Mbeya. A town that exists, I can only presume, as a hooker stop for truckers ( somewhat like Beaufort West in that respect) and possibly as a dust mine. The word Mbeya probably means rude fucking people in Swahili, and really, short of the fact that its a major stop on the Tazara line, I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why this place is even on the map. I while away my evening in a restaurant near to my hotel, with staff so unfriendly I suspect they might be South African expats. The food, however, is quite something, in a sort of mildly condescending, African way. That is to say, it consists of huge chunks of meat, burnt over charcoal and then sliced, served with a mountain of salt, lemon and chilli, and the standard plate of freshly fried hot chips. Not exactly complicated; the most refined component is the salt (ha ha!), but it is tasty. My stomach, however, is still in knots from the last few days cheerful news, as well as the ship-in-a-storm lurching; walking like a drunk man; cannot take a shit while Im being thrown around a puppies chew toy, train experience. I havent taken a shit in so long Im amazed I havent started burping turds. So, in retrospect, I guess I wasnt in the best of moods when I arrived in Mbeya.
Its a relief to leave. In the morning, after a fitful nights sleep, haunted by images I probably shouldnt describe in detail for reasons I cannot explain(mostly phallic, mostly sexual in nature, in an ex-girlfriend nailing some other dude kind of way) I pack up my tent, bleary-eyed and ill tempered. So far, not digging Mbeya too much. I start cycling along the highway, get sick of it, get thirsty and hot, see a mountain ahead, and climb onto a dalla-dalla. To the border! After this shithole town, I cannot wait for Malawi.
At the border, after the customary ripping-off by foreign exchange touts, I meet Nils. A pro cyclist, Nils is on his way down from Addis Adaba, adding a few more kays to his 17,000 already completed. Nils has a fancy bicycle, and all sorts of proper gear. He is polite enough, in German terms, to cycle much, much slower than usual, and we make conversation. We are both relieved to be out of Tanzania, for much the same reasons. Sick of being treated like walking ATMs and sick of being ripped off in every transaction. In Tanzania, for example, if you ask a local for directions, take their photo, ask the time, or in fact do anything, you will be expected to pay for the pleasure.
After the border, we wind our way through the hills of Northern Malawi. Children come screaming, waving like were superstars. Mzungu! Mzungu! Literally, every child in every hut, in every village we pass come running to shout Mzungu at us, like its some kind of good luck to see a white person and remind them of their whiteness. But, it is charming. We ride past, on perfectly tarred roads, with no cars or wind, hummin along like conquering champions.
After some time (I cycle double my usual speed, Nils at half his) we decide to stop for a cold drink. We spot a village, and pull in. Some 100 people are gathered around, cheerfully shouting to each other like a colony of parrots. We ask a few people about sodas. They seem to not hear us, but then, we figure it out. The entire village are drunk as skunks. They are all shithoused, after drinking god knows how much Chibuku. Chibuku is fermented maize, another carbohydrate-heavy component in the African diet. It tastes, and looks, a lot like mielie-pap vomit. Only faintly alcoholic, it takes a strong stomach to drink enough to actually get pissed.
We spend the night at a campsite in some nondescript town. Dinner is the first of many of Nils and my own combined genius cooking experiences, a simple but sustaining mountain of spaghetti and tomato sauce, with home-made cheese. Eaten by headlamp light, out of a tin cup. Its tasty, but not a scratch on some of the culinary extravaganzas that Nils and I will compose, like beautiful and tasty music, in the next few days..
Monday, September 26, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Train Song
A final night's sleep on a mattress, sheer luxury, at the prison-like YWCA, after a final night's hard drinking at the nearby YMCA, which, while more expensive, seems to attract a finer class of travellers. Of course, having said that, as I pack my bags on my bicycle and make ready to leave, the gorgeous girls arrive, giggles echoing through the dingy halls of the YWCA's grimy canteen. Providence can't always be on your side.
I cycle to the TAZARA station, a monolithic edifice of the 1970's persuasion, totally awe-inspiring in its colonial aspirations for efficiency. Probably the most impressive thing I saw in Dar, it dwarfs the hundreds of people milling about around it, a real architectural masterpiece. Of course, probably only a tenth of the original building is used today for its intended purpose, and most of the building seems to have never been painted, cleaned or maintained. Like most of Africa's architectural relics, then.
I board the train, and to my delight, I'm sharing my six berth cabin with 5 Zambian teenagers, here in Dar for their school holidays. Next door are six Zambian girls, so fun times ahead! Cellphones blare terrible pop music, and high-school gossip is freely circulated,. In no time at all, I'm forced by my own standards of decency to vacate the cabin with the other chaps, leaving two lusty teenagers to grope, fondle and smooch to their hearts content. After dinner, some two hours later, I make my way back down the lurching corridor, as the train leaps about like a drunk snake on a trampoline. I slide my cabin door open, without knocking (silly me!) and reveal two teenagers-she, with her shirt pulled up, he-with a "fingers in the cookie jar" expression on his face, lipstick smeared over his face. A second of awkward stares, a quiet cough, and I close the door again. They're young, dumb and full of.. fun. I'm nearly 25, cranky, and I got "Dear John"'d this morning, so while those two fondle each other in my cabin, somewhere 5000km away, my own favourite girlie is getting fondled too, no doubt. It's in this sour and deeply contemplative mood that I repair to the bar, to hang out with Peter, the super cool barman, and try to spot giraffes and lions and elephants and things out the windows. We are, after all, jerking and jumping along the railroad through the Selous Park. It is, unfortunately, pitch dark outside.
Daylight and dawn brings amazing views from the bar window, mountains and hills rolling past the window. Fresh, warm air blows in the window, and present cicrcumstances notwithstanding, the romance of long distance train travel is undiminished. Sitting on a broken chair half resting on a beer crate, holding onto the table to avoid being thrown about by the teeth-clenching, often actually quite frightening jerks the train gives, like we're going over speedbumps on the rails. But the view is really spectacular, and the blue sky is still there, and its still hot, and birds fly wheel in its infinite depths, great eagles and hawks and things, and we fly over bridges so high you tighten your buttocks on the hard plastic seat, and before you know it, the police come bundling past with some nutter screaming bloody murder, because he wanted to jump off that really big bridge to his death, and the police disagree.
Next stop, Mbeya.
I cycle to the TAZARA station, a monolithic edifice of the 1970's persuasion, totally awe-inspiring in its colonial aspirations for efficiency. Probably the most impressive thing I saw in Dar, it dwarfs the hundreds of people milling about around it, a real architectural masterpiece. Of course, probably only a tenth of the original building is used today for its intended purpose, and most of the building seems to have never been painted, cleaned or maintained. Like most of Africa's architectural relics, then.
I board the train, and to my delight, I'm sharing my six berth cabin with 5 Zambian teenagers, here in Dar for their school holidays. Next door are six Zambian girls, so fun times ahead! Cellphones blare terrible pop music, and high-school gossip is freely circulated,. In no time at all, I'm forced by my own standards of decency to vacate the cabin with the other chaps, leaving two lusty teenagers to grope, fondle and smooch to their hearts content. After dinner, some two hours later, I make my way back down the lurching corridor, as the train leaps about like a drunk snake on a trampoline. I slide my cabin door open, without knocking (silly me!) and reveal two teenagers-she, with her shirt pulled up, he-with a "fingers in the cookie jar" expression on his face, lipstick smeared over his face. A second of awkward stares, a quiet cough, and I close the door again. They're young, dumb and full of.. fun. I'm nearly 25, cranky, and I got "Dear John"'d this morning, so while those two fondle each other in my cabin, somewhere 5000km away, my own favourite girlie is getting fondled too, no doubt. It's in this sour and deeply contemplative mood that I repair to the bar, to hang out with Peter, the super cool barman, and try to spot giraffes and lions and elephants and things out the windows. We are, after all, jerking and jumping along the railroad through the Selous Park. It is, unfortunately, pitch dark outside.
Daylight and dawn brings amazing views from the bar window, mountains and hills rolling past the window. Fresh, warm air blows in the window, and present cicrcumstances notwithstanding, the romance of long distance train travel is undiminished. Sitting on a broken chair half resting on a beer crate, holding onto the table to avoid being thrown about by the teeth-clenching, often actually quite frightening jerks the train gives, like we're going over speedbumps on the rails. But the view is really spectacular, and the blue sky is still there, and its still hot, and birds fly wheel in its infinite depths, great eagles and hawks and things, and we fly over bridges so high you tighten your buttocks on the hard plastic seat, and before you know it, the police come bundling past with some nutter screaming bloody murder, because he wanted to jump off that really big bridge to his death, and the police disagree.
