Gardening, One: Feeding Families

My wooden spoons are exhausted. They've been putting in overtime this week.  That's because our garden is currently in full harvest mode and my freezer and I are trying to keep up.  It has inspired me to do a week or two of posts about gardening, a huge part of our lives here in our African country.

We came knowing that a gardener would already be on sight taking care of our 2 1/2 acre property until our arrival. Being organic food enthusiasts in America, we figured that if we were paying for something that felt so extravagant to us, a gardener, we may as well have him work on food production rather than merely the swimming pool and flowering shrubs, of which no one outside of our four walls would benefit. We immediately asked everyone about growing seasons so we could start a garden.

"Growing seasons? There are none!" we were told.

Though I'm sure I'll blog on the intricacies of our African country's weather after we've been here longer, take it from me that even during its coldest times, our country can still produce an abundance of food.  It is a sore topic I can't really discuss here, but the country used to be known as the bread basket of Africa.  Its abundance fed entire other nations at one time.  Though that isn't the case now, the soil and weather remain.  Potential resources abound and gardening on a small scale is an important way many sustain themselves here.

At the end of our road is an empty field:

(Kurt and I always say that our skies in Africa are Simpson skies- They look as if Matt Groening himself     drew in some parting cartoon clouds.)

An amazing thing happens wherever an empty field pops up in the city... The gardeners and housekeepers from the area use it as a communal garden.  Though there are no official markers or plotted beds, no fees or records, every person who works the land knows where his/her bed starts and ends. And the food growing for the most part remains untouched, a sign of respect for the people who have farmed their plots.  During breaks and days off, Shona from around the neighborhood come out to the land, usually with one hoe or shovel, and plant.  It is a hot way to spend time in the African sun, but a great way to feed a family!

Random Pieces of Learning

-Intersections:  There are very few stop signs here. (So few I couldn't find one to photograph... but I know they exist...) (Some) intersections have "give way" signs, equivalent to the yield sign in America.  Street intersections are often dangerous things, as many people breeze through them hoping for the best.  There are also strange rules regarding the many "robots" (traffic lights) that are out of order. Everyone yields to the person on their right.  Complicated at a four way intersection with eight + lanes of busy traffic.  Messy.  And horrible in the dark.  There are a few traffic circles here in the city, as well.

-There are two main sounds to be heard in this capital city at night. There are always the soft sounds of chirping crickets, the occasional ferocious barking of unmonitored dogs, and alarms going off at various random places throughout the night. But they all take a backseat to the incessant croaking of frogs finding their way into the swimming pools of the upper class.  They can be deafening at times.  Rooster sounds are also constant, starting around ten or eleven at night and continuing on throughout the next day.  The city is apparently one big chicken farm.

-If you are a marketing major and cannot find a job, come to our country. It desperately needs marketing.  I have a million examples.  Look no further than the blaring billboard in the middle of town that says, "Dairy Bell Milk makes you happy!  Drink Dairy Bell Milk A Lot!"  Talk about savvy advertising.
The other day I stopped into a bicycle store and asked the attendant for a bike lock.
"Nope. None here," the man replied, shrugging his shoulders.
I began to walk out, then paused. Many people here can be terrible at business.  Perhaps working on commission is not so common...  I turned around.
"Are you expecting any soon?"
"Oh, yes," he said. "Tomorrow.  Big shipment."

-The man in charge here has a wife who owns the largest dairy in the country.

-There used to be four ways to buy milk in our country.  Powdered, fresh in a jug, somewhat fresh in a bag (difficult to pour and store milk in a bag that requires a scissors puncture), or boxed. Up until four weeks ago, boxed milk was THE thing in our country.  Boxed in a sterilized form, it does not go bad on a shelf, can be stored in large quantities for food shortages, is unaffected by power cuts, and can be transported across the country.  It is also more accessible to the poor here, who may not be able to get to stores on a regular basis.  Fresh milk, though we'd always rather have it, is notorious for going bad within a few days of time, especially if you throw in a few power outages.  Our options lessened four weeks ago, though, when the powers that be decided boxed milk is not good for you and suddenly outlawed it throughout the entire country.  Now only fresh milk from a dairy can be purchased.  If you get my drift.

-Next item currently being considered by the country's reps?  Banning all produce not grown in our country. 

At Your Local Grocery Store...

Thanks, Dan, for these great pics!

Lake Chivero National Park

Teeming with a variety of animals, 4,613 acre Lake Chivero National Park had every kind of African animal imaginable, minus the wild elephants we are still eagerly awaiting... The national park is a quick 40 minute drive from our capital city, and sits on the shores of the dammed Lake Chivero, water source to the same city. Here are some overdue pictures from an October summer day spent finding animals in the park with some friends...

