The Dorian

In my travels, I pride myself on being an adventurous eater, “foodventurous” as I like to call it.  True, my will has been tested from time to time.  There are certain foods that I just don’t like: coconut, anise, olives, fermented millet porridge.  My feelings about chicken gizzards are well documented.  I was nearly undone when I foolishly let Dave order lunch for us in Westvleteren, Belgium and was forced, for the sake of pride, to eat what can only be described as chunky chicken Jell-O.  But nothing, my friends, not one thing could have prepared me for the unholy, gag-inducing terror of… 

The Dorian.

The Dorian is a fruit that, as far as my hosts or I know, grows exclusively on Zanzibar.  It has some similarities to Jackfruit, with its green spiky skin and large seeds, but though it is not anywhere near as large as the mighty Jackfruit, its skin is much spikier and its seeds are much larger.  Its rind is actually so spiky that it is impossible to hold the fruit by anything but the stem.  I feel that humanity should have gotten the hint that this was a fruit not intended for consumption.  The unblemished fruit gives off a vaguely sickening odor, yet another helpful hint for humanity to leave this fruit alone.  When you cut into it, the odor builds to a pungent scream of noxious fumes: DO NOT EAT THIS FRUIT!  The fruit’s flesh is amorphous white slimy pulp, clinging half-heartedly to seeds roughly the size of walnuts.  The overall effect reminded me of monkey’s brains, which are popular in Cantonese cuisine.

Was it intended to be a treat? A joke? A prank gone awry, played on me by the kindly sisters with whom I was staying?  I just don’t know, nor do I expect to.  I can say with all certainty that there was no malicious intent when they placed a plate of the reeking fruit in front of me.  I wish I could accurately describe the toxic smell.  The closest comparison I can come up with is a combination of sweat and gasoline.  I was cajoled into taking an infinitesimal taste by choruses of, “It’s sweet!  It smells bad, but the taste is sweet!”  They weren’t completely wrong- it tasted like sweat and gasoline with a hint of off-brand artificial sweetener.  Sr. Eunice told me it is good medicine for the stomach.  I can see the benefit if, say, someone took a goodly amount of poison and you didn’t have any activated charcoal around.  Personally, I don’t think I could hold a good dollop down. 

Eating cottage cheese was heaven compared to this heinous experience.

When I asked the sisters if they make all of their visitors try Dorian, then informed me that it is seasonal, so it isn’t available for visitors to try during most of the year.  When we parted ways, I assured them of my eventual return, promising to come in the Dorian’s off-season.

Epilogue

When I took the boat to Zanzibar on Monday, I thought it was cute and kind of funny that they handed out sick bags to all of the passengers for the 2 hour ride.  When I boarded the return shuttle, one quick sniff told me someone was taking a Dorian to the mainland.  I clutched my bag the entire way home and focused on breathing through my mouth.

Burying the Hatchet

Coconut and I have been at odds for as long as I can remember.  With the notable exception of coconut milk in Thai curry, I have loathed every food I have ever tried that has even the smallest traces of coconut.  “You can’t even taste it!” “It doesn’t even taste like coconut!”  Oh, how I detest those wheedling phrases, but I always relent.  I always give it a try.  Coconut shrimp, Caramel Delite/Samoa Girl Scout Cookies, Piña Coladas, Mounds candy, coconut rum… no, thank you.  Part of it is a texture thing- I can tell instantly if a cookie has coconut in it- and part of it is good old fashioned flavor.  I admit that I occasionally tell people that I am allergic in order to justify not eating proffered coconut treats. (Remember that episode of Wishbone when Sam had that awful reaction to the granola bar with coconut in it?  I was crazy jealous.)

So, naturally, when I was offered “coconut juice” on my first day in Zanzinbar, I politely but fervently declined.  “But Jo, it doesn’t even taste like coconut!”  *sigh*  So I relented to my sweetly insistent guides, and the driver pulled over to the side of the road.  He got out and came back a few minutes later with a large green coconut whose top had been whittled down and with a hole in the top.  He handed it to me and told me simply to drink.  When I looked inside, all I could see was clear liquid, and it didn’t smell anything like coconut, so I figured, what the hey?  I drank deeply from the awkwardly large seed, and it tasted magnificent!  Which is to say, NOTHING like coconut!  From my experience, I would say it tasted like very slightly sweetened water.  Had the coconut stayed on the tree for another 6 weeks or so, all of that water would have been absorbed making the hard coconut flesh that torments me so, but when it is still young enough, the “juice” is a delightfully refreshing treat. 

