“What are you doing here on this island”?
“I am here to study African food in an unspoiled environment.”
(scotch)
It was my standard response. Canned, rehearsed, and repeated several times a day. Apparently the Europeans were pretty shocked to run into an American chef in some far stretch of Africa. He took a long stare at me and said nothing. So I continued, “I grew up in Florida around Caribbean food, but I think the authenticity is disappearing. Once the islanders get access to Miami’s grocery stores the magic of the food is spoiled in some ways. So I went to remote Nicaragua to study unspoiled Caribbean food. I have always been fascinated with African food and I saw a huge amount of similarity between African and Caribbean. So I wanted to study the roots of....”
“Why are you here? What are you doing here?”
(another scotch)
“Nobody is doing anