to multiple generations of her heritage. “When I think of food,” she says, “I think of my mum, my grandma, my great-grandma. Mum makes this curry called paal anum, and it’s so warm and comforting. That really connects me. It feels like a hug.”

And for Nuha, since moving from Kashmir a decade ago, food and its rituals helped retain the connection to her roots. “Even though I speak Koshur in broken sentences, food is a big aspect of my culture that, I feel, truly ties me to where I’m from. The experience of coming together to eat wazwan during weddings or during Eid—that stuff really changes you.”

The culture we grew up in doesn’t just disappear when we move away. Habits and lessons we learnt stay with us. My flatmate Jordhveer, whose parents emigrated from Punjab, says, “If I'm making other food I tend to put an Indian twist on it, make it with Indian techniques [...] and the flavours I've been brought up with.”

For all of us fish out of water, it’s food that really connects us with who and where we’ve come from. Food symbolises more than just the means to survive until dinner. “Because, you know, it's not just food,” says Shifna, “it’s special. There’s connections beyond what you’re eating.”

Whether it’s going out and grabbing a lamb curry wrap from Roti Bay, putting your own twist on nachos, or solving every long day with nasi goreng, food is the strongest link in the chain connecting us to our culture. Recipes carry more than just ingredients and measurements (skip the measurement bit if you’re my Opa). The margins are full of memories and knowledge scribbled in by our ancestors, added to by our parents, and edited by us, ready for the next generation to ask, “What do you mean ‘until it tastes right’? Have you never heard of a measuring spoon?”