Next stop, Mbeya.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Dar
Dar es Salaam. The first impression is a bit like walking into a festival Portaloo in the hot summer sun; the humid, greasy air a fetid mixture of sewage, rotting vegetables, body odour and diesel fumes. It hits you like a pap snoek in the face as you get out the bus, and like snoek juice, doesnt seem to really wash out too well, either.
Of course, it is in fact Eid. So all the Muslims that have spent the whole month dodging any kind of strenuous activity like drinking or eating or heavy lifting, now rest for a further two days. Of course, in Dar, this means EVERYONE. The entire city shuts down, for TWO DAYS. Every shop is closed, from the watch repair fundi's to the bookstores. I am in Dar for two days. Coincidence? Ha! I thought Eid would be a huge party. Last time I trust the Muslims!
Days are spent sitting about in the YMCA, just a stones throw from the YWCA, where I have taken my lodging. The YWCA is cheaper, by half, but does not serve beer. It gives the impression of being a converted jail; the rooms, while cheap, are scarcely big enough to tickle a cat, let alone swing one. The toilets are a similarly gloomy affair, and the receptionist seems more disheartened with every new arrival checking in.
Which brings me to the people of Dar es Salaam. Miserable, thieving bastards. It is here that, no doubt, many mzungus must get their first impressions of Africa. As one of Africa's biggest cities, in the country that gave us the word "safari", it seems like everyone here makes a living ripping people of. I can't wait for Malawi.
I book my ticket at the Tazara station, the 24 hour train journey that will take me through the Selous National Park, a vast wilderness that Tom Robbins himself has rated highly. Animals galloping past the window of my dining car carriage, elephants tootling merrily while I politely nod my head at them, toasting them with a cold Kilimanjaro, as I speed along on my timeless, romantic train journey West. Next stop, Mbeya, and then, Malawi!
Of course, it is in fact Eid. So all the Muslims that have spent the whole month dodging any kind of strenuous activity like drinking or eating or heavy lifting, now rest for a further two days. Of course, in Dar, this means EVERYONE. The entire city shuts down, for TWO DAYS. Every shop is closed, from the watch repair fundi's to the bookstores. I am in Dar for two days. Coincidence? Ha! I thought Eid would be a huge party. Last time I trust the Muslims!
Days are spent sitting about in the YMCA, just a stones throw from the YWCA, where I have taken my lodging. The YWCA is cheaper, by half, but does not serve beer. It gives the impression of being a converted jail; the rooms, while cheap, are scarcely big enough to tickle a cat, let alone swing one. The toilets are a similarly gloomy affair, and the receptionist seems more disheartened with every new arrival checking in.
Which brings me to the people of Dar es Salaam. Miserable, thieving bastards. It is here that, no doubt, many mzungus must get their first impressions of Africa. As one of Africa's biggest cities, in the country that gave us the word "safari", it seems like everyone here makes a living ripping people of. I can't wait for Malawi.
I book my ticket at the Tazara station, the 24 hour train journey that will take me through the Selous National Park, a vast wilderness that Tom Robbins himself has rated highly. Animals galloping past the window of my dining car carriage, elephants tootling merrily while I politely nod my head at them, toasting them with a cold Kilimanjaro, as I speed along on my timeless, romantic train journey West. Next stop, Mbeya, and then, Malawi!
Goodbye Pangani
So its goodbye, Pangani. Its been cool, but its time to leave. A night or two, hazy from zol and shitty vodka, and Nadia makes my custom saddle bags for the bike. I should probably test ride them, and give the bike a bit of work too, but fuck all that! The highway calls!
Next morning I hit the road, after my last ever breakfast of fruit salad, chipati, coffee and fresh hard-boiled farm eggs. Goodness. Laters, Pangani! Laters, lovely, creaking old ferry; laters, chips and samoosa man; laters, groups of unfriendly German volunteer groups huddled together for safety (or so I thought!) ;laters, hippies who think aliens brought magic mushrooms to Earth to advance humankinds evolution!
The road is hot, and dusty, but its good to be moving. The bike is heavy, and as I ride, I constantly make a mental inventory of my wordly possessions, stuffed into my two new psychedelic canvas saddle bags. What seemed, on my back, to be fairly light, now weighs a ton! How much longer; how much sweating, puffing, heaving and panting, pushing the bike up hills, swearing and cursing before I throw my prize coffee pot and 500 grams of coffee into the dense, thorny scrub? Do I really need all this shit? Do I need 6 litres of water? I think so.
I hope that my last minute preparations are sufficient. A cheap, Chinese bicycle, worth about R450, a cheap steel luggage rack, a small basket, a dynamo. Me with no proper shoes, just flip-flops, feet already scabby from falls. No proper protection against falls, no maps, no protein bars, no shaved legs, no proper anything. Just a bit of enthusiasm, derring-do and some pot-luck, and I think I'll be fine!
Where the first day is chilled vibes, day two takes it toll. After a night spent pleasantly lounging on the coconutty beach at a friendly and sympathetic fishermans spot, watching the sun set bright rosy pink and fiery orange through the palm fronds, I set off through the Sadaani National Park. Me, on a bicycle, riding through a Tanzanian national park! Grinning ear to ear, I set a pace, determined to make it through the park, a good 40kms, and see a few animals too. However, luck is not on my side, and its only a giraffe or two, galloping off to hide from any prying eyes that I spot, besides a few distant buck and some monkeys. Still, how often do you get the chance to cycle through a national park?
After a quick stop for lunch, (boiled liver and ugali) I find another reason to curse myself for not bringing a camera. In the hazy, broiling heat of the midday sun, I spot, in the distance, Chumvi Village. Sea salt village, population apparently about six. An old man sits in the shade of an abandoned building, skin like an old dhow sail, withered from the sun. He doesnt look like he's moved all day, or even all week. I sit down in the shade with him and offer him an orange. He grunts in reply, maybe the most effort he could manage today. As I step out again, into the sun, it hits like an open oven door. My skin may as well be perforated; I can feel the moisture vapourising from my insides like a kettle left on the fire. The whole village, almost entirely deserted, it seems, has the overwhelming appearance of an old Polaroid photograph from the 1960's.
After some blistering miles, wrapped up in a sarong like a nomad, I make it to the border of the park. A small canoe comes, and across the river. After a lengthy wrong turn, I start off to Bagamoyo, about 70kms further on. Puff. Pant. The sun begins to dip down, dangerously low to the horizon, and people begin to ask as I wind my way this long, sparsely populated road, "Where are you going, mzungu?" I tell them Bagamoyo and they say, "Too far! Too far, mzungu!" But I dont listen, fuck 'em. What do they know? Im the king of the road! How far, I ask? "Five kilometres! Too far!"
Five kays? No problem! I ride on, undeterred. The sun sets. I shit myself. It turns out people around here have a poor perception of distance, and like Swahili time, Swahili kilometres are fairly arbitrary. A dalla-dalla comes hurtling along, a truck loaded up with people, beehives, mattresses, and the usual clutter. I wave, frantically. Desperation oozing out of every pore, mixing with the sweat, the sunblock, the filth, the food stains, the grime. Please stop. Please God, I cant camp in the bush with only one packet of instant noodles and a coconut for dinner. They continue down the road, undeterred. A little piece of me breaks inside, as it grows darker around me, the baobabs, the thorn trees no doubt concealing millions of leaopards, man eating mosquitoes, tigers, whatever.
But no! Someone only fifty metres away has stopped them! I race up, leap in the back and collapse, no doubt soiling someones brand new mattress, six months salary in one purchase, with my filthy body and sweaty slops. To Bagamoyo! Thank you, kind fate!
I toast my success in Bagamoyo, the kind mercy and gently hand of Providence, and all that, with a cold Kilimanjaro or two, a Portsman cigarette (I earned this shit, bitches!) and a plate of freshly fried chips, some tender, delicious mishikaki skwerers and salad. I ain't even lookin' at all the hookers in this dive bar, I'm just feeling good. A good days ride, with only a little cheating.
Next morning I hit the road, after my last ever breakfast of fruit salad, chipati, coffee and fresh hard-boiled farm eggs. Goodness. Laters, Pangani! Laters, lovely, creaking old ferry; laters, chips and samoosa man; laters, groups of unfriendly German volunteer groups huddled together for safety (or so I thought!) ;laters, hippies who think aliens brought magic mushrooms to Earth to advance humankinds evolution!
The road is hot, and dusty, but its good to be moving. The bike is heavy, and as I ride, I constantly make a mental inventory of my wordly possessions, stuffed into my two new psychedelic canvas saddle bags. What seemed, on my back, to be fairly light, now weighs a ton! How much longer; how much sweating, puffing, heaving and panting, pushing the bike up hills, swearing and cursing before I throw my prize coffee pot and 500 grams of coffee into the dense, thorny scrub? Do I really need all this shit? Do I need 6 litres of water? I think so.
I hope that my last minute preparations are sufficient. A cheap, Chinese bicycle, worth about R450, a cheap steel luggage rack, a small basket, a dynamo. Me with no proper shoes, just flip-flops, feet already scabby from falls. No proper protection against falls, no maps, no protein bars, no shaved legs, no proper anything. Just a bit of enthusiasm, derring-do and some pot-luck, and I think I'll be fine!
Where the first day is chilled vibes, day two takes it toll. After a night spent pleasantly lounging on the coconutty beach at a friendly and sympathetic fishermans spot, watching the sun set bright rosy pink and fiery orange through the palm fronds, I set off through the Sadaani National Park. Me, on a bicycle, riding through a Tanzanian national park! Grinning ear to ear, I set a pace, determined to make it through the park, a good 40kms, and see a few animals too. However, luck is not on my side, and its only a giraffe or two, galloping off to hide from any prying eyes that I spot, besides a few distant buck and some monkeys. Still, how often do you get the chance to cycle through a national park?
After a quick stop for lunch, (boiled liver and ugali) I find another reason to curse myself for not bringing a camera. In the hazy, broiling heat of the midday sun, I spot, in the distance, Chumvi Village. Sea salt village, population apparently about six. An old man sits in the shade of an abandoned building, skin like an old dhow sail, withered from the sun. He doesnt look like he's moved all day, or even all week. I sit down in the shade with him and offer him an orange. He grunts in reply, maybe the most effort he could manage today. As I step out again, into the sun, it hits like an open oven door. My skin may as well be perforated; I can feel the moisture vapourising from my insides like a kettle left on the fire. The whole village, almost entirely deserted, it seems, has the overwhelming appearance of an old Polaroid photograph from the 1960's.
After some blistering miles, wrapped up in a sarong like a nomad, I make it to the border of the park. A small canoe comes, and across the river. After a lengthy wrong turn, I start off to Bagamoyo, about 70kms further on. Puff. Pant. The sun begins to dip down, dangerously low to the horizon, and people begin to ask as I wind my way this long, sparsely populated road, "Where are you going, mzungu?" I tell them Bagamoyo and they say, "Too far! Too far, mzungu!" But I dont listen, fuck 'em. What do they know? Im the king of the road! How far, I ask? "Five kilometres! Too far!"
Five kays? No problem! I ride on, undeterred. The sun sets. I shit myself. It turns out people around here have a poor perception of distance, and like Swahili time, Swahili kilometres are fairly arbitrary. A dalla-dalla comes hurtling along, a truck loaded up with people, beehives, mattresses, and the usual clutter. I wave, frantically. Desperation oozing out of every pore, mixing with the sweat, the sunblock, the filth, the food stains, the grime. Please stop. Please God, I cant camp in the bush with only one packet of instant noodles and a coconut for dinner. They continue down the road, undeterred. A little piece of me breaks inside, as it grows darker around me, the baobabs, the thorn trees no doubt concealing millions of leaopards, man eating mosquitoes, tigers, whatever.
But no! Someone only fifty metres away has stopped them! I race up, leap in the back and collapse, no doubt soiling someones brand new mattress, six months salary in one purchase, with my filthy body and sweaty slops. To Bagamoyo! Thank you, kind fate!
I toast my success in Bagamoyo, the kind mercy and gently hand of Providence, and all that, with a cold Kilimanjaro or two, a Portsman cigarette (I earned this shit, bitches!) and a plate of freshly fried chips, some tender, delicious mishikaki skwerers and salad. I ain't even lookin' at all the hookers in this dive bar, I'm just feeling good. A good days ride, with only a little cheating.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Monkey Vomit
Lunch time in the middle of Ramadan, in Tanga town. A huge amount of the inhabitants of this fun-deprived town are Muslims, and apparently that includes the restaurant owners and bar clientele. Hungry-looking, slow-moving, long-shirt-and-funny-little-hat-wearing types shuffle about, no doubt dreaming about mountains of grilled octopus, plates of steaming fragrant rice, cheeseburgers, chipati's and maybe here and there a bacon sarmie. The blood-curdling drone of starving Muslims fills the air, as they wail on the radio and from large, specially constructed towers using megaphones to make sure everyone knows its still Ramadan. Their message, I imagine, is probably something to do with not eating, and god being really fantastic. Its hard to find good food, or a busy bar, no matter how hard one tries. And believe me, I have tried.
We ask the curiously named Black Seed, the local "flycatcher" or tourist hustler, for a good, cheap local bar. No problem! Really good, super cheap place close by! We zoom off, on our spiffy new bicycles, overtaking women in full burqua's, sitting old-fashioned side-saddle on cheap chinese motorbikes, and the usual: chickens running through the streets, men with four hundred kilograms of charcoal on the back of their bicycles, bicycle-riding sugarcane vendors. Tanga is built on a grid, slightly unusually for this neck of the woods, I would think. But the overall effect of wandering through the streets is that everything looks the same- dusty, broken, fixed and then broken some more.
We arrive at our local restaurant. A large, freshly killed rat lies flattened in the road not ten steps from the front door. Our guide promises us that the local dish of plantain and beef stew will be not only delicious and easy on the pockets, but also a cultural experience to remember. Our mouths water at the thought of a hearty beef stew, even if we are slightly uncertain. We sit down at some cramped plastic tables, some chickens milling about and a fan blowing a cool breeze around the slightly squalid, dirty little room.
Cheap African restaurants, in my humble experience, are quite fascinating in their own way. I normally enjoy them thoroughly. Although I can understand why for many mzungus a large chunk of fresh goat meat, or some bits of an unfortunate chicken hanging from a piece of dirty wire over the bar counter, unrefrigerated and popular with flies might seem like dancing with gastroenteritis, I'm generally willing to try it out. Its true, noone uses fridges here, really. The lack of a reliable electricity supply makes long storage of perishables a challenge, and generally people don't bother. So animals are slaughtered in the morning, and the meat is used either that day, or the next. The thirty degree heat generally doesnt get much of a chance to spoil the meat, although its worth trusting your nose, and washing your hands. Besides, its free range! Its generally worth getting past the "why the fuck are you so far from your hotel, honky?" stares one occasionally encounters (very rarely indeed, but it does happen), and the fear so many mzungus have of ugali, or mielie-pap, and enjoying a fine, freshly prepared, locally sourced, home made meal. We're from South Africa! Not New Zealand, or some pussy country where they dont know how to eat with their hands and cook meat on fires!
So when our food arrived, some boiled meat and bits of bone floating in a stodgy paste with some chunks of banana, looking (and smelling) an awful lot like an omnivorous monkeys vomit, we did what I never thought I'd do.
We got up, paid, and left.
Our food untouched. Not a fucking mouthful. Chicken and chips at the hotel restaurant, five minutes later.
We ask the curiously named Black Seed, the local "flycatcher" or tourist hustler, for a good, cheap local bar. No problem! Really good, super cheap place close by! We zoom off, on our spiffy new bicycles, overtaking women in full burqua's, sitting old-fashioned side-saddle on cheap chinese motorbikes, and the usual: chickens running through the streets, men with four hundred kilograms of charcoal on the back of their bicycles, bicycle-riding sugarcane vendors. Tanga is built on a grid, slightly unusually for this neck of the woods, I would think. But the overall effect of wandering through the streets is that everything looks the same- dusty, broken, fixed and then broken some more.