I feel that this is a big moment in my life, philosophically speaking.  If I can find a way, after all of these years, to enjoy raw coconut, then surely there must be a way to world peace!  But, you know, a way that doesn’t involve cutting down a growing thing in the flower of its youth to drink its life source.  That seems a little extreme in any other situation.

The Spice of Life

One of the things that I have always enjoyed about Africa is that they grow the kinds of things that America needs to have imported from faraway lands.  Bananas grow in the back yard.   Mango trees frequently dot the landscape.  Fresh, locally grown passion fruit and papayas are in fruit bowls on dining room tables.  I have eaten a lot of fruit, and I haven’t seen a single plu# sticker.

Zanzibar really kicked it up a notch. 

On my only full day on the island, my new friend Sr. Eunice and I started with a tour of a spice farm.  When you have been handling the red-capped McCormick spices almost exclusively your entire life, it is really mind-bending to see the spices in their raw, natural, living forms.  Our guide, Sisso, invited us to smell the alluringly sweet aroma of the ripening vanilla bean hanging from the vine.  He whittled a sliver of bark away from the cinnamon tree, bragging about the superior spicy quality of Zanzibar cinnamon, and handed it to me to chew. Better than all the Hot Tamales in the world!  Then, he used his knife to dig up a small bit of cinnamon tree root, and it amazingly smelled exactly like Vicks vapo-rub!  How could two such distinct flavors come from the same plant?  Cardamon, ginger, lemon grass, turmeric, cloves- each smelled more amazing than the last!  Sisso explained how the color of the pepper (white, green, or black), depended on when the peppercorn was harvested. We saw Henna, used for the elaborate painted skin decorations we saw on the arms of the Muslim women around town.  And the fruit!  We tried pickle fruit, shaped like a jalepeno, sour like a lime; star fruit, just shy of it’s true sweet ripeness, saw a young pineapple just starting to make it’s way in the world, and ate lichi by the dozens.  When lichi are ripe, they turn bright red, their spiky flesh making them about the size of a kiwi fruit.  Sisso would remove the rind so that I could eat the fruit, which looked and tasted for all the world like a peeled grape. 

A young man followed the tour at a distance, barefoot and wearing a trucker hat that read “Sex is not a crime.”  He hung back, weaving palm leaves together, and appearing magically at Sisso’s elbow whenever a tree needed to be climbed to retrieve out-of-reach fruit.  Towards the end of the tour, he twisted a rough looking rope around his feet, and scrambled straight up a towering palm tree to cut down a couple of coconuts.  There was something kind of aboriginal in the way that he climbed so easily, which made it all the more jarring when he answered his cell phone midway down the tree. Sisso led Sr. Eunice and I to a bench where we sat and sampled more local fruit- tangerines and custard apples (tasted exactly like apple Laffy Taffy- new favorite fruit!).   We capped off our taste adventure with samples of lemon grass and masala teas.  We dallied at the table of spices for sale for a while, but eventually had to tear ourselves away from the aromas and bid farewell to the spice farm.

Beauty

Zanzibar.  

To me, the word alone has always been synonymous with “exotic” and “mysterious” and “really really really far away.”  But to actually see it, to be there, to feel it under my feet and sense it with every fiber of my being… it seems less far, but by no means less exotic or mysterious.  Truly, Zanzibar exceeded my expectations in every possible way!

My first impression of Zanzibar from the boat, especially old Stonetown, the capital city, was that this is a place stuck in time.  From a distance, it is how I’ve always pictured Old San Juan or Havana (perhaps very inaccurately, since I’ve never seen either), with bright buildings lining the coast, blue water made bluer in contrast with the white sand beaches.  Within in minutes of disembarking from the Kilimanjaro II, my host, Sr. Claudia had greeted me like family and launched into a tour of Stonetown.  My first few hours took me to the House of Wonder, the former home of the Omani Sultan in Zanzibar, St. Joseph’s Cathedral, the oldest church in East Africa, and the Anglican Cathedral, which was built on the remains of the slave market after slave trade was illegalized.  We wound our way through labyrinthine streets as Sister told me about the culture and history of Zanzibar.  The population of Zanzibar is something like 98% Muslim, and you can see the Arab influence in almost everything, from architecture to cuisine to the people themselves (who, apparently are NOT called Zanzibarbarians;  Gonzo, you have led me astray).  All of it was beautiful to me.

One of the biggest surprises to me is that the entire island is made out of coral.  Yes, there is earth to grow things, and white sand beaches, but life on Zanzibar has been chiseled out of an ancient and massive hunk of coral.  Walking along a path at the compound where I was staying, Sr. Claudia warned me to watch my step, because what I had taken for rocks littering the path were actually hunks of coral poking up above the dirt. 