  

 
We first visited the dam, where we were each charged two dollars, by a man who may or may not have been a park ranger, to walk across the top.

The lake is home to oodles of crocodiles.  The men in these pictures are taking huge risks to catch a few fish, presumably to feed their families.  The weed is supposedly an illegally-introduced, invasive species that has been sprayed repeatedly throughout the city's water source in an attempt to eradicate it... Between that and the typhoid, you will not be seeing us drink any of this water anytime soon!

Surrounding the dam were a crazy new (to us) species of locust we have not seen before... each giant and striped like a pair of socks.

 

   

We saw kudu, sable, giraffe, a variety of monkey, rhino, warthog, tsesebe, wildebeest, zebra, and ostrich in addition to a variety of birds and colorful lizards

 

These white rhinos have been recently de-horned by the park service to deter poachers. This is typical of many of the rhinos in the country.

On the shore of the other side of Lake Chivero... here beautiful rock formations scatter the landscape.

 

Next to the water sits Bushman's Point, a beautiful example of the cave paintings found throughout the country.

 

Rickety barbed wire is the only thing protecting these treasures.

 

We enjoyed a picnic lunch with friends Kohl, Kalla, and Karyn before an abrupt ending caused by wild vervit monkeys. They like their chicken legs....

If Ever You Need Perspective

If ever you need to feel humbled, move to Africa. Imagine moving your entire home full of belongings into a truck for Africa and your feelings at opening all of your items among people who make 100 dollars a month at best. We found ourselves in this position last weekend, when our container finally arrived -four months late, and just in time for Christmas. I was tickled after feeling months of desperation for the things we so "terribly" needed to make home feel like home.  As our gardener's wife helped us to wash all of our kitchenware I suddenly became acutely aware of my privilege.  I felt my face burn as I had Jesca wash boxes and boxes of things like our Parmesan cheese grater, ice cream scoops, and sushi dishes, the likes of which she had never seen, let alone been able to afford.  I quickly shut the door to the rest of the house, filled with containers and Jonas' newly discovered toys strewn about.  I opened the rest of our boxes with curtains closed while I thought about Jesca's boys playing in the yard with their stitched-together grocery-bag ball and felt a large dose of humbleness in my heart.

 

If ever you need to see the humor in things, move to Africa.  Among other things Jonas and I have been looking forward to, a bike and carrier have been on the top of the list.  We typically walk about four km a day on dusty paths and shoulders of roads in mid-day African heat.  I was tickled to finally have our bikes arrive, newly purchased just for our African commute.  What I didn't expect, though, was how humored all of the local Shona would be with our bikes.  Apparently a white woman zipping around town in a bulky bicycle helmet with a giant trailer wheeling behind her, helmeted baby trapped inside, is reason to stop and smile, to sometimes point, and almost always to always yell, "Mangwanani!  I like your bike!"  I am joyously laughed at with awe so often I preemptively start laughing at myself now whenever I pass someone.

 

If ever you need to feel cynical, move to Africa. Kurt and I checked each numbered item that came off our moving truck as six men labored in long sleeve uniforms in place of ramps and dollies.  As the last piece found its way into the house, the head mover and Kurt looked at each other.  "There is a lot missing," they agreed.  We went through the lists again, having the movers unwrap every piece of furniture to make sure no package was stuck inside another.  When the movers finally left, we spent the rest of the weekend ripping open boxes at an exhaustive pace, rather than with joyful discovery, trying to recall what and how our American movers had packed, and writing down almost $40,000 worth of stolen items.  Everything from electronics to a computer to table legs to design work to the 75 Christmas ornaments Jonas and I made together last year to the ten books I had handmade for each year of our marriage landed on the list. It rarely happens, though a pair of our friends had the same situation. The items were all accounted for when we arrived in the country, but four months of visa waiting later, seals were broken and bonded storage turned out to be, well, not so bonded.  We are currently dealing with insurance claims and explaining to Jonas why he now has no tricycle or bicycle. Training wheels, yes.  Bicycle, no.  

 

If ever you need to feel gratitude, move to Africa.  I set aside some of the paper packaging and boxes from our move for Jonas.  He wanted paper to draw on and boxes to build a fort. Upon leaving, the movers asked if they could take the mountain of bubble wrap sheets that had been taken off our large furniture items.  I thanked them, saying, "absolutely," so we would not have to burn the plastic in our yard.  Our gardener pulled me aside hurriedly and whispered, "Madame, can I keep it? I can sell it. People need beds."  I had totally forgotten that many of those who are not fortunate to have mattresses here sleep on scavenged cardboard and, if they're lucky, paper and bubble wrap.  My trash was just what others had been hoping for.  My bed has washed a wave of gratitude over me each time I've walked past it this week.