We arrive at our local restaurant. A large, freshly killed rat lies flattened in the road not ten steps from the front door. Our guide promises us that the local dish of plantain and beef stew will be not only delicious and easy on the pockets, but also a cultural experience to remember. Our mouths water at the thought of a hearty beef stew, even if we are slightly uncertain. We sit down at some cramped plastic tables, some chickens milling about and a fan blowing a cool breeze around the slightly squalid, dirty little room.
Cheap African restaurants, in my humble experience, are quite fascinating in their own way. I normally enjoy them thoroughly. Although I can understand why for many mzungus a large chunk of fresh goat meat, or some bits of an unfortunate chicken hanging from a piece of dirty wire over the bar counter, unrefrigerated and popular with flies might seem like dancing with gastroenteritis, I'm generally willing to try it out. Its true, noone uses fridges here, really. The lack of a reliable electricity supply makes long storage of perishables a challenge, and generally people don't bother. So animals are slaughtered in the morning, and the meat is used either that day, or the next. The thirty degree heat generally doesnt get much of a chance to spoil the meat, although its worth trusting your nose, and washing your hands. Besides, its free range! Its generally worth getting past the "why the fuck are you so far from your hotel, honky?" stares one occasionally encounters (very rarely indeed, but it does happen), and the fear so many mzungus have of ugali, or mielie-pap, and enjoying a fine, freshly prepared, locally sourced, home made meal. We're from South Africa! Not New Zealand, or some pussy country where they dont know how to eat with their hands and cook meat on fires!
So when our food arrived, some boiled meat and bits of bone floating in a stodgy paste with some chunks of banana, looking (and smelling) an awful lot like an omnivorous monkeys vomit, we did what I never thought I'd do.
We got up, paid, and left.
Our food untouched. Not a fucking mouthful. Chicken and chips at the hotel restaurant, five minutes later.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Tanga
Enough of this small village; two chickens and half a donkey. We're off to the suspiciously named, bustling metropolis of Tanga!
Up in the morning, after a night of pillow-biting, nail-chewing, swearword-mumbling and canine-murder-fantasies, thanks to the four farm dogs and one farm puppy. For a while I've suspected them all of being retarded (like, slightly mongoloid). When you throw a stick, they don not fetch. When you call them, they do not come. In the heat of the sunny farm afternoon, when the bees are buzzing and millions of small, frisky nosed and bushy tailed animals bustle about in the nearby bushes begging to be torn limb from limb by any half-capable canine. But no, the dogs lie about under trees, sleeping out their carbohydrate coma's (their diet of ugali is eaten with long teeth, ha ha!) and generally littering the ground, as if some kind of insane doggy massacre has just taken place. But come night time, its Bark O' Clock! Time to bark at things in the darkness! Oh boy! Sleep, for us humans, comes in short, poorly spaced bursts.
Up at the crack of pearly, and out! Sleep when you're dead, or at least, far away from Aurora! Off to Pangani, over the ferry, onto the bus, two hours of being shaken until our insides begin to foam, and just before we involuntarily uncork ourselves, we're in Tanga! No sign of the eponymous jockstraps anywhere, but there are all sorts of distant memories coming back in a wave of heat, dust, car hooters and diesel fumes. Tar roads! Actual shops! Fresh herbs! Oh my fuck, thats a lettuce! Industry! More than three bars! Oh man, the Big Time! Im going to be a part of it.
We're here,Nick and I, ostensibly to buy bicycles. Nick is off to Arusha, where thousands of wazungu (plural whitey) go to climb a retired volcano, or ride about in Land Cruisers and look at animals in parks and have sex in expensive canvas tents. Im off to Malawi, or something, to swim in a big lake, and possibly avoid being thrown in the back of a police truck as the Malawian President (officially called, His Excellency The President, no joke) tests the waters, as it were, for his impending dictatorship. So we're both on holiday, then.
Bicycle buying, like many things in Africa, takes time. 'Polepole', as they say in Swahili. Slowly, slowly. Sometimes, very polepole indeed. First, you have to find a bicycle that isnt made for a 12 year old Chinese girl (everything in Africa is made in China, except the things that are made out of endangered species). Even just finding a shop that sells bicycles is a challenge, because the streets are thick with bicycles- piling up on the pavements, whizzing past on the streets, and furiously ringing their shrill Chinese bells at you to make way. One easily finds oneself seriously considering a bike, lined up in a neat row on shopfront display, when the owner comes out of mosque, or a bar (or both?!), hops on it and leaves you in his dust. Second hand is cheaper, and generally better quality. Choose the one you like, but dont look too interested. Tell the dealer, or random owner, that you like it, but you have another one at half the price. You like this colour better. He'll inform you, with tears in his eyes, that his children haven't eaten in weeks. His grandmother is dying, and the children ate the coffin last month. Eighty thousand shillings! You must be mad! Mzungu, please! A word you hear often is:" Impossible!" After hours of haggling, pleading, stonewalling, on the spot repairs, repairing the repairs, replacing broken parts with pieces from other bikes also on show, he'll take half the original offer, and go home to his bachelor flat and order a pizza with the profits. Or something. This six hour long marathon of haggling, a test of wills, a battle of wits, is all in a days work for the Tanzanian bicycle dealer, I ponder to myself, as I zoom through the dusty and, inevitably, hot Tanga streets on my new, pimped out ride.
Now we have bicycles! The city is ours! The plan is to buy a litre of freshly pressed sugar cane juice, some limes, some gin, some mint, and roam the streets, presenting a menace for both ourselves and the greater community. Tally ho!
Up in the morning, after a night of pillow-biting, nail-chewing, swearword-mumbling and canine-murder-fantasies, thanks to the four farm dogs and one farm puppy. For a while I've suspected them all of being retarded (like, slightly mongoloid). When you throw a stick, they don not fetch. When you call them, they do not come. In the heat of the sunny farm afternoon, when the bees are buzzing and millions of small, frisky nosed and bushy tailed animals bustle about in the nearby bushes begging to be torn limb from limb by any half-capable canine. But no, the dogs lie about under trees, sleeping out their carbohydrate coma's (their diet of ugali is eaten with long teeth, ha ha!) and generally littering the ground, as if some kind of insane doggy massacre has just taken place. But come night time, its Bark O' Clock! Time to bark at things in the darkness! Oh boy! Sleep, for us humans, comes in short, poorly spaced bursts.
Up at the crack of pearly, and out! Sleep when you're dead, or at least, far away from Aurora! Off to Pangani, over the ferry, onto the bus, two hours of being shaken until our insides begin to foam, and just before we involuntarily uncork ourselves, we're in Tanga! No sign of the eponymous jockstraps anywhere, but there are all sorts of distant memories coming back in a wave of heat, dust, car hooters and diesel fumes. Tar roads! Actual shops! Fresh herbs! Oh my fuck, thats a lettuce! Industry! More than three bars! Oh man, the Big Time! Im going to be a part of it.
We're here,Nick and I, ostensibly to buy bicycles. Nick is off to Arusha, where thousands of wazungu (plural whitey) go to climb a retired volcano, or ride about in Land Cruisers and look at animals in parks and have sex in expensive canvas tents. Im off to Malawi, or something, to swim in a big lake, and possibly avoid being thrown in the back of a police truck as the Malawian President (officially called, His Excellency The President, no joke) tests the waters, as it were, for his impending dictatorship. So we're both on holiday, then.
Bicycle buying, like many things in Africa, takes time. 'Polepole', as they say in Swahili. Slowly, slowly. Sometimes, very polepole indeed. First, you have to find a bicycle that isnt made for a 12 year old Chinese girl (everything in Africa is made in China, except the things that are made out of endangered species). Even just finding a shop that sells bicycles is a challenge, because the streets are thick with bicycles- piling up on the pavements, whizzing past on the streets, and furiously ringing their shrill Chinese bells at you to make way. One easily finds oneself seriously considering a bike, lined up in a neat row on shopfront display, when the owner comes out of mosque, or a bar (or both?!), hops on it and leaves you in his dust. Second hand is cheaper, and generally better quality. Choose the one you like, but dont look too interested. Tell the dealer, or random owner, that you like it, but you have another one at half the price. You like this colour better. He'll inform you, with tears in his eyes, that his children haven't eaten in weeks. His grandmother is dying, and the children ate the coffin last month. Eighty thousand shillings! You must be mad! Mzungu, please! A word you hear often is:" Impossible!" After hours of haggling, pleading, stonewalling, on the spot repairs, repairing the repairs, replacing broken parts with pieces from other bikes also on show, he'll take half the original offer, and go home to his bachelor flat and order a pizza with the profits. Or something. This six hour long marathon of haggling, a test of wills, a battle of wits, is all in a days work for the Tanzanian bicycle dealer, I ponder to myself, as I zoom through the dusty and, inevitably, hot Tanga streets on my new, pimped out ride.
Now we have bicycles! The city is ours! The plan is to buy a litre of freshly pressed sugar cane juice, some limes, some gin, some mint, and roam the streets, presenting a menace for both ourselves and the greater community. Tally ho!
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Pangani
Riding on a bicycle to the nearby town of Pangani is always loads of fun. After the recent heavy rains of the last few days, a sunny afternoon is too good to ignore! The road from the farm to Pangani is a mud track, barely more than a glorified path at the best of times. As I ride along, small children run out of their huts and wave. "Mzungu! Muzungu!" Always nice to be noticed. Chickens squawk and leap out of the way; butterflies flit about, playing with death in the form of speeding bicycle tyres. The sun beats down, blasting everything with a cheerful glare and fierce, broiling heat. The omnipresent red dust has transformed after the rains, forming muddy pits you could lose a goat in. Cattle tracks in the mud complete the picture of remote, darkest Africa. As I pedal along, squeaking gently, Iggy Pop wails away on the MP3 player, "Sweet sixteen, in leather boots, body and soul, I go crazy.." Totally at odds with the surrounds. I wonder what the dreadlocked chap sitting by the side of the road pounding mielies, would think if he knew anything about Iggy Pop, and chuckle quietly to myself.
To get into town proper its necessary to cross the river on the ferry, from Bweni. Bweni isn't a village. It isn't anything. A few houses and some scraggly chickens scuttling about in the dirt, eating worms more unfortunate than themselves. It only exists because the ferry needs to stop somewhere over the river. The children here play a game that involves nailing a paint tin lid to a stick, and then running it along the ground. Poor bastards. Someone needs to send an aid shipment of proper toys to Tanzania, desperately. Ninja Turtles, Transformers, Africa needs you!
The river is straight out of Apocalypse Now; small wooden canoes paddle about in the green, slimy looking water. Tropical rainforest lines the sides of the river, coconut palms and their ilk. The ferry is always on the other side of the river. It comes across slowly, fighting the current and the tide, past plastic bottles and other detritus, groaning with the weight of trucks, motorcycles, cars, bicycles and what sometimes seems to be hundreds of people. Snot nosed babies, faces caked with dust, mothers wrapped in elegant kanga's, motorcyclists delivering six cases of beer on the back of their bikes, old men clutching hand woven baskets of live chickens, scuttling and scratching and clucking to themselves. The hoi-polloi that is Africa's public transport- the noise, the spitting of mango pips and nonchalant throwing overboard of litter, the shouting, the crying, the blank faces, the diesel fumes, the sweat.
Pangani is not a tourist town. A few mad mzungu's come here- some lost, some adventuring off the (very) well beaten track (ie: Zanzibar), some volunteers. But, after Zanzibar's heaving tides of pale-skinned vacationers, its a pleasure to be able to spot a whitey out in a crowd. It feels slightly more authentic, for one thing. No queues of safari-suited Americans snaking through the streets photographing everything that moves, no constant smell of sunblock and chatter about hair dryers and nail varnish. Luxury!
To get into town proper its necessary to cross the river on the ferry, from Bweni. Bweni isn't a village. It isn't anything. A few houses and some scraggly chickens scuttling about in the dirt, eating worms more unfortunate than themselves. It only exists because the ferry needs to stop somewhere over the river. The children here play a game that involves nailing a paint tin lid to a stick, and then running it along the ground. Poor bastards. Someone needs to send an aid shipment of proper toys to Tanzania, desperately. Ninja Turtles, Transformers, Africa needs you!
The river is straight out of Apocalypse Now; small wooden canoes paddle about in the green, slimy looking water. Tropical rainforest lines the sides of the river, coconut palms and their ilk. The ferry is always on the other side of the river. It comes across slowly, fighting the current and the tide, past plastic bottles and other detritus, groaning with the weight of trucks, motorcycles, cars, bicycles and what sometimes seems to be hundreds of people. Snot nosed babies, faces caked with dust, mothers wrapped in elegant kanga's, motorcyclists delivering six cases of beer on the back of their bikes, old men clutching hand woven baskets of live chickens, scuttling and scratching and clucking to themselves. The hoi-polloi that is Africa's public transport- the noise, the spitting of mango pips and nonchalant throwing overboard of litter, the shouting, the crying, the blank faces, the diesel fumes, the sweat.
Pangani is not a tourist town. A few mad mzungu's come here- some lost, some adventuring off the (very) well beaten track (ie: Zanzibar), some volunteers. But, after Zanzibar's heaving tides of pale-skinned vacationers, its a pleasure to be able to spot a whitey out in a crowd. It feels slightly more authentic, for one thing. No queues of safari-suited Americans snaking through the streets photographing everything that moves, no constant smell of sunblock and chatter about hair dryers and nail varnish. Luxury!
Sunday, July 31, 2011
We only eat with our feet here..
After a couple of days in Zanzibar, sleeping on Ian's exceptionally comfortable and gracious couch, its time to move on. I have eaten well, and slept much. Joseph, Ian's housemate, an Indian fellow, makes the most incredible curries, every day. When I say incredible, I mean, each bite redefines your understanding of the experience of tastiness for a few moments, as you fill your bek and nourish your soul with this manna from the Orient.
So to get to mainland Tanzania in a dhow is apparently illegal for mzungu's. You're expected to take the hugely expensive ferry to Dar es Salaam, which everyone says is a huge, rotting open sewer with traffic. So fuck that, I plan to hop on a dhow and sail away over the warm, tropical ocean, trailing my fishing line over the side and grinning smugly to myself, while the police hop up and down on their hats in the distance, shouting and waving in impotent rage.
Its never quite as one expects. I end up jumping on a speed boat and racing up to a dhow, mid ocean, and jumping across. Mission Impossible style, but also the budget. But I'm free! Off Zanzibar, where I spent three quarters of my budget for three months, in a week.
So I make it to my final destination. Aurora Farm, Pangani, Tanzania. My palm frond banda is on stilts, beside a huge cashew tree. I throw down my backpack and have a scratch around. The kitchen is beautiful, with a fireplace, gas stove and wood burning oven. No fridge, unfortunately, but we're working on that. The whole camp is nestled under the cooling shade of cashew trees, which come alive at night with bats, spiders, bush babies, birds and all sorts of lively little creatures, some noisier than others. Several plots of land are being planted and fertilised, and there are already fields of maize baking under the tropical sun, ready to harvest, if the heat doesnt pop the kernels like popcorn.
Further down the road is our beach. A small bay flanked by mangroves, with sheer cliffs on either side and a large, pointy rock in the middle, it has a certain piratical air to it. An enormous baobab tree stands majestically on the beach, exactly where I would bury my treasure, were I so inclined.
If you take a short walk up the road you can find our local village. Three huts and a two shops, where you can buy such essentials as airtime (sometimes), cooldrinks, water and, well, that's about it, really. TIA, as they say: This is Africa, and it really is. The walk to the village passes a few maize and sweet potato fields, some coconut palms and acacia's, a couple of mud and thatch huts, some goats and maybe a cow. Pretty remarkable, in its simplicity. Life here goes on much as it did 50 years ago, if not 200 years ago.
Monday, July 25, 2011
The Party
So Saturday night is the famous full moon party. Despite a certain amount of airport-induced nausea and exhaustion, I plan to head through with Ian. After a quick, greasy, dry and cold meal of chicken and chips with a few foreign types, he picks me up in a taxi with a few other South Africans. We finish a cold beer on the way through. Something about hearing Afrikaans all the way up here amuses me greatly. Ons gaan jol toe!
We make it in, despite the roadblocks and much haggling over entrance prices, and suddenly we're in a music video. Radio pop blares out of the massive reed-roofed dance floor, like angle grinders set to a beat. Horny young travelers gyrate their bodies and knock back drinks like there's no tomorrow. Strobe lights flash, decibel limits are transcended, crotches are ground like Vida e Caffe coffee in rush hour, and hormones rule the day. A sense of the unreal begins to set in, and I take stock of the surrounds. This could be anywhere. Ibiza, or Goa, Thailand, or whatever. I feel like Zanzibar is not quite what I expected, but now that I'm here, it seems silly to have expected anything else.
We make it in, despite the roadblocks and much haggling over entrance prices, and suddenly we're in a music video. Radio pop blares out of the massive reed-roofed dance floor, like angle grinders set to a beat. Horny young travelers gyrate their bodies and knock back drinks like there's no tomorrow. Strobe lights flash, decibel limits are transcended, crotches are ground like Vida e Caffe coffee in rush hour, and hormones rule the day. A sense of the unreal begins to set in, and I take stock of the surrounds. This could be anywhere. Ibiza, or Goa, Thailand, or whatever. I feel like Zanzibar is not quite what I expected, but now that I'm here, it seems silly to have expected anything else.
Ian guides me around, telling me that all of these women are here for one reason. I could have guessed, but a local insight is always good. A quick look at the lithe young bodies on the dance floor that would make your granny shit herself confirms these girls are, as Ian says, DTF. Down To Fuck. We, however, are here for another reason. We are Down To Get Fucked. Doesnt roll off the tongue quite so easily, but it holds its own rewards. Besides, looking at these people pawing each other and rubbing snail trails all over the show actually makes me feel like upchucking the rubbery chicken and chips I just shovelled down my throat.
We head to the bar and push through the heaving masses of dreadlocked locals in Bob Marley muscle vest and slops and British boys in collared shirts and shorts, stinking of sun cream.
"You drink beer?", Ian calls over the Rihanna that seems to be on a loop all evening.
Does a bear shit in the woods? He orders two, and two for himself as well, and we retreat to the starlit beach, to talk shit, like all real men do.
Suddenly, the night takes a vicious downward swing. Lines of cocaine appear on toilet seats. Notes are rolled up. More beer is drunk. The music is still terrible. I am disappointed, I thought this would improve this terrible racket! Let's try more..
Noise. A drunk old man tells me about his mzungu friend. It is not interesting. I try to strike up a converation with someone. We talk about ducks, and their penises. It doesnt go well. I hate this place. Rihanna blares. The stars are spinning. Some reggae comes on. I hate reggae. Why the fuck am I at this party? Why am I in this toilet? Who the fuck is this guy? And how does anyone listen to this music, never mind dance to it? The party ends. I have no money left. I am miles away from my hotel, in a foreign country, and the sun is coming up.
Day one, Zanzibar. Not a huge success.
We head to the bar and push through the heaving masses of dreadlocked locals in Bob Marley muscle vest and slops and British boys in collared shirts and shorts, stinking of sun cream.
"You drink beer?", Ian calls over the Rihanna that seems to be on a loop all evening.
Does a bear shit in the woods? He orders two, and two for himself as well, and we retreat to the starlit beach, to talk shit, like all real men do.
Suddenly, the night takes a vicious downward swing. Lines of cocaine appear on toilet seats. Notes are rolled up. More beer is drunk. The music is still terrible. I am disappointed, I thought this would improve this terrible racket! Let's try more..
Noise. A drunk old man tells me about his mzungu friend. It is not interesting. I try to strike up a converation with someone. We talk about ducks, and their penises. It doesnt go well. I hate this place. Rihanna blares. The stars are spinning. Some reggae comes on. I hate reggae. Why the fuck am I at this party? Why am I in this toilet? Who the fuck is this guy? And how does anyone listen to this music, never mind dance to it? The party ends. I have no money left. I am miles away from my hotel, in a foreign country, and the sun is coming up.
Day one, Zanzibar. Not a huge success.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Fishers of wimmen
Onto the dalla-dalla (much like any African form of public transport), and on to Nungwe. This is tourist country; the white sands of the beaches liberally sprinkled with tourists from every corner of the world, and the beach shores lined with hundreds of bars, restaurants, hotels, dive centres, tour operators and so on. The tourists all rub huge amounts of sunblock and oils into their pale, pasty and tender skins, as if they were hoping to crisp up under the sun like so much puff pastry. Clustered according to nationality, in large, beer swilling groups or close huddling beautiful, lovey-dovey couples, they make lying about under the boiling sun look like a hard day's work. Onto the beach early, oil up, grab some HEAT magazines and gently simmer away until late afternoon, when they all disappear into their hotel rooms to prepare for another night of binge drinking, expensive restaurants, cocaine, sex and pop music. Powder your nose, straighten your hair, shower three times, avocado facial scrub, pop on this season's beach evening wear and flip-flops, and update the Facebook status on the iPhone.
The massive number of scantily clad, gorgeous women drifting about all day on the beach sands hasn't escaped the attention of the locals, of course. Around here they call it "fishing". And fishing, for some of these chaps, appears to be a full time job. A rich mzungu girlfriend from Ireland or Germany is an excellent asset for a young and ambitious Zanzibari chap. The prospect of a tall, dark and muscular African lover seems an equally tempting prospect for many young ladies new to these shores, and it's not unusual to see a white woman strolling down the beach with a Masai man, hand in hand. Or having dinner, or dancing together. This sure ain't South Africa! Some call this phenomenon "Bongo Fever", with only a small amount of envy. But these 'beach boys', as the opportunistic career fishermen are sometimes called, often do well out of it. Many speak European languages fluently (though the first time I saw a Masai talking to a girl in Spanish I did almost choke on my Kilimanjaro beer), and many have even traveled to Europe, sponsored by their gracious young lady-friends. I even heard stories of young men bragging to passing girls that they have a passport . "Take me with you, you sultry Spanish princess!" Fair enough, I suppose. Seems a long shot, but if you get it right...
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
International Pleasure
Zanzibar. What a place. International destination for the wealthy, the young, and the beautiful. This place is like a Peter Stuyvesant advert, filled to the rafters with stereotypes and cliches for every palate. Its Africa For The Tourist, and the locals know it. The reason is abundantly simple, even from the air, looking over this ancient island. You can see the natural beauty, Zanzibar's biggest natural resource by a long shot, even before you scream over ramshackle huts, cattle and dirty children playing soccer, only a few hundred feet above their heads. When you land on the hot, steaming airstrip, fringed with coconut trees, rusting junk and litter the heat gently bakes you in the aeroplane like some kind of sunblock frittata. Hustle forth, customs awaits! How many things have been nicked from your luggage? And how many times has the fishing rod been snapped by the overzealous baggage handlers? I, inexplicably, had several packets of organic seed, a USB cable and some batteries pilfered. The chap in charge was certain it had happened in Johannesburg; a fair assumption. "Too many skelms there in Johannesburg", he said. News travels fast here in Africa.
So off we set, lets find some fucking lunch before I gnaw my arm off! Fuck the azure blue tropical waters, fuck the sights, fuck all that shit. I need to EAT, now. The egg mayo sandwich I ate on the plane, the mere scrap that served as dinner for last night and breakfast this nauseous morning barely touched sides. Why is it always egg mayo on long trips? What kind of perverse impulse is it that makes everyone think an egg mayo sarmie is exactly the thing for a long trip, cramped up in a big aluminium cigar tube with 200 other people?
After a delicious snack of rice, more rice, some bread, some veggie stuff with coconutty sauce, and some other things, we set out to explore Stone Town quickly, and make our way to the taxi rank, to visit Ian, of Zanzibar fame, in Nungwe. A quick tour through the back streets of Stone Town guided by a crack head , we wander through maze-like streets past tiny little shops selling touristy trinkets (humorously for me, they're identical to what you can buy in Cape Town, but more expensive), coils of terrifyingly disorganised electrical wire discharging from every wall, like snakes in a feeding frenzy, street vendors selling mangoes and sugar cane juice. Scooters, bicycles and motorcycles squeeze past you in the claustrophobic alleyways as you wander about, feeling a lot like Tintin in The Crab With The Golden Claws. Ridiculous prices are quoted in dollars, on chalk boards on the pavements, for any activity you can think of that relates to the ocean. Underwater kite boarding, jetski tuna fishing, scuba turtle surfing, they have it all here, if you have enough dollars. Is Zanzibar a good destination for budget travellers, people ask. Well, lets re-examine your definition of the word 'budget' first. For a brief trip, two weeks or so, I could recommend you bring maybe a million dollars. You could do it on less, but for the full experience, I'd say a million would be a good budget.
