Back home. Things feel different here. All those people that say Cape Town doesn't really feel like its in Africa? They were right. Its windier, for one thing.
I don't know how I feel about Cape Town. While I was in Malawi, I found supermarkets a fairly manageable experience. They were a little dirty, the shelves were badly stacked, the fluorescent lighting might flicker a bit, and the butcheries were often straight-up disgusting. But they were more like large shops, with lots of stuff in them, than the supermarkets we know so well. This keeps running around in my head-and when I go into the (ludicrously) well stocked, cavernous, brightly lit, air conditioned and totally disorienting supermarkets of white suburbia it feels even more pertinent. The range of products here seems ridiculous, compared to the choice I had only a little while ago, in a poorer country. (Maybe the strange thing here is that I feel so distant from these things after only two months away. )
Who needs seventeen different types of baked beans? Who needs a variety of fucking shampoos? I'm not saying a bit of choice isn't good. I like my coffee dark, roasty and wholesome, and maybe you don't. But the sheer scale of choices seems absurd. There are enough fucking things I have to decide every day, without having to choose between three or four types of salt!
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Learn to cook, you disgusting slob.
Cooking fairly decent food is not hard. There is no secret gene passed
down to divide humanity in two; the Can Cook’s and the Can’t Cook’s.
Most people eat three times a day, and often more, so the ability to
prepare a decent meal shouldn’t be regarded as anything but a
prerequisite for being an adult human. Can you drive a car? Can you
clean your body yourself? Can you tie your own shoe laces? And are you
capable of making anything but overcooked fucking pasta with shop
bought sauce?
Its easy to find recipes. Its even easy to find very simple, even so
called ‘foolproof’ recipes. But here are a few things you should learn
to do first, some things you should never do again, and a couple you
should feel ashamed for ever having done.
1. Learn to cook pasta.
Boil water in a large pot. Add salt. Add the pasta. Cook until al
dente. This is Italian for “not overcooked and shit”. Strain. Do not
fucking overcook the pasta, ever. If you do, throw it away. Do not
attempt to serve it. Do not put oil in the water, that’s stupid. Do
not start in cold water. Do not pour boiling water over the pasta.
When you eat the pasta, do not drown it in sauce, the sauce should
only coat the pasta.
2. Learn how to make a salad.
Salad does not have little bits of fucking cheddar cheese in it. Nor
does it have gherkins in it, nor raw mushrooms, grated carrot,
nectarines or what have you. You are not Gary Rhodes- stick with the
simple stuff. Furthermore, do not ever buy fucking ready made salad
dressing. Vinaigrette is almost impossible to fuck up: 1 part good
(read expensive) vinegar, 3 parts oil, a pinch of salt. Extra virgin
is preferable. Reduced fat vinaigrette is for hairdressers and gym
instructors.
3. Sharpen Your Knife
Buy a decent knife. You cannot buy a decent knife in the same shop you
can buy some grapes, a litre of milk and some cigarettes. The money
you spend is an investment into the possible hundreds of thousands of
meals you will prepare with your new knife. Learn to keep it sharp.
Blunt knives are for nancies. Girls(or boys) love a man (or a woman)
with a very sharp knife.
4. Do not ever use margarine. Ever.
Butter is the not-so-secret ingredient in French food that makes it so
good. It’s delicious, essential for baking, lends richness, body and
its own delicate flavour to whatever you cook in it. It’s natural,
it’s beautiful, and makes everything taste better. Margarine is
emulsified vegetable oil and water, with flavourants and colourants.
One is delicious, one is Satan’s smegma. And don’t be such a fairy
with the extra virgin olive oil- its good for you, and its delicious.
It won’t make you fat. The ancient Romans used to literally clean
their bodies with it, and look at how lithe and handsome all those
marble statues are.
5. Learn to braai.
Get the coals hot. You should only be able to hold your hands over the
coals for up to seven seconds. Do not puncture, marinade or in any way
fiddle with the boerewors. Do not pour litres of water on the coals
should they be too hot. Do not overcook all the meat. It is not ‘done’
when it is dry and leathery, it is now ‘fucked’. When the meat is
done, at most cooked medium (still a bit pink inside), DO NOT keep it
in a warm oven while you get the chicken ready. Do not stuff a
butternut with spinach and feta and wrap it in tinfoil. And cooking
meat to medium rare, or medium is easy: you just leave it on the fire
for a shorter time.
