An Idiot's Guide to Afrikan Eats

This, the latest in this sorry series of error-strewn and increasingly politically incorrect blogs, has been commissioned by my Auntie, who wanted to know what the eats are like out here, and will go some way to dismiss my previous outrageous claim that ‘there aint no food in Afrika.’ My Gran in particular will be delighted to learn that we have been eating three meals a day with startling regularity, which is a marked improvement on University dining where I considered a cheese toastie and a protein shake as a good and wholesome meal.

I may be better looking than Jamie Oliver but the lad knows a good deal more about scran than I do so if you are looking for recipe tips and flavoursome dishes please refer back to the podgy-faced bloke on the Sainsbury adverts, for I will be offering none of that. But I figured if Bryson can turn a walk in his garden into an readable piece of prose, than it should be a piece of piss to cobble together an informative number on the ins and outs of Afrikan munch.

 Obviously the taste, price and quantity of Afrikan cuisine is drastically different throughout the country, and our culinary tour will begin where we started off on the island of Zanzibar (we ignore Dar es Salaam, because its shit). Its an island, so sea-food is the mainstay of the menu (I saw their cows, not a patch on our Jersey beauties) and in our week there we munched through an aquariums-worth of barracuda, octopus, tuna, shark and lobster, each one freshly caught and barbequed on the spot, (If Grimsby could offer a similar service, it would improve the town no end). Our hostel reluctantly allowed us to use their kitchen to cook some of our own food in, so, feeling Afrikan we waltzed down to the fish market (which reeked) and attempted (badly) to haggle with the local fishermen for some of their mornings catch. The locals inevitably found this hilarious, but we soon left with three shark steaks so everyone’s a winner really. After we nearly blew up the hotel with an unfortunate incident involving a leaky gas canister and a fair amount of flame you’d think we would have left matters there. But no, we went back to the market the next day, bought a whole freshly caught tuna (to the sound of yet more laughter, the novelty of white boys trying to haggle hadn’t worn off apparently), and spent the following afternoon butchering the poor creature with blunt knives in a vain attempt to gut it. A sorry sight, no dignity in death for the unfortunate tuna, and I’m pretty sure the hotel still reeks of fish.

Its taken quite a while for our untrained British stomachs to get used to the food, spent far too long of Zanzibar jaunt on the toilet and we still have to put chlorine in the water (from the well, none of this running water extravagance) here in Njiapanda to ensure we aren’t running to the hole in the ground all night. Lovely. On a more culinary note, we have a cook who prepares our dinner for us (sounds lazy, but cooking takes an age out here, and we’ve got poverty to eradicate and whatnot so cant be doing with that), so we have sampled the delights of ‘authentic’ Afrikan cusine, as well as the stuff they dish out to tourists and those wadded westerners who get to go on safari (no time for them). The majority of meals contains maharagwe/beans (solid start, better than kidney, not as good as magic), cabbage (don’t know the Swahili for cabbage, and don’t want to know, I’m sick of it), and ugali (the local staple made from maize, not sure how to describe it except that its really, really dense and that Afrikans bloody love it). In fairness, our cook (great lady) makes it all taste damn good, and it ticks all the boxes vitamin-wise, then its fruit for dessert (yes mother, I’m eating fruit, terrific news); mangoes, papaya, pineapples, bananas (for Burley and Ben, i cant stand the things) depending on the season, not eaten this healthily since a ill-conceived and short-lived second year drive to get my ‘five a day’. Other local favourites include roasted banana and beef stew (I eat this one, savoury banana innit, not like that sweet crap) and mbuzi/nyama choma (barbecued beef/goat) always served in man-sized quantities (unlike the restaurants in Knutsford, these boys don’t skimp on portion sizes you order by the kilo or you go home hungry), and with a side of rice, chilli sauce and an unhealthy amount of gristle (I’m not sure whether the butchers seek out the gristle on the carcass or its some sort of practical joke, but either way it ends up on my plate), gristle aside though, its pretty good nosh and would recommend it to anyone passing through Njiapanda provided your not afraid to pick through the less edible bits. At the mess of a wedding we attended last month, they had a barbequed goat as part of the buffet (a buffet in Afrika, who’d have thought), the poor beast was rolled out through the guests, apple in its mouth and herbs up its, well elsewhere, so we could all see some bloke hack chunks out of its back and onto our plates. We are planning to do a similar thing at our ‘Goodbye Njiapanda’ party in February, which means we have to buy another goat, and after the tribal unrest we triggered buying the last one, I’m not sure that that is something that rural Tanzania wants or needs to see again.