So off we set, lets find some fucking lunch before I gnaw my arm off! Fuck the azure blue tropical waters, fuck the sights, fuck all that shit. I need to EAT, now. The egg mayo sandwich I ate on the plane, the mere scrap that served as dinner for last night and breakfast this nauseous morning barely touched sides. Why is it always egg mayo on long trips? What kind of perverse impulse is it that makes everyone think an egg mayo sarmie is exactly the thing for a long trip, cramped up in a big aluminium cigar tube with 200 other people?
After a delicious snack of rice, more rice, some bread, some veggie stuff with coconutty sauce, and some other things, we set out to explore Stone Town quickly, and make our way to the taxi rank, to visit Ian, of Zanzibar fame, in Nungwe. A quick tour through the back streets of Stone Town guided by a crack head , we wander through maze-like streets past tiny little shops selling touristy trinkets (humorously for me, they're identical to what you can buy in Cape Town, but more expensive), coils of terrifyingly disorganised electrical wire discharging from every wall, like snakes in a feeding frenzy, street vendors selling mangoes and sugar cane juice. Scooters, bicycles and motorcycles squeeze past you in the claustrophobic alleyways as you wander about, feeling a lot like Tintin in The Crab With The Golden Claws. Ridiculous prices are quoted in dollars, on chalk boards on the pavements, for any activity you can think of that relates to the ocean. Underwater kite boarding, jetski tuna fishing, scuba turtle surfing, they have it all here, if you have enough dollars. Is Zanzibar a good destination for budget travellers, people ask. Well, lets re-examine your definition of the word 'budget' first. For a brief trip, two weeks or so, I could recommend you bring maybe a million dollars. You could do it on less, but for the full experience, I'd say a million would be a good budget.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Slaapstad
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!
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!
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.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Some snacks
The food of Mozambique is one of its highlights for me.
If you consider that Mozambique was, several years ago, the poorest country in the world, this means a lot more. In any small town, you can generally find a decent range of ingredients, almost all produced within the borders of the country. Cashew nuts, fresh seafood, lettuce, vegetables, fruit, all normally fresh and tasty. Despite the intense poverty of the region, the people eat fairly well. Because the climate supports a pretty healthy spectrum of fruits and vegetables, it is a pretty straightforward step to make a delicious meal, cheaply. Food is something clearly valued in the minds of the locals. Any bus journey is frequently punctuated by stops in small towns, where children and women mob the vehicle, selling bunches of sweetly perfumed, slightly green bananas, sugar cane (in the north), fresh, small baguette-like, crusty rolls called pao, boiled eggs, questionably fresh fried local chicken, small fried fish, cashew nuts, biscuits, beer and cold drinks. Its impossible to go hungry here, although I did several times for no good reason other than fear of the less than frequent toilet stops.
In any restaurant you go to, peri peri will be available. Rather than rely on bottled, premanufactured sauce like Tabasco, or worse, Bushman's or Nali, Mozambicans makes it themselves. Sometimes it'll be the kind I love;chunky, oily, spicy and lemony, and sometimes it'll be thin, cheap vinegary and fruity red stuff. Sometimes, like at Black & White, it'll be so hot you can scarcely look at it without your arsehole tingling. The fact that peri-peri is so commonplace is testimony to the skill of the average Mozambican cook, and the thought that goes into the food. Or perhaps its indicative of their adaptation to living with almost no money, where its cheaper to cook what you can grow than buy what you could make better.
Another interesting point is that the only food that is deep fried is chips, which are normally fairly rubbish anyway. Because almost all cooking is done on coal burning fires, deep frying is a tricky process, and that much oil is expensive. But, so far it seems that Africans are totally unaware of the versatility of the potato. Chips is it, it seems, round these parts.
Bread, another thing I feel pretty strongly about, is brilliant here, for the most part. The pao is almost always fresh in any busy area, and dirt cheap. Starting from 2 mt and going up to about 5 mts, its crusty, chewy and tasty, made from all the normal bread ingredients. It doesnt seem to be full of preservatives and shortening and shit, just the old flour, water, salt and yeast sort of things. Delicious!
If you consider that Mozambique was, several years ago, the poorest country in the world, this means a lot more. In any small town, you can generally find a decent range of ingredients, almost all produced within the borders of the country. Cashew nuts, fresh seafood, lettuce, vegetables, fruit, all normally fresh and tasty. Despite the intense poverty of the region, the people eat fairly well. Because the climate supports a pretty healthy spectrum of fruits and vegetables, it is a pretty straightforward step to make a delicious meal, cheaply. Food is something clearly valued in the minds of the locals. Any bus journey is frequently punctuated by stops in small towns, where children and women mob the vehicle, selling bunches of sweetly perfumed, slightly green bananas, sugar cane (in the north), fresh, small baguette-like, crusty rolls called pao, boiled eggs, questionably fresh fried local chicken, small fried fish, cashew nuts, biscuits, beer and cold drinks. Its impossible to go hungry here, although I did several times for no good reason other than fear of the less than frequent toilet stops.
In any restaurant you go to, peri peri will be available. Rather than rely on bottled, premanufactured sauce like Tabasco, or worse, Bushman's or Nali, Mozambicans makes it themselves. Sometimes it'll be the kind I love;chunky, oily, spicy and lemony, and sometimes it'll be thin, cheap vinegary and fruity red stuff. Sometimes, like at Black & White, it'll be so hot you can scarcely look at it without your arsehole tingling. The fact that peri-peri is so commonplace is testimony to the skill of the average Mozambican cook, and the thought that goes into the food. Or perhaps its indicative of their adaptation to living with almost no money, where its cheaper to cook what you can grow than buy what you could make better.
Another interesting point is that the only food that is deep fried is chips, which are normally fairly rubbish anyway. Because almost all cooking is done on coal burning fires, deep frying is a tricky process, and that much oil is expensive. But, so far it seems that Africans are totally unaware of the versatility of the potato. Chips is it, it seems, round these parts.
Bread, another thing I feel pretty strongly about, is brilliant here, for the most part. The pao is almost always fresh in any busy area, and dirt cheap. Starting from 2 mt and going up to about 5 mts, its crusty, chewy and tasty, made from all the normal bread ingredients. It doesnt seem to be full of preservatives and shortening and shit, just the old flour, water, salt and yeast sort of things. Delicious!
Some Other bits of Mozambique
From Maputo, I decided to follow the tourist trail to the backpacker haven of Tofu, twenty minutes from Inhambane. The drive starts at the soon to become normal, but right now pretty shocking hour of 4 AM.
What can I say about the scenery? Coconut palms litter the landscape, with more hideous pawpaw tree's popping their heads up here and there, and the ubiquitous thatch huts. The scenery becomes repetitive quite quickly, when you realise that most of the country is totally flat, sandy and almost everywhere is inhabited. Everywhere you see the small trails leading off from the roadside, evidence of people, even when you think you must be in the middle of nowhere. Villagers walk in their flipflops and ride bicycles along the road, totally unfazed by the minibus taxi's, trucks and buses that come screaming past on the bone-jarring, massively potholed roads. Chickens, children and goats scratch, play and aimlessly wander along the roadside. Who gives a fuck if the nearest hospital is 200km and four hours away? We're in a hurry!
In Tofo, I met up with the pommies that I had befriended in Maputo, along with several other folk that were headed the same way. And so we found the Best Restaurant in the World: Black & White.
At Black & White, you will have what must be, for me, pretty much everything I want from a restaurant. From the exterior, the charm begins to reveal itself. The hand painted sign, on a bit of cardboard, at the entrance of a tin and wood shack describes the menu; a typical Mozambiquan menu. Fish, chicken, braws (prawns), biff (beef), calamari and rock lobster, all served with rice or chips and salad. This is the National Menu of Moz. If you have a problem with it, don't travel here.
As you walk through the door, you find yourself in the dining room. About four tables, enough for maybe fifteen people are coated in cheap plastic table cloths, and the floor is hard, grey concrete. The ambience comes courtesy of the twenty guys playing pool, and the open air bar next door that only has one CD with four songs on it, which it plays at maximum volume.
Cheap, fresh, delicious food, skillfully prepared by someone else. All the ingredients, except the rice, probably come from the surrounding areas. Decent service comes from an unpretentious, efficient and friendly waiter. Booze comes at cost price, and is always cold, and never runs out.