6. Learn how to make at least one dessert.
You cant invite people over to show them your new flat and have tinned
peaches for pud. You don’t have to be Escoffier to make a pannacotta
or a decent banana split. Do not buy a milk tart from Shoprite. Do not
buy any prepared dessert from any grocery store. Make something
yourself, I promise it isn’t that hard.
down to divide humanity in two; the Can Cook’s and the Can’t Cook’s.
Most people eat three times a day, and often more, so the ability to
prepare a decent meal shouldn’t be regarded as anything but a
prerequisite for being an adult human. Can you drive a car? Can you
clean your body yourself? Can you tie your own shoe laces? And are you
capable of making anything but overcooked fucking pasta with shop
bought sauce?
Its easy to find recipes. Its even easy to find very simple, even so
called ‘foolproof’ recipes. But here are a few things you should learn
to do first, some things you should never do again, and a couple you
should feel ashamed for ever having done.
1. Learn to cook pasta.
Boil water in a large pot. Add salt. Add the pasta. Cook until al
dente. This is Italian for “not overcooked and shit”. Strain. Do not
fucking overcook the pasta, ever. If you do, throw it away. Do not
attempt to serve it. Do not put oil in the water, that’s stupid. Do
not start in cold water. Do not pour boiling water over the pasta.
When you eat the pasta, do not drown it in sauce, the sauce should
only coat the pasta.
2. Learn how to make a salad.
Salad does not have little bits of fucking cheddar cheese in it. Nor
does it have gherkins in it, nor raw mushrooms, grated carrot,
nectarines or what have you. You are not Gary Rhodes- stick with the
simple stuff. Furthermore, do not ever buy fucking ready made salad
dressing. Vinaigrette is almost impossible to fuck up: 1 part good
(read expensive) vinegar, 3 parts oil, a pinch of salt. Extra virgin
is preferable. Reduced fat vinaigrette is for hairdressers and gym
instructors.
3. Sharpen Your Knife
Buy a decent knife. You cannot buy a decent knife in the same shop you
can buy some grapes, a litre of milk and some cigarettes. The money
you spend is an investment into the possible hundreds of thousands of
meals you will prepare with your new knife. Learn to keep it sharp.
Blunt knives are for nancies. Girls(or boys) love a man (or a woman)
with a very sharp knife.
4. Do not ever use margarine. Ever.
Butter is the not-so-secret ingredient in French food that makes it so
good. It’s delicious, essential for baking, lends richness, body and
its own delicate flavour to whatever you cook in it. It’s natural,
it’s beautiful, and makes everything taste better. Margarine is
emulsified vegetable oil and water, with flavourants and colourants.
One is delicious, one is Satan’s smegma. And don’t be such a fairy
with the extra virgin olive oil- its good for you, and its delicious.
It won’t make you fat. The ancient Romans used to literally clean
their bodies with it, and look at how lithe and handsome all those
marble statues are.
5. Learn to braai.
Get the coals hot. You should only be able to hold your hands over the
coals for up to seven seconds. Do not puncture, marinade or in any way
fiddle with the boerewors. Do not pour litres of water on the coals
should they be too hot. Do not overcook all the meat. It is not ‘done’
when it is dry and leathery, it is now ‘fucked’. When the meat is
done, at most cooked medium (still a bit pink inside), DO NOT keep it
in a warm oven while you get the chicken ready. Do not stuff a
butternut with spinach and feta and wrap it in tinfoil. And cooking
meat to medium rare, or medium is easy: you just leave it on the fire
for a shorter time.
6. Learn how to make at least one dessert.
You cant invite people over to show them your new flat and have tinned
peaches for pud. You don’t have to be Escoffier to make a pannacotta
or a decent banana split. Do not buy a milk tart from Shoprite. Do not
buy any prepared dessert from any grocery store. Make something
yourself, I promise it isn’t that hard.
Monday, October 4, 2010
An Awkward Topic
From start to finish, Cape Town to Joburg, to Maputo, to Lillongwe, to Harare and back home, my trip has been filled with discussion about South Africa's racial history. A few snippets:
-Driving past the old Boer War battlefields, where the English put my ancestors, women and children, in concentration camps, to deprive the men of supprt, while they burned their farms and slaughtered their animals. I still, bizarrely, feel a strong sense of patriotic support for the Boer's (although in my head, I'm more English than Afrikaans), fighting against their colonial oppressors, despite the fact that they were the same people that soon after created the system of Apartheid.
