Dan's Culinary Top Ten

After a weekend of fine (and not so fine- Butcher Shop, I'm looking at you) dining, I present my second favorite topic: food (a close second to booze).

1) Steak: Cut to order (usually 200-600 grams), cheap and of a ridiculously high quality, South Africans know what to do with a hunk of beef. Our personal fave steakhouses are The Grillhouse, The Local Grill and Turn ‘N Tender, roughly in that order. All sell the same meat they serve in the restaurant to take home.

2) Creamed Spinach & Roasted Butternut Squash: If a baked potato is the typical US accompaniment to steak, this would be the RSA version. I think this one is coming home with me (The concept, not the food. Customs might freak if there was creamed spinach in my bag).

3) Pizza: Pie toppings in foreign countries have become a bit of an obsession for moi. My current favorite is the calamari, bacon and avocado from Espresso. The Portoghese from Cornuti’s is also nice (chorizo, sundried tomato, olives). Other odd toppings include shaved biltong (jerky), brie with cranberry, and pickled ginger with wasabi, though Marnie will inevitably order the Margherita.

4) Boerewors: Surrounding the grill at a recent cookout, an onlooker accused, “You Americans would probably smear ketchup all over that, wouldn’t you?” Well, maybe, but there’s no need for condiments with these delicious spicy sausages, a South African staple.

5) Game: No, you can’t buy a side of zebra in the grocery store, but almost all restaurants have some type of wild carpaccio (springbok, warthog or ostrich). Also delicious are potjies, essentially a wild game pot roast, served in a small castiron vessel.

6) Biltong: Does kudu (see below) jerky really taste that much different than beef? Not really, but it’s still kinda cool.

7) Peri Sauce: Portuguese hot sauce, ranging from mild and fruity to scorch your nose hairs hot. Great on any grilled meat, particularly chicken.

8) Cranks: A Jozi institution, the best place for Southeast Asian fare, with the finest spring rolls Marnie and I have ever tasted. As a bonus, Ken and Barbie dolls hang from the ceiling in, um, compromising positions.

9) Crispy Beef: Though our ubiquitous General Tso’s chicken is disappointingly missing from Chinese take-aways, the crispy beef has filled in admirably, having a similar spicy-sweet sauce.

10) Bar One Sauce: A Three Musketeers type candy bar melted down and poured over vanilla ice cream. Great at filling whatever little stomach space is left over after dinner.

Wildlife Watch: Hadeda & Myna

Not as entertaining as the baboons outside our hotel in Zim, nor as delicious as warthog (I’m guessing), the hadeda plays a much more fundamental role in our existence here in South Africa. If you grew up on a farm, no doubt a crowing rooster beckoned the coming of the dawn. That would be sweet music indeed, compared to the riot that greets us each morning around six.

A hadeda’s call falls somewhere between a goose’s honk and a crow’s caw, and is as loud as an air horn. Lest you think this just early morning grumpiness, a gang of cackling hadedas dive bombing over our flat at sunset has been known to propel me from my seat in terror. In flight, they are disturbingly pterodactyl like. Not that I was around then, but I’ve seen, like, drawings.

The myna doesn’t bother much of anybody, and I’m hard pressed to recall ever hearing one. More than anything, its corn yellow legs remind me of the cartoon crows Heckyl and Jeckyl. Its tendency to kangaroo hop along the ground in great bounds is good amusement (or at least it is to the shiftless blogger who has time to stand around watching birds).

Ho Hum

Last weeks hoedown in Pretoria may have given our kind readers an unrealistic vision of our lives here. The truth is, day to day, things are pretty mundane. During the week, after we’ve been to the gym, Marnie “Somalis up” and takes the car to Mayfair, leaving me here to read, write and be entertained (or annoyed) by the Kirstein household . I’d go with Marnie more often, but I feel my presence affects her ability to do research (especially with the guys). I try to get out and walk around, even if it’s only up to the corner for a coffee, but my explorations are limited to how far my feet can carry me.

So, this being a bit of a slow week, I thought some random observations from my daily stroll are in order. For instance, I am quite the anomaly walking around town. White people rarely walk if they can drive, even if it’s just a couple of blocks. It’s just me with the nannies and gardeners hoofing it about on the red dirt. I think I saw an elderly white gentleman walking home from the grocery once, but that’s about it.

An idea that should be adopted by the US immediately is pharmacy delivery. Though the scooter couriers certainly annoy by weaving between cars on the road, they often arrive at the house within a half hour of Jacqui calling. There’s nothing worse than standing in line for fifteen minutes only to be told that your prescription isn’t ready. Is it too late to make this part of the Health Care Bill?