I rumoured in a previous post that I suspected Njiapanda might have a drinking problem, and indeed Rough Guide: Tanzania claims that the entire has an ‘extravagant drinking culture’, a label I’ve heard given to a University sports team or two better never a nation-state before. When the local tipple, Konyagi Gin, claims to be the ‘Spirit of the Nation’ you know you’re in trouble, add this to the fact that almost every beer is above 5% and you get the feeling that this lot like to get drunk, fast. Njiapanda is almost certainly a bad example and I’m sure the rest of the country is a lot more respectable than our little rural retreat, but a lot of people seem to hit the bars early because there is a lack of anything else to do, (Hobbies are in short-supply here). As an amusing addition, Konyagi is served in one of two ways; firstly, as a bottle, you don’t buy singles or doubles, or in a plastic sachet which you suckle in a way not too dissimilar to the way you would drink a Capri-Sun, a genius idea which can’t hit British shores soon enough.

We barley drink out here (gotta be in the office at 8:30am) but on a rare excursion to the Njiapanda Strip we bumped into some parents of pupils from our school and they demanded to join us for a couple. What happened next was the equivalent of a bi-lingual, very drunken PTA Meeting, which concluded with a parent (a school governor) ringing his home and getting his children (our students) out of bed and down to the bar to say hi to their boozed up teachers. A deeply regrettable and unsavoury incident all round (I do hope the same thing never happened at Manor Park Primary School), but something that sums up Njiapanda’s terrific attitude towards drink and its ‘extravagant drinking culture’.

So don’t worry Granwin, Auntie Anne, and anyone else who was worried about our nutritional needs whilst we were away. We are eating (and drinking) very well, and shouldn’t come back looking too dishevelled. Saying that I do miss English food, having a fridge, downing a pint of milk whenever I want or popping into Tesco’s and getting one of their shitty 99p sandwiches. Upon our return to London in February I plan to go to McDonalds and order everything (including Fillet-o-fish, and they are terrible). I’ve got a lot of time for Afrikan food, its proved my preconceptions of their diet wholly wrong, some genuinely enjoyable dishes and plenty of food provided you have the money to buy it lines the market stalls of every town and city. Any Englishman who says they prefer it to western eats however, is wrong, if you are one of said people, please make yourselves known and I will slap you with one of New Cod on the Block’s beautifully battered fish.

An Idiot's Guide to an Afrikan Wedding

What do you call an ex-arms smuggler, a self-proclaimed Prophet, a former Soviet-trained Tanzanian Communist and three constantly bemused Brits? The guest list to an Afrikan wedding, thats what.

When the weekend began with a ‘Tusker Party’, getting kicked out of a bar and a German throwing up in our house, we should have guessed things were going to slide into the farcical. We had two pressing engagements on the following Saturday, firstly a meeting with a local Pastor (called a Prophet by his following), and then a wedding of a couple of young things we had never met. I’ll deal with the Prophet first.

Dreadfully hungover and smelling like a Konyagi bottle we headed off to the Pastor’s church up in the hills, as we arrived we were greeted by the entirety of his congregation (over sixty) singing, dancing and chanting local Chagga dances, we returned a mixture of confused smiles and a fair amount of head scratching. After a meeting with the Pastor/Prophet and a few other religious blokes, we made it quite clear that we had no money to give them (which dampened the mood somewhat) but that we would help them draw up project proposals to get international donors, (which triggered more hangover-unfriendly chanting). It was around this point when I saw the stage.

As soon as I saw it I knew they would want us on it. White folks are rare round these parts so when they do arrive, there tends to be a big hoo-haa about it (can’t imagine why, we’ve caused nothing but trouble since we’ve got here). Sure enough as more of the congregation filed into the ‘church’ (about 100 or so plastic chairs under a piece of tarpaulin), we were ushered like the prize goats at auction up onto the stage and provided with a microphone to address our waiting public. They spoke very little English, I wasn’t ordering a beer, so was fresh out of Swahili, so our three separate (but very similar) speeches comprised of rudimentary Swahili, slow-pronounced English and a lot of smiling and waving. To be honest I don’t think it would’ve mattered if we had been reading from Mein Kampf, we went down a storm regardless. The Pastor/Prophet loved it, the crowd chanted (again) and we were pretty much sober, we thanked them for their hospitality (we got fed, like the racial novelty we are) and proceeded down the mountain to the wedding.