-Reading a few South African classic novels by white authors, including some of J. M Coetzee's work, and The Story of an African Farm, by Olive Schreiner and flinching every time the word "kaffir" is used.
-Staying the night in some fuckhole small town, in a white owned pub and B&B. The owners' child had been murdered a few years ago in a gay massage parlour- a case that was in the headlines for months. I heard the word "houtkop" used for the first time in my life, to describe black people. It was said to their coloured employee, or "boy", as they would probably call him.
-Arriving in Johannesburg, and staying a few nights at my wealthy relatives houses. Listening to them complain about their servants for hours, while sitting in stupendous, opulent luxury in one of Johannesburg's richest areas, cramped in by nine foot walls, electric fences, security guards, alarms systems and panic buttons. "They're just so ungrateful! I offered to pay for university, but they're just hopeless." I call it the "It's so hard to find good help these days " talk.
-Driving past the old Boer War battlefields, where the English put my ancestors, women and children, in concentration camps, to deprive the men of supprt, while they burned their farms and slaughtered their animals. I still, bizarrely, feel a strong sense of patriotic support for the Boer's (although in my head, I'm more English than Afrikaans), fighting against their colonial oppressors, despite the fact that they were the same people that soon after created the system of Apartheid.
-Reading a few South African classic novels by white authors, including some of J. M Coetzee's work, and The Story of an African Farm, by Olive Schreiner and flinching every time the word "kaffir" is used.
-Staying the night in some fuckhole small town, in a white owned pub and B&B. The owners' child had been murdered a few years ago in a gay massage parlour- a case that was in the headlines for months. I heard the word "houtkop" used for the first time in my life, to describe black people. It was said to their coloured employee, or "boy", as they would probably call him.
-Arriving in Johannesburg, and staying a few nights at my wealthy relatives houses. Listening to them complain about their servants for hours, while sitting in stupendous, opulent luxury in one of Johannesburg's richest areas, cramped in by nine foot walls, electric fences, security guards, alarms systems and panic buttons. "They're just so ungrateful! I offered to pay for university, but they're just hopeless." I call it the "It's so hard to find good help these days " talk.
-Going to the Apartheid Musem in Johannesburg, where the R50 entrance fee ironically puts it out of the reach of the average South African citizen, who is still desperately poor even 16 years after Apartheid officially ended. That said, the experience was humbling, and not easy to digest. Memories flooded back of SADF Casspirs racing down the streets, of teargas and riots on TV, things I couldn't have understood then.
-Arriving in Maputo, and having a good old think about the Portuguese colonial era, and the decades of South African backed destabilising, infrastructure destroying "civil war" that followed. Mozambique was crippled economically, and 900,000 killed, for daring to give shelter to the SA's ANC and Rhodesia's ZANLA rebels, both fighting against white minority governments.
-Going to Malawi, where mzungu's like me are almost always from Europe. Many locals wouldnt believe I was born in South Africa, and when I had convinced them, they seemed thrilled. "We're both Africans!" The unspoken tension between races disappears, and even the cultural gap seems to vanish. White girls get black boyfriends, black men make white friends, and it feels totally normal. I couldn't think why SA isn't like this. Why do I have hundreds of black friends in Malawi, but none in South Africa?
-Speaking to an American guy who lived in some of Johannesburgs worst areas for a while, as well as Bellville's dodgy bits for six months, I realised his perception of Cape Town, and South Africa was totally different to mine. Even though I've lived here for 24 years, I have never seen some of the things he described to me, and I probably never would. I'd simpy be too scared to go near those places, or I'd feel self-conscious of my white skin. He said, having travelled far and wide for many years, that South Africa was the most markedly different place he had ever been to, because of the legacy of Apartheid. I found, overall, that foreigners who had been to South Africa had a far more refreshing and interesting perspective on it, as they were free of the Fear that locals have. They dont have the associations, the worries, and most of all, the shame, that so many white South African's still have.
-In Malawi, it is still considered normal for a person working in South Africa as a gardener to be called a garden boy, a housekeeper a girl, no matter what their age. You might meet a 45 year old man who proudly describes his profession as "boy".