Lastly, and most oddly, we have an ice cream truck in our neighborhood. When thinking about how different life would be here, I certainly never thought, “At least I won’t have to go without street delivered Bomb Pops”. Until today, I had only heard that creepy organ grinder music echoing in the distance, so I couldn’t be sure if it was just a figment of my imagination.

Walking up the hill, the music growing louder, the truck finally revealed itself. I was more than a little disappointed. The truck was a mini-van airbrushed in lurid colors, and the driver was a sloppy Ron Jeremy look-a-like. If you don’t know who that is, congrats, you’ve lived a much more chaste and pure life than the rest of us.

Meet the Kirsteins: Ethan

Just look at that sweet face, those Alfalfa freckles. Don’t you be fooled.

This is all Marnie’s fault, really. When we got here, that kid just mumbled into his navel every time we spoke to him. Now we get raspberries blown at us and the wife is called “Barney”. I can honestly say I’ve never been nice to him. Not once.

Ethan on his own is not that bad, and can actually be a decent kid, when he’s not feeling whiny. Get one of his little friends over here, though, and he turns decidedly demonic. We’ve told him that one day little ‘sis India is going to get big and clobber him, but he still loves to torture her when he has company.

Periodically, usually when we’re flat exhausted, you can expect to hear little footsteps pinging up the metal steps to our apartment. Once, just out of the shower, I thought it was Marnie coming back from Mayfair, only to find little ‘E and his friend gawking at me in my full Calvin Kleined glory. I TOLD the runt to knock when the door is closed…

Ethan is nearly six, but is still considered in pre-school here. They have yet to get through the alphabet yet, which is weird given the pressure for kids to be able to read and write before entering kindergarten back home. I’m not saying one way is better than the other, but the relaxed attitude towards early learning here certainly contrasts with the hyper-competitive “Baby Einstein” approach in the States.

Note: As I prepare to publish this, Ethan and his friend are looking over my shoulder, eating our after dinner mints. Good thing they can't read. Poo-poo heads.

The Fixers

Sorry for not posting yet this week. It’s not that nothing happened, it’s that I wanted to get the whole story first.

On Monday we took Marnie’s Somali friend Sahra, her husband and another guy to Pretoria to the UN offices. We didn’t know we’d be taking two additional people until we got to Sahra’s in Mayfair, so our poor Corsa took on a clown car appearance driving up the M1 during rush hour.

When we got to the UN building around eight, a crowd had already formed two lines by gender in front of the barred doors. When the gates finally lifted a half hour later, a lot of pushing and shouting was taking place in the men’s line. The guards were allowing non-Somali’s to cut to the front. Some of the Somalis and a few Burundians had spent the night outside on the street, and many told us that they had been there numerous times without getting in the door. Some women were pregnant or had young children in tow. Marnie and I were even asked if we were immigrants, presumably so we could cut in line as well.

The problem, we were told, is that Somalis will not pay bribes. When Marnie confronted the dreadlocked screener, whom the Somalis called Rasta, as to why people were allowed to cut in line, he responded that, “We are not here just to help Somalis.” Ironically, a number of people were there just to make sure they were registered with the UN, in order to be sponsored by family abroad to resettle elsewhere.

The mob was understandably upset, particularly the ladies. That’s when Marnie got her camera out, and things got tense. After snapping a few pictures, an ADT guard policing the gates pulled Marnie aside and told her that if another photo was taken, he would call the police. Despite the fact that we had every right to take pictures outside on a public street, Marnie relented. Later Rasta said that someone wanted to speak to Marnie inside, alone, about why she was taking pictures.

This understandably freaked us out, and we left immediately. We returned to the shopping center where we parked, but could not get Sahra on her cell phone. Worried sick that we had endangered our friends, she finally called back a half hour later. Rasta had agreed to let her in, but she didn’t know how long she’d be, so she told us to take off and she would catch a ride later.

Marnie felt absolutely awful to cause trouble for the people she had intended to help, but we found out that our actions had been vindicated the next day. Apparently Rasta had interrogated the Somalis for hours as to Marnie’s purpose, but none of them owned up to knowing her, though they helpfully suggested she may be a journalist or UN employee. I guess he was quite tearful about the whole ordeal, and was so anxious, in fact, that every Somali there got an appointment to get inside.

A tiny victory, but satisfying none the less. Let’s hope it lasts.

The Hunter Bar

We had invited the Irish journalist Lawrence out to the Hunter Bar in town as well as our new Japanese friends. Don’t ask me their names, I couldn’t say them much less spell them. We hadn’t exchanged cell numbers with Lawrence and were afraid he’d be a no-show, but figured since it happened to be his birthday we had a decent shot.

This is a local bar, and arriving first, I was nervous as what to expect. Walking in, we were immediately invited to have a seat with two Zim guys, Tom and Mika. We had a few drinks and laughs before the Japanese guys showed up, where we helped translate for the Zim guys (three peoples separated by a common language).

Lawrence finally showed and regaled us with tales of his day doing the “Adrenaline Package”, which involved bungee, zip lining, gorge swinging and some other stuff. He bungeed five times, including backwards and from a handstand. The guides encouraged him to go for the aforementioned record of 11 jumps, but he told them he could only feel like he was going to die so many times before he actually did.

I had purchased some 200 ml scotch bottles from duty-free before we left, but was not going to be able to finish off the last one, so I gave it to Lawrence as a birthday present, which was very well received. All was going very swimmingly until Tom the Zim drank a bit too much and got, well, clingy. At one point he wouldn’t let Marnie up to go talk to Lawrence, and the whole thing got very awkward. He made us promise to come see him at his rental booth down at the falls, but that was not to happen.

Sloppy drunken Zimbabweans aside, it was a great time, and the perfect excuse for Marnie and me to lay skulking in our room until our shuttle to the airport.

Boat Drinks

The Zambezi River Sundowner Cruise is a bit of a misnomer. A sundowner is the southern African tradition of having a drink at the end of the day. This would imply one river, one beverage, one cruise. This was not the case.

Our cruise passenger list included five Japanese youngsters, two English girls, a South African family and a group of rowdy Aussies. Apart from the Aussies, the trip up river was fairly quiet, but about three beers in the mood changed. The boat crew was so busy replenishing drinks that we knocked into another boat as they cut across our bow. We were frustrated by a perpetually submerged hippo, but as the boat turned downstream towards the falls the groups were intermixing and taking each others photos.

We chatted up the Japanese students beside us and learned that this was their graduation trip before they started their new job and grad school, respectively. Despite their shaky English (and our non-existent Japanese), we had a great time. We made two new Facebook buddies and invited them out for drinks that evening.

As we turned back from the falls, we finally got the hippo sighting that everyone hoped for, including a small calf. The ride back to the dock was cheerful, and I think the whole experience added greatly to international diplomacy.

I'll Give You A Good Price...

On Sunday afternoon we had a river cruise scheduled, so we hit the craft markets earlier in the day. Circumstance would dictate this was an unwise proposition. It is the low season at the falls, and many people fly out on a Sunday, meaning that we were nearly the only people there. Stalls and stalls of carved wooden animals, seas of carved stone, and dozens of eyes glued to us as we approached.

Every hawker on the street, he has the same two masks, the same two carved figurines, and he’s polishing them with a rag as he tells you what a good deal he has just for you. Two for $25. Two for $15. Two for $10. Then, when it becomes clear it isn’t going to happen, he tells you about how long it’s been since he sold something. How hungry he and his family are. If you could just give him a dollar, he could buy some bread. The problem is, there are 100 people, and they would all like a dollar.

That’s not to say that the experience was all bad. We met a slick guy who likes to be called Cali who sold us some Zim money (he got a ridiculously good deal, we found out later). He showed us how he was polishing up a very impressive wooden candleholder. Later we met Rudolf, a very bright law student who was watching his mother’s shop. He gave us the unfiltered political views we'd wanted since arriving. For an hour he railed against President Mugabe and the corrupt Zanu-PF, explaining the realities you don’t get in international news bites. We bought a lovely wall hanging that he said he’d painted himself.

In the craft market, everyone is an "artist". Yet shop after shop, you see the same carved wooden hippos, the same stone soap dishes, the same elephant hair bracelets. Somewhere, someone very talented cranks out these pieces by hand, but I doubt they go to market to sell them as well. That’s not to say that the pieces aren’t beautiful and each unique in their own right, but to find a one of a kind piece takes some serious searching.

Boma (The Place of Eating)

When asked where to go for dinner in Vic Falls, the answer is universally, “Boma”. It’s located at the Safari Lodge where we originally wanted to stay, so we went for drinks before dinner. The lodge is the tree house every kid wants, an open air log and thatch structure overlooking a large watering hole on the edge of the Zimbabwean bush. Two drinks in and with dusk approaching, we had seen only some warthogs and some vultures. Then someone shouted “buffalo!”, and a seemingly endless herd of cape buffalo filtered in along the water’s edge. Fifteen minutes later, two huge elephants and a smaller juvenile strolled in. We were very happy to get our seats before the crowds pushed in.