The ruins of palaces of sultans in ages past, the soaring palm trees dotting the landscape, the coral cliffs dropping down to white sand or azure water, the infinite number of stars arranged in unfamiliar constellations, the scars of the slave trade still born by the land- Zanzibar is a place of Beauty.  Some of it is happy and some of it is sad, but all of it is Beauty nonetheless.

The Coast with the Most

I often mock the priests who complain about the "cold" Nairobi winters, bundled up in winter jackets in 70 degree weather.  However, that doesn't mean I wasn't thrilled to emerge from the plane in Dar Es Salaam to 90 degree sunshine!  This time of year is also winter in Dar, so I decided right off the bat that A) Dar's winter is probably one of the best in the world and B) I sure as heck never want to be there for their summer.

Fr. Kamanzi and I were picked up from the airport by Fr. Cyprian and Fr. Severini and were whisked away to the parish at Tabata, our home base for the week.  The church is gorgeous, a triumph of the missionary zeal of the Apostles of Jesus.  When the parish was first established, there was nothing in Tabata but bush and sand.  I am amazed by the clear vision possessed by the first Apostle of Jesus who went there.  He knew then that the parish would be a pillar of the future community and that people would be drawn to the area by the presence of the parish community.  Now, less than 2 decades later, the church is filled beyond its 1500 capacity every Sunday for all three of its liturgies, and the schools and other programs associated with it are flourishing.

Dar Es Salaam is practically the capital of Tanzania.  It is the biggest port in East Africa, has the largest population of any Tanzanian city, and hosts most of the diplomatic presence in Tanzania.  The only thing it doesn't have, it seems, is the title of "Capital", which belongs to Dodoma about 4 hours inland.  Sort of like New York City to NY's Albany, except, you know, NYC is a whole heck of a lot bigger and Dodoma is a whole heck of a lot smaller.

On our first night in Dar, the good Fathers took us to dinner at the beautiful Sea Cliff Hotel.  Once we got through the awful awful awful traffic of center city, we were able to enjoy the luxurious mansions lining the shore of the Indian Ocean.  Our table at dinner was on a deck thrust out over the brink of a cliff.  I spent almost the entire meal staring mesmerized at the crystal clear water, illuminated by the restaurant floodlights.  It was a beautiful place, unfortunately one that could not possibly be captured on film, so you are just going to have to take my word for it.

On the Road Again

It's hard to believe I've only been home for 3.5 months.  So much has happened!  On April 20th, I achieved a lifelong goal of becoming an aunt (though I admit that my sister Cassy did do most of the heavy lifting).  On June 16th we welcomed another new member to the family when my sister Steph married the man of her dreams.  There has been joy, celebration, hellos and goodbyes.

And now it is time to return to Africa.

This time I will be traveling in Kenya and Tanzania, retracing some familiar routes and exploring new ones.  I don't want to give anything away, but I am finally going to experience the East African coast!

And here's the kicker, the icing on the cake, the Triunfo del Amor...


My MOM (aka Fred) is coming with me!

It has been her dream since high school, maybe longer, to travel to Africa.  It is a gross understatement to say that she is wildly excited about the trip.  She will be with me for 2 weeks, and I will stay on for an additional 3 weeks.  You will be hearing from her in a "guest-blogger" capacity.  (Which is lucky for everyone, because she is a much better writer than I am.)  This is the first time she and I have traveled together since we famously tackled Ireland and northern England back in 1998.  We are long overdue for a reunion tour.

Look out, world! Here we come!

Gettin' Jittery...

I have often spoken about the awesome-ness of East African hospitality. I promise I haven’t exaggerated a thing. Hospitality is crucially important to the people who live here, and they take it very seriously. I was recently introduced to a hospitality ritual among the Kihaya people in the Lake zone of Western Tanzania.

This area was once celebrated for their coffee trees; there was a time when Bukoba was one of the leading African exporters of coffee in the international markets. Even though the industry is nowhere near as robust as it once was, coffee is still very important to the Kihaya. Therefore, coffee beans, serve as the focal point of true Kihaya hospitality.

A Kamwani (Kihaya word for “coffee bean”) ritual begins when the beans are harvested, while they are still green on the trees. The harvested beans are boiled for as long as 12 hours with herbs and spices, then they are smoked for 2 days or more. When they are done, they are a rich brown color and the flavors have been absorbed through the husk into the kernels. After the Kamwani has been thus prepared, it is offered to every guest that comes into the home. To eat them, you crack open the outer shell with your front teeth then remove the two internal kernels. You chew the kernels slowly and steadily to release the full flavor.