-Arriving back in Johannesburg, and within a few hours hearing rich white kids complaining about the "ungrateful blacks" and "how lazy they are", again, the "Its so hard to find good help these days" talk. Another piece was from a white, Afrikaans, apartheid generation guy who warned me about the Transkei, where "the local blacks are so flippin' lazy".
-Coining the word "Condescenglish" for the peculiar habit that many white South African's and Zimbabweans have, when talking to a black person. It refers specifically to the speaking in a pastiche of an African language accent, presumably so the other party can understand them better. Its almost like a compromise- "I know English isn't your first language, so I'll speak to you in what I think your accent sounds like." Condescending English. Get it? Im sure if you did that to an Irish person they'd hammer you in a few seconds.
Malawi-Wowie
Malawi has the friendliest people in the world. They're proud of this, and sometimes it feels like they go out of their way to be friendly to you. A ten minute walk to the shops to buy some two minute noodles or baked beans could easily involve making two or three new friends. You might be invited to stay over at their house, join them for a game of pool, buy some zol, sleep with a local girl for a thousand Kwacha, whatever. Little children see you and shout "Mzungu!"(same meaning as "honky!" in Zimbabwe) and wave with sheer pleasure at seeing a white person. This friendliness is so alien to me as a South African, it took me a little while to get used to it. I see a guy calling me, coming over to shake my hand, and I want to run a mile. But in Malawi, you'd be so wrong. Once I got used to it, I was faced with some issues.
One: How does anyone remember this many fucking names? In one normal day of eating two or three meals, drinking approximately 3 litres of piss-poor beer, and swimming for two or three hours (tough life, I know) you might meet 20 people. They will all remember your name. They will all remember you are from Cape Town. They will all remember whatever you told them, and the next day, when you stumble down to the shops for a Coke, they call out your name. You freeze in horror when you see who it is- you remember their face from the sea of friendly people that was the previous night, but you're fucked if you can remember their name! You insensitive bastard.
Two: When I return to Cape Town, or god forbid, Joburg, how can I go on the defensive again?Treating other people as if they have leprosy, by default, is normal in South Africa. The Fear has everyone. If you have anything- a watch, a cellphone, a car, a Snickers bar in your pocket, someone wants to steal it. I didn't take my cellphone outside SA so I'd have one less thing to have stolen. How stupid I feel now. In fact, I'm infinitely more likely to have it nicked back home! I'm going to have to settle in, stop trusting people, stop making friends, and put my new found faith in humanity on pause for a bit.
Three: If you happen to be in a hurry to get somewhere in Malawi (in itself, a highly disingenious predicament) you simply can't stop and talk to six different people about your hometown, your opinion on nsima(pretty good, if totally bland), the quality of the fish from Lake Malawi (not my favourite) and if you've ever had an African woman (a common question, this one). "I'm in a hurry!", you say, and you hurt their feelings. You bastard, again. If you want to travel in Malawi, NEVER HURRY. Its disrespectful of their culture.
One: How does anyone remember this many fucking names? In one normal day of eating two or three meals, drinking approximately 3 litres of piss-poor beer, and swimming for two or three hours (tough life, I know) you might meet 20 people. They will all remember your name. They will all remember you are from Cape Town. They will all remember whatever you told them, and the next day, when you stumble down to the shops for a Coke, they call out your name. You freeze in horror when you see who it is- you remember their face from the sea of friendly people that was the previous night, but you're fucked if you can remember their name! You insensitive bastard.
Two: When I return to Cape Town, or god forbid, Joburg, how can I go on the defensive again?Treating other people as if they have leprosy, by default, is normal in South Africa. The Fear has everyone. If you have anything- a watch, a cellphone, a car, a Snickers bar in your pocket, someone wants to steal it. I didn't take my cellphone outside SA so I'd have one less thing to have stolen. How stupid I feel now. In fact, I'm infinitely more likely to have it nicked back home! I'm going to have to settle in, stop trusting people, stop making friends, and put my new found faith in humanity on pause for a bit.