I should point out we had a legitimate invite to the wedding. This isn’t Wedding Crashes, my nose is more normal than Owen Wilson’s and none of us are as fat as Vince Vaughen. The groom (mr Shein I think, Mr Shen possibly, defiantly not Martin Sheen) is the brother of the headmistress/head nun at our school, so we managed to weasel an invite out of her, but unlike Wedding Crashers our aim was to keep things civil, get into no family disputes and go nowhere near the bridesmaids. We were told it was traditional to give the married couple a gift, being three thoughtful and selfless guys we were all over this like a Njiapanda trucker. We knew a guy who wanted to sell a goat, and we were willing to lay down some serious dollar to get that goat. Our original plan was to present the goat (named Matty) to the couple at the reception, sobriety and the logistical nightmare of transporting the beast to the church put paid to this plan, so we had to limit ourselves to handing Matty over a couple of days later. Much to our disappointment and the relief of whichever bloke who cleans the church.

We arrived at the church at ten past two. The wedding was due to start at two. The wedding didn’t start until about four, the excuse given was ‘Afrika Time’ which apparently allows three hours leeway when it comes to the starting of social events.  I will refrain from voicing my opinions on ‘Afrika time’ at this point as they might land me in trouble, but lets just say they are not complimentary but might explain why some things in Afrika are like they are. Moving swiftly on, as soon as we arrived we were introduced to all the heavy hitters of the ceremony (father of the groom, rest of the grooms extended family etc), again conversation was limited but (as always) there was an active interest in what a gaggle of white boys were doing there.

The ceremony was subdued (it was catholic after all, they are a subdued bunch), neither bride nor groom looked happy to be there, which was surprising as the bride looked pretty fit. There was the obligatory chanting and a kick-ass brass band, but the main talking point was the fact that we (and our German friends) had mistakenly taken the front rows of seats clearly meant for someone slightly more related to the affected parties, and were oblivious to everything Swahili-related going on around us. My own highlight of the ceremony was one of the teachers stumbling into the church about two-thirds through the ceremony, and then slumping into the seat next to us stinking of gin, his motorbike was parked outside, apparently drink driving is not an issue out here.

After communion (I got my bread, long ceremony and wanted a snack) we trotted over to a local bar/restaurant/venue for the reception and was introduced to Mr British, an ex-arms and ivory smuggler, but now apparently a decent car mechanic. I asked him why he was called ‘British’ and we replied ‘Because I like the British.’ Fine answer. We have commissioned him to make a bbq for us, but I’m secretly hoping for a couple of AK’s and a chunk of elephant. As with the ceremony, we occupied the front seats for the reception as well, right in front of the quite frankly miserable looking bride and groom. Apparently, (according to a very unreliable source) a length of rope should be presented to the couple as a symbol that a goat is in the offing as a gift, and apparently (this source was frightfully unreliable) it is traditional (terrible word, lets them get away with anything) for the givers of the gift to dance up to the couple to present it. So there we were, three bemused Brits dancing through an African wedding giving a length of rope to a couple who we’d never met, needless to say, the crowd loved it and even the bride cracked a smile. After that incident we kept a pretty low profile eat our free food and drank our free booze, had a little dance (during which I managed to exchange numbers with the hammered MC, not sure what he had in mind, but I am yet to answer his calls), and went home in the back of a converted ambulance.

I apologise for the length of this post, I wasn’t intending to give you a blow by blow account of our weekend, but I am currently sat in our house in the dark (electricity’s gone) its pissing it down outside, and as I’ve mentioned before our house is less than waterproof so unfortunately my bed is soaked through. Obviously I’m delighted its raining because it means that stuff will grow for the farmers and reminds me of home, but what isn’t so delightful is the fact that I’m having to wait for my bed to dry before I can go to sleep. What a farce. On a separate note, we have been invited to a Christening just before Christmas, will keep you posted about that social event.

An Idiot's Guide to Child Protection

This may or may not surprise some of you (given the drivel you’ve been treated to over the past few weeks, it will probably surprise you), but I am a fully qualified English Language Teacher. Shocking considering I have the grammar of a disabled seven year old and have think that anyone with a southern accent is trying to sell me some sort of second hand car. Despite this, for our first month in Afrika, we have been teaching at an amusingly named local primary school; The Holy Childhood Primary School (Ridiculous), shaping young minds, moulding the leaders of tomorrow etc etc. They don’t fanny around with CRB checks, ohhh no, one look at our pasty skin and Ben’s Oxford twang got us thrown to the front of the class faster than you could say ‘Child Protection’.