 

If you ever want to feel joy for the simple things, move to Africa. I have a favorite family Jonas and I pass every day on our trek; they are squatters who live among the foundational outlines of an incomplete house two streets from us.  We shout out greetings to each other and our babies whenever we cross paths.  (When they first encountered me zipping past on our bike, the father shouted, "HA!  So much betta!  Yo bike is very clever! I see you go fast!  Ha ha ha! Go fast baby!")  They are the happiest family I've seen. The family can be seen doing their laundry in a wheel-less wheelbarrow every afternoon.  One day I passed at an atypical time and watched the mother run full speed from a water spigot to the wheelbarrow, water pouring from the bottom of a holey bucket.  She got a few cups worth into the wheelbarrow, then turned around and started back to the spigot once again.  The beautiful part?  She was laughing the whole way.

If ever you need to feel conflicted, move to Africa. The one most important thing, we were warned by the school, is to never give away from your gate.  If you make the mistake of giving from your door, people will know where to find you.  And their relatives.  And their friends.  Over and over again.  Soon it will be hard to get out of your home.  So when an elderly man came to our gate last weekend asking for money and Kurt, who like myself believes in the value of giving, lovingly said, "Sure, just a moment," into the buzzer, I jumped down his throat.  ((This is after I encountered a begging woman last week that has been returning unwelcome to our next door neighbor's gate for over ten years after she was once helped out when she needed assistance for her sick baby. I admit I heartbreakingly wished her many blessings and denied her the money I recognized she desperately needed in a tactic of self-preservation I have felt guilty about ever since.))  Kurt and I then hissed back and forth with hushed voices about what to do, as he had just led the man to believe he was going out promptly, but I recognized that it would be me trying to get him away from our gate the next time he came and Kurt was at school.  While the man waited, our sad discussion turned to conversation about how we want so desperately to answer the human condition here with a loving approach, that we want to treat all human beings as though they were God themselves, and how much we resent living in a place where the rules of how to live keep our lives safe but make us feel as though we aren't living at the same time.  No matter how we chose, the discomfort of the situation remains present.  In the end, Kurt went out to the gate.  

If ever you need to feel certain, move to Africa. People ask me all the time if I regret moving to Africa, after such a challenging last few months filled with car accidents and visa issues.  My answer is always the same.  

"Never. Look at how much I've learned."

Milk Tarts

New African foods, continued...

Meet the milk tart:

In the land of MSG, meat pie is everywhere.  Here it's usually a salty, hard crusted lead weight full of MSG and Grade D meat that is so unpalatable most of the time, I couldn't even bring myself to write an entire blog entry about it.  So I decided to write about something good that also comes in a shell here... milk tarts, sometimes referred to as cream tarts. Found in local coffee shops and bakeries throughout countries in southern Africa, the cream tart is a superior version of flan or custard... It has all of the qualities and textures of those two, but the egg, cream, and sugar combination comes in a sweet flaky crust with nutmeg and cinnamon on top.  It is also one of the cheapest desserts to be found.  Highly recommended.

Here Jonas reaches for his third cream tart at a coffee shop.

Don't worry.  He will finish it.

Dryvors and Biltong

New African Foods Week, continued:

 This post is dedicated to Andy and Jonny and all the other heroic vegetarians in my life...

Meet droewors (pronunced dry-vors) and biltong:

  

Biltong is a cured meat originally from South Africa.  It is usually made from meat cut into strips, spiced, and dried.  Unlike jerky, biltong is not sweet, and is much thicker than jerky.  It can also be made from a number of different meats including game, ostrich, chicken, or fish. Most often, though, beef biltong is easiest to find.  

 The meat has remained popular despite modern day cooling in Africa. There are biltong bars and stores in South Africa devoted solely to selling numerous flavors of biltong. Aside from different flavors, one can get different fat contents of biltong, as well as "wet" (moist-almost gooey), "medium", or "dry" (hard as a rock.) It is most often eaten plain, or cut up in muffins.  Biltong is also the primary thing parents in southern Africa use for teething babies.  It's hilarious to walk down the street and see a drooling baby with a hunk of black meat hanging from its mouth.  

Biltong is pretty tough for Jonas to eat in more than tiny pieces.  His favorite thing to eat from the butcher is something called droewors...

  

A popular South African snack food, droewars is made from (what will have to be a different entry someday) boerwers sausage that is corriander-seed spiced.  These dried sausages are not stored in the refrigerator, but instead make a great snack to put in a backpack when going on a long hike.  They usually come in approximately foot long lengths, and are typically beef.  They are still chewy, but much easier to eat than biltong.

Below is a biltong/droewors platter served at a local restaurant.  It makes me a bit queasy looking at it... biltong and droewors are palatable in moderation, but this is a bit too much for me...

Forget the vegetables... here are some nuts as a side dish!