Without Kamwani, there is no Kihaya hospitality. Someone may welcome people into their house, prepare a full meal, rub their feet, kill the fatted calf, but if the hosts don’t offer Kamwani, the guests will leave feeling unwelcomed, complaining about the extreme lack of hospitality.

The word “Kamwani” is used by the Kihaya people to indicate any kind of gift. If someone stops by your house and you’re not there, they may call and say, “Sorry I missed you, but I left you Kamwani,” and when you arrive you find some beer or soda or a covered dish or something.

Almost every coffee-growing tribe has some sort of “Kahawa” (Kiswahili word for “Kamwani” (Kihaya word for “coffee bean”)) ritual. Each ritual varies from tribe to tribe- how the beans are prepared, how their consumed, etc. But in all of these rituals, it is a true sign of sincere hospitality.

Internet, I've Missed You So!

So far this trip, I have been to 3 different countries, received 9 stamps in my passport, seen monkeys, wildebeest, zebras, and baboons in the wild, and have covered over 1300 km on the road.

And I'm only about half-way done!

I started writing this on an absolutely gorgeous afternoon in Bukoba, Tanzania, on March 5^th, my sixth day since traveling from Nairobi. At the time, I didn't have any internet, but I had a rare bout of free-time, and got some pre-emptive blogging done. The journey has been phenomenal! We took 3 days to drive from Nairobi to Bukoba, spending our first night in Sirari (where I heard about the plight of the Albinos), and our second night in Mwanza. We first descended into the Rift Valley via a road constructed in 1942 by Italian POWs; those men also built a small church, nestled right at the bottom of the escarpment, a perfect pocket of peace and tranquility. From there, we drove through Maaimahiu, which means “hot springs/water”, then Narok, then past 3 gates of the Masai Mara Game Preserve, Sotik, Kisii, and finally to the border to Tanzania. From Sirari, we drove through Tarime, stopped for lunch at the newly appointed Cathedral of the recently formed Diocese of Bunda, drove across the western tip of the Serengeti where we saw Wildebeests-a-plenty, and on to Mwanza, the “City of Rocks” on Lake Victoria. After Mwanza, we took a 30 minute ferry to Busisi (saving approximately 6 additional hours of driving- and this is a brand new ferry!), through the gold/mineral mining town of Geita, drove along the southwest rim of Lake Victoria and arrived at our destination- Bukoba! Much more on that later, I promise.

This is the first time I've had internet access since our brief stay in Mwanza, so I'm going to post a lot of updates from the Nairobi-Tanzania leg of the journey before delving into my adventures in Uganda, the Pearl of Africa!

A Whiter Shade of Pale

“Jo, I know that you don’t get frightened, but I don’t want this to frighten you.”

When Father Kamanzi begins a story that way, I know I am in for a doozy.

Our first day of traveling from Nairobi brought us to Sirari, just on the Tanzania side of the border. The Apostles of Jesus have a parish here, St. Michael’s. This entire area, all the way to our destination in Bukoba on the west shore of Lake Victoria, is very rich in gold. Commercial miners from all over the first world come here to remove the precious metal, but it is so abundant that even locals and amateurs can successfully dig for gold, if they have enough luck.

Sadly, many locals think they have found a way to augment their luck in the most horrible possible way.

It is believed that if you take a body part of an albino person into the mine with you, you will find more gold. This has resulted in the hunting and killing of albino people throughout Tanzania.

I heard the story of a man in Kenya who befriended an albino man. After getting to know him, he said, “Hey, I know you are having a hard time finding work. I have some friends in Tanzania who will gladly hire you and pay you well!” The albino man eagerly accepted his friend’s offer, and when he got to Tanzania, was sold, by his “friend”, to Albino Dealers. From what I understand, the Kenyan man got millions of shillings for him.

Even today, people with Albinism are being hunted and killed Albino children must be escorted to school, and any albino person is in danger as soon as they come to this region. The government is trying to squelch the practice, but it is a difficult battle, not unlike trying to curtail drug trafficking or a vast prostitution ring.

And, of course, it’s all horseshit. The local and amateur miners are still among the poorest people. They are killing these poor people for nothing- they have no better chance at striking it rich than anyone else.

I had never heard of this situation at all, but at Fr. Kamanzi’s encouraging, I Googled “Albino trade in Tanzania.” I highly recommend that you do the same. The practice extends beyond the mining industry. At 150,000, Tanzania has the largest population of people with Albinism in Africa. There are a bunch of articles from the past couple of years that are definitely worth checking out.