Sure, you might wait a little bit for your food. Forty five minutes wouldn't be unusual. But its not like you have anywhere to go, do you? Something to do? Pretty unlikely. And for 70 mts a plate of peixe, salad, com arros (fish salad and rice) what more could you want? The fish, often something incredibly delicious like barracuda or parrotfish (probably endangered, too) is grilled, and the rice is topped with a sort of tomatoey, seafood sauce. Succulent, fresh, cheap and beautiful.
The other best thing about B&W, is the kitchen. I had looked a bit into some kitchens in Maputo, admiring their spartan economy of equipment and space, but B&W is another level. The tiny, mostly open air area consists of a few coal burning stoves, a few enormous pots for rice, and a couple of other odds and ends. None of the shining stainless steel, the drama, the docket machines incessant screaming whine, the flames and the sweat of a professional kitchen. This is hardly recognisable as a kitchen. A few smiling women sit around peeling potatoes the African way, with a knife, and stirring massive cauldrons of mysterious bubbling liquids. There might be a fridge, but I dont think so, and there might be some soap somewhere, but thats also unlikely.
What can I say about the scenery? Coconut palms litter the landscape, with more hideous pawpaw tree's popping their heads up here and there, and the ubiquitous thatch huts. The scenery becomes repetitive quite quickly, when you realise that most of the country is totally flat, sandy and almost everywhere is inhabited. Everywhere you see the small trails leading off from the roadside, evidence of people, even when you think you must be in the middle of nowhere. Villagers walk in their flipflops and ride bicycles along the road, totally unfazed by the minibus taxi's, trucks and buses that come screaming past on the bone-jarring, massively potholed roads. Chickens, children and goats scratch, play and aimlessly wander along the roadside. Who gives a fuck if the nearest hospital is 200km and four hours away? We're in a hurry!
In Tofo, I met up with the pommies that I had befriended in Maputo, along with several other folk that were headed the same way. And so we found the Best Restaurant in the World: Black & White.
At Black & White, you will have what must be, for me, pretty much everything I want from a restaurant. From the exterior, the charm begins to reveal itself. The hand painted sign, on a bit of cardboard, at the entrance of a tin and wood shack describes the menu; a typical Mozambiquan menu. Fish, chicken, braws (prawns), biff (beef), calamari and rock lobster, all served with rice or chips and salad. This is the National Menu of Moz. If you have a problem with it, don't travel here.
As you walk through the door, you find yourself in the dining room. About four tables, enough for maybe fifteen people are coated in cheap plastic table cloths, and the floor is hard, grey concrete. The ambience comes courtesy of the twenty guys playing pool, and the open air bar next door that only has one CD with four songs on it, which it plays at maximum volume.
Cheap, fresh, delicious food, skillfully prepared by someone else. All the ingredients, except the rice, probably come from the surrounding areas. Decent service comes from an unpretentious, efficient and friendly waiter. Booze comes at cost price, and is always cold, and never runs out.
Sure, you might wait a little bit for your food. Forty five minutes wouldn't be unusual. But its not like you have anywhere to go, do you? Something to do? Pretty unlikely. And for 70 mts a plate of peixe, salad, com arros (fish salad and rice) what more could you want? The fish, often something incredibly delicious like barracuda or parrotfish (probably endangered, too) is grilled, and the rice is topped with a sort of tomatoey, seafood sauce. Succulent, fresh, cheap and beautiful.
The other best thing about B&W, is the kitchen. I had looked a bit into some kitchens in Maputo, admiring their spartan economy of equipment and space, but B&W is another level. The tiny, mostly open air area consists of a few coal burning stoves, a few enormous pots for rice, and a couple of other odds and ends. None of the shining stainless steel, the drama, the docket machines incessant screaming whine, the flames and the sweat of a professional kitchen. This is hardly recognisable as a kitchen. A few smiling women sit around peeling potatoes the African way, with a knife, and stirring massive cauldrons of mysterious bubbling liquids. There might be a fridge, but I dont think so, and there might be some soap somewhere, but thats also unlikely.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Maputo, Mozambique
Maputo is a city that has been left to rot, like a dead tree trunk with new, flourishing creepers poking their way out out of the decaying husk. The people still live there, in the massive crumbling buildings, relics of a colonial history that look like the wastelands of Stanley Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket. 1970's and Art Deco architecture towers over the natural jungle of Mozambique; grotesque, alien looking paw paw trees and cliche looking, swaying postcard perfect coconut palms that grow out of sandy ditches in the potholed pavements. The buildings are all in various states of disrepair, most seem to have never been painted, merely mostly finished and abandoned. The old and the new mingle freely, brand spanking new shopping malls and banks shining out of the scrap heap, their crisp paintjobs making them seem like promiscuous young upstarts, the new kids on the block destined to become decrepit, wrinkled and tattered like the old timers of Maputo's architectural scene.
Hawkers line the streets, selling fresh prawns, dried fish, consumer goods, and a bewildering array of uniquely african things. You could almost live your whole life here and never darken the doorstep of a shopping mall, and in fact, most people probably have, since there might easily be only two shopping malls in the whole of Mozambique, for all I know. And they both suck, in case you were wondering.
Everything you need is on the streets. Coriander, parsley, spring onions, peri peri, fruit, vegetables ( though not a massive array, basically just onions, green peppers, tomatoes, and potatoes), coconuts, bananas, cashew nuts and lettuce are all pretty common things to see on the streets, lying on questionably sanitary bits of plastic sheet, cloth or sacks, in the hot african sun. So sure, not the most hygienic way of shopping of most things, but hygiene quickly becomes a dim memory, something you do when you're at home, like shower most days and talk about religion.
This style of shopping is convenient, efficient and really has a lot of potential! Gone are the long queues of Pick n Pay, no more weighing items and comparing six different fucking types of quinoa, you just take what there is, haggle or accept the price, and pay. Cash only, no cards, no standing in that snake of a queue, past the sweets and chocolates, (should I get a snickers, do i deserve it, yes!) no awkward hello's to the cashier who obviously has the shittiest job on the planet. You simply walk from wherever you're coming from to wherever you're going, and buy what you need for dinner there, on the way. The prices are lower, because you're buying from only one person with practically no overheads who benefits directly, and you walk away feeling less of a consumer, more a person who merely buys their food. At the end of the day, you have thousands of people being self employed, rather than working for some creepy massive corporation. These micro-entrepreneurs are building relationships with their customers who live near them, who buy from them every day (only enough for a meal, no weekly shopping here!) The only casualty is the hygiene, which was over rated to begin with anyway..
Hawkers line the streets, selling fresh prawns, dried fish, consumer goods, and a bewildering array of uniquely african things. You could almost live your whole life here and never darken the doorstep of a shopping mall, and in fact, most people probably have, since there might easily be only two shopping malls in the whole of Mozambique, for all I know. And they both suck, in case you were wondering.
Everything you need is on the streets. Coriander, parsley, spring onions, peri peri, fruit, vegetables ( though not a massive array, basically just onions, green peppers, tomatoes, and potatoes), coconuts, bananas, cashew nuts and lettuce are all pretty common things to see on the streets, lying on questionably sanitary bits of plastic sheet, cloth or sacks, in the hot african sun. So sure, not the most hygienic way of shopping of most things, but hygiene quickly becomes a dim memory, something you do when you're at home, like shower most days and talk about religion.
This style of shopping is convenient, efficient and really has a lot of potential! Gone are the long queues of Pick n Pay, no more weighing items and comparing six different fucking types of quinoa, you just take what there is, haggle or accept the price, and pay. Cash only, no cards, no standing in that snake of a queue, past the sweets and chocolates, (should I get a snickers, do i deserve it, yes!) no awkward hello's to the cashier who obviously has the shittiest job on the planet. You simply walk from wherever you're coming from to wherever you're going, and buy what you need for dinner there, on the way. The prices are lower, because you're buying from only one person with practically no overheads who benefits directly, and you walk away feeling less of a consumer, more a person who merely buys their food. At the end of the day, you have thousands of people being self employed, rather than working for some creepy massive corporation. These micro-entrepreneurs are building relationships with their customers who live near them, who buy from them every day (only enough for a meal, no weekly shopping here!) The only casualty is the hygiene, which was over rated to begin with anyway..
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