Three: If you happen to be in a hurry to get somewhere in Malawi (in itself, a highly disingenious predicament) you simply can't stop and talk to six different people about your hometown, your opinion on nsima(pretty good, if totally bland), the quality of the fish from Lake Malawi (not my favourite) and if you've ever had an African woman (a common question, this one). "I'm in a hurry!", you say, and you hurt their feelings. You bastard, again. If you want to travel in Malawi, NEVER HURRY. Its disrespectful of their culture.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Malawi Gold
In Malawi, if you feel like a quick and easy snack, things are easy. You can have chips. Don't like chips? Then you can't have anything. The chips, however, are pretty good, if not the sort of thng you want to eat for lunch every day, although I nearly did. They are made in a very simple way. A piece of sheet metal is laid over a fire, with a kind of bowl hammered into the middle. This bowl is filled with oil (not always the freshest), and a fire is lit underneath. Simple, and what it lacks in sophistication, it makes up for in deep-fried flavour. The potatoes-small, golden waxy things, with a dark brown skin, are peeled, chopped up and fried. If you feel adventurous, you can watch in horror as they deep fry an egg in a plastic bag for you. This is all put in a cheap plastic bag and topped with some shredded cabbage and sliced tomato. If this sounds like a strange combination, it's because it is, but it's also because potatoes, cabbage, tomatoes and red onion is about the entire range of vegetables you can buy in Malawi.
So you take your cabbage and chips. You eat with gusto, having just spent god knows how many hours on a matola, the cheapest form of transport- a flatbed truck, with as many as 55 people, some chickens, some goats and some fish on the back, the roof, hanging from the windscreen wiper blades, towed behind on skateboards, stuffed in the engine, whatever. When you have finished your cabbage and chips (which starts to seem more and more like a good combination), you think "Where is the nearest bin?" How western! You imperialist! How very booj-wah! You dont put it in the bin, you fool! You throw it on the ground!
This took me a little while to get used to. Not littering is something that was hammered into my skull from a very early age, and its something I Care About. But in Malawi, you'd be a fool to carry around an oily plastic bag for hours, until you find a bin. And then, when someone comes to empty the bin, they most likely jsut turn it over on the ground anyway. Littering in Malawi is nothing like the social crime commited by deviants and rapists like it is in South Africa. Its normal! You get used to it. I felt like a pro in a week.
So you take your cabbage and chips. You eat with gusto, having just spent god knows how many hours on a matola, the cheapest form of transport- a flatbed truck, with as many as 55 people, some chickens, some goats and some fish on the back, the roof, hanging from the windscreen wiper blades, towed behind on skateboards, stuffed in the engine, whatever. When you have finished your cabbage and chips (which starts to seem more and more like a good combination), you think "Where is the nearest bin?" How western! You imperialist! How very booj-wah! You dont put it in the bin, you fool! You throw it on the ground!
This took me a little while to get used to. Not littering is something that was hammered into my skull from a very early age, and its something I Care About. But in Malawi, you'd be a fool to carry around an oily plastic bag for hours, until you find a bin. And then, when someone comes to empty the bin, they most likely jsut turn it over on the ground anyway. Littering in Malawi is nothing like the social crime commited by deviants and rapists like it is in South Africa. Its normal! You get used to it. I felt like a pro in a week.
Some Bias Evident
So, in the wake of recent events, it seems my opinion of Mozambiques food was slightly biased. The food riots in Maputo, that left 13 dead and lods injured, happened while I wa still in the country, and were largely because of the rise in food costs. So the delicious bread that only cost 2 meticals a short time ago, now costs 5 or 6, as far as I understand. The increases placed basic consumer items, like cooking oil, gas, and bread out of the reach of the average Mozambican, who is desperately poor already. Furthermore, a large segment of the Mozambican population suffers from malnutrition- 44% of children uner five suffer from chronic illness and malnutrition, and there are other equally horrifying statistics that make one wonder how I missed this there.
But the reality is, compared to neighbouring Malawi and Zimbabwe, the food is excellent. And the range of ingredients is so much more colourful and carefully presented than the potatoes, cabbage and tomatoes of Malawi. But this was never meant to be a thorough analysis of Africans diets, but rather to skim the top, to have a peak and see what I can.
But the reality is, compared to neighbouring Malawi and Zimbabwe, the food is excellent. And the range of ingredients is so much more colourful and carefully presented than the potatoes, cabbage and tomatoes of Malawi. But this was never meant to be a thorough analysis of Africans diets, but rather to skim the top, to have a peak and see what I can.
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