Holy Childhood (you don’t get used to the name, its one their books and everything, preposterous!) is not like Manor Park Primary School, Knutsford. Partly because it forms part of a Catholic Nunnery, which means about a third of the teaching staff are Nuns, which has led to some terribly awkward chats about religion in the staff room, (none of us go to church, and Burley and myself have been baptised and still don’t go to church, heathen bastards) but at least it takes office romance well and truly off the table. Added to this, the kids are unnervingly obedient (think Damien from the first Omen film, except without, you know, the devil bit), the day begins with an 8 assembly which sees the children (about 200 of the little nippers) line up in military-esque precision, do a spot of chanting (At ease, attention, at ease, so forth and so forth) before marching to class in a manner which Manor Park’s teachers could only dream of.

Keeping a class of 40 kids interested in education and the English language is a tough task, and one which I gave up on within 30 seconds of starting my first lesson. The English ability of the kids isn’t really good enough for extensive conversation; they still say ‘Good Morning’ in the afternoon, and claim that they drive to school every day, I’m getting sick of their lies. I’ve never taught a class of more than 15 before, and as a result my lessons are chaotic, often unplanned and usually end up with at least one kid in tears, (which inevitably means someone else is pissing themselves laughing). I got my favourites of course, little Felix has got free reign over my lessons, purely because he pulls fantastic facial expressions and slaps himself in the face when I ask him a question, I caught him stealing watches the other day but he got away with it cuz all he had to do was throw his arms and pull a mongish expression about and I was putty in his hands. My former English Language Tutor would be horrified to discover that lesson plans are usually cobbled together on the school bus on the way to school at the very earliest, or occasionally in the twenty minutes before lessons kick off at 8 20. The result of this is a hell of a lot of hangman, charades and other such games used excessively to fill those awkward moments (well minutes) were I have forgotten to plan anything. These kids are so lucky to have us.

Fridays at Holy Childhood are a completely different kettle of catholic, Fridays are Sports Days, and sports days are bloody mental. Because we are neither nuns nor elderly alcoholics (as another third of the teaching staff appear to be), we are also default PE teachers, and therefore took charge of the most brutal football match I have ever seen. The ball was rock hard. The tackles were harder. In the two-hour battle, stoppages were exclusively for goals, even a five minute goal mouth scramble which featured a number of red card offenses and conclude with the goalkeeping face-planting the post so hard it fell over did not warrant a whistle, though the ‘keeper did get a warm round of applause and a healthy dose of concussion for his contribution. It aint Fifa 2010, I’ll tell you that for free, most of the kids twat the ball in whatever direction they happen to be facing, but the effort they put in is enough to put certain premiership footballers to shame (Dimitar ‘Half-time Fags’ Berbatov to name but one)*. The schools attitude to sport is one I appreciate however, the girls don’t play sport, they watch the boys play their football and occasionally do some bizarre aerobics routine when God lets the nuns have the afternoon off, if you mention the idea of Women’s Football round here you’d get a frown and a slap.

This last week has marked the end of the school term and with that the end of our time at Holy Childhood, the children sat their exams (my boys in Class 3 did pretty well considering that neither hangman nor charades featured in the English exam), and we had a whole day Parent’s Day to mark the end of term. During the whole-day festivities, the classes took it in turns to ‘entertain’ an increasingly confused audience, the highlight was a 15minute play which tackled such child-friendly issues as domestic abuse, under-performing students and drunkenness in the workplace, the laughs were few and far between, but fortunately the mood was lightened by the reciting of dozens of Swahili one-liners by some other children, which only added to my confusion at the whole affair.

Despite my constant mocking and belittling of the children the five weeks we have spent at the Holy Childhood Primary School have been great fun and I will miss the kids and their constant fascination with my facial hair. (I will not miss, however, the fact that all the teachers consistently got me and Ben confused, all white boys do not look the same.) We do plan to go back for a day after the Christmas holidays (and maybe a couple of sports days, there’s something oddly hilarious about a kid kicking another kid in the head), but I am sad to report that our teaching days in Tanzania are over, whether or not the kids learnt anything it is hard to say, judging by the chorus of ‘good mornings’ we still receive at all hours I’d say they have learnt bugger all. But what they have learnt they are saying in a delightful north Cheshire accent, which will stand them in great stead of course.

*My criticism of Dimiatar ‘Five-Goal’ Berbatov was written before he single-handedly destroyed Blackburn, I apologise to him and the Bulgarian nation as a whole. Though they are shifty.