The Boma experience begins with a decorative swath of fabric being tied over your shoulder, followed by a little face painting (dots for ladies, stripes for dudes). Drummers announce your arrival. The restaurant itself is a humongous hut with seating and food stations surrounding a central performance area. You order an appetizer from a menu, but everything else is buffet style. I enjoyed my impala knuckle starter (a lot like venison- duh), and the sweet potato soup. From the grill, I had ostrich skewers, kudu (like an elk) and marinated warthog, though the less adventurous can order steak and chicken. Great stuff and all highly recommended.

During appetizers, Marnie spotted a fella on his own and invited him to join us. Turns out our boy Lawrence is an Irish journalist on assignment. He provided great insight into the “Troubles” and other stories he’d done, and is a great guy all around.

Around eight some traditional dancers emerged, but with the majority of the crowd still plowing through their dinner, the performers were irked with their lukewarm reception. The interactive drumming afterwards was much more raucously welcomed, followed by some dancing (we did not participate). Storytellers, fortune tellers and face painters all circulate offering their services. The whole thing is a bit cheesy, but in good company is great fun.

The Falls

Walking around town, you can hear the rumble, see the mist rising in the distance. Teasing. Then the trees clear around the Devil’s Cataract and you feel the raw power of all that water pounding down from a height twice that of Niagara Falls.

Experiencing that first peek of Victoria Falls, you don’t understand why the hotel recommended umbrellas, why all these people are walking around with ponchos. By the end of the two hours we spent walking to the east end, it became painfully clear. The Devil’s Cataract produces a light mist, the Main Falls a shifting drizzle. Past the middle point at Livingstone Island, you’re lucky to see anything between fire hose blasts in the face. This was partially due to a gusty easterly wind, but the lack of tree cover past Horseshoe Falls means that it’s drizzly and wet even in good weather.

Around Danger Point (no guardrail- yikes!), my head tired of pokes from Marnie’s umbrella. Disgruntled, I told her to walk ahead. And immediately got doused by a downpour. Damn Karma.

We dried out watching lunatics bungee off the bridge to Zambia. A friend informed us that the record number of jumps in a day is 11, a record which stayed solidly intact during our trip.

Ilala

Our hotel, the Ilala, was recommended to us by our first choice, the Safari lodge, but had the benefit of being in town, and thus within walking distance of the falls and the craft market. Not as atmospheric as the Safari, it nonetheless has the charming thatched roof and stucco style that Marnie and I enjoy so much about southern African architecture. The staff is ridiculously friendly, and the PR manager Michelle was great in recommending stuff to do in the area.

Dinner menus in the area tend to include wild game, and for dinner at the hotel I had crocodile terrine and warthog steak. The bacon it was wrapped in somewhat masked the flavour of the croc, but it seemed very mild. Of its texture I can say that it is flakier than chicken yet firmer than fish (not much help, I know). Warthog proved to be the culinary revelation of the trip, with even Marnie giving it a thumbs up. It’s a bit tougher than standard pork, but infinitely more flavourful without being too gamey. Baconlishous.

The signs off the patio behind our room warn visitors not to approach wild animals, but after the first day I thought they were mainly for show. The next three mornings proved otherwise, as warthogs and baboons wandered through the yard. In fact, baboons tend to wander through town with the same frequency as squirrels back home. One walked up to an ATM like he was going to do a bit of business before being chased up a tree by some dogs in the neighbouring park.

Though we stood outside our back door safely enough, the baboons must pose a liability risk to the hotel, as the staff scattered them with pebbles shot from slingshots. Poor guys already walk around with big red asses and then they get rocks slung at them…

Welcome to Zim

Victoria Falls was always close to the top of our travel list here, but we assumed we’d be going via Zambia. However, some of Marnie’s colleagues at Wits convinced her that Zimbabwe was safe for tourists, so we took the plunge.

The trip didn’t start well. We stood waiting on a packed shuttle bus for twenty minutes while the crew resolved a baggage issue before we were allowed to board our plane. The mood was lightened somewhat by the picture snapping Japanese tourists who had to be shooed off the runway right after landing. Customs was not as amusing. There were two lines, but ours was moving so slowly that most of the plane arriving after us went through customs before we did. We didn't find our transport to the hotel until I noticed a gentleman with a sign reading “Marran Shafer”. So we were off.

A few things about Zim. One, it is just too weird going to an ATM and having it spit out US greenbacks. To combat their spiralling inflation, Zim went to the dollar standard a year ago, though South African Rand are readily accepted. Two, after living in SA for over a month, we were overjoyed to go to a country with no electric fencing or razor wire, where one can walk down the street in the middle of the night without worrying. Three, people are eager to point out how much better off Zim is than during the financial crisis. They desperately want tourists to return to the country, and in Victoria Falls I would have no qualms recommending they do so. That said, the Zanu-PF government commits horrendous human rights violations against their people, and until President Mugabe bites it, the country can’t move forward.

It’s obviously too cumbersome to write about the entirety of our trip in one blog, so I’m breaking it down into little nuggets for your reading enjoyment.

100 Days

Yesterday marked 100 days until the start of the first World Cup on African soil. The big question being asked is, is South Africa ready?

The answer is a resounding... sort of. The stadiums seem to be ready, apart from the one stadium that was built from scratch for the tournament. It isn't scheduled for completion until the end of May. Cutting it a little close there boys. Due to the clay-rich soil under the field, the sod has been laid down and pulled up twice. Crossing my fingers on that one.

Crime is crime. More officers are being added, but when you have a very poor population living alongside a very wealthy one, things tend to happen. If visitors are smart and heed advice, there's shouldn't be reason to worry, but alcohol and ignorance tend to play into the bad guys' hands.

One of the most contenscious issues is transportation. Due to the lack of a public transportation infrastructure, travel between match sites will largely fall upon the airlines' shoulders. Extra manpower, flights and planes are being added, though worryingly an investigation into price fixing is on the horizon. Some flights within the country have tripled in price recently, and that "windfall profit" type of mentality really threatens to spoil the event. This country will make enough money without having to resort to ripping people off.

Now for a little primer. A vuvuzela is a large plastic horn that South Africans blow at soccer matches. From a distance it sounds kinda cool. Next to your head it sounds like a migraine. Ear plugs are good. Bafana Bafana means "the boys", and is the nickname of the South African soccer team. Usually the hosting nation gets a little boost performance wise playing in front of their own fans, but most are pessimistic about Bafana's chances of progressing out of the group stage. Soccer City, pictured above, is the site of the opening match and the final. I will be attending a group stage match between Ghana and Germany there, as well as the US versus Slovenia match in Ellis Park (provided I pick up my tickets without a hastle). I'm also hoping to score some seats to the opener (South Africa versus Mexico), but am relying on the generosity of others to do so. Regardless, it should be an amazing time.

Race

Marnie and I went to the apartheid museum on Sunday. It is an immense building, and only after we were in the Nelson Mandela wing for two hours did we realize how much more of the building was left. All in all we were there for more than three hours, but really you could spend a whole day there.

I learned more than a few things. You have probably heard of the squalid conditions in the townships, the pass cards that restricted non-whites’ movements and access to resources, the torture and death of anti-apartheid supporters in police custody. Some things I didn't know about were the active attempts by the government to suppress black education, in order to have a semi-skilled workforce to work in the mines and industry. You also don’t usually hear about the violence, both by militant blacks and far right whites, that rocked the country in the years between Mandela’s release from Robben Island in 1990 and his inauguration in 1994. It’s a true testament to the man’s greatness that the country didn't descend into civil war.

I don’t pretend to be an expert on race in South Africa, but here is primer on what I do know. The Boer are the descendants of the original Dutch settlers who pushed onward from Cape Town to colonize the country. Due to their treatment during the Anglo-Boer Wars at the turn of last century, there is still some resentment between English and Boer whites. Boer in Afrikaans means farmer, and there is a stereotype that they are ignorant rednecks.

Since the fall of apartheid, there is a growing black middle class, though unemployment is officially around 30% (and unofficially much higher). Apart from resentment towards immigrants, there are tribal divisions that are evident in the highest levels of government. There is a push by the ANC to nationalize large sectors of the economy, which makes many whites nervous that a situation like Zimbabwe could occur here. The San, the indigenous people of South Africa, are the low men on the totem pole. Their treatment is very similar to that of the Aborigines in Australia, or Native Americans.

Under apartheid, the Indian community did relatively well due to their elevated status compared to blacks. Though Indians were active in the fight against apartheid, there is resentment towards how they advanced economically during those years. Add in the Chinese, Portuguese and Jewish communities here and you have a proper mess. Compared to this, I’d take America’s racial baggage any day.

The pillars in front of the museum read: democracy, reconciliation, equality, diversity, responsibility, respect and freedom. Certainly something to aspire to.

Henna: A Cautionary Tale

Marnie's previous cultural adventure in henna tattooing has gone afoul. While the original tattoo has largely worn off, her skin has had a traumatic reaction to the black die, leaving her with what she describes as "a thousand little mosquito bites". In a decorative pattern, of course. After a number of ointments, creams and finally an anti-inflammatory pill, she appears to be on the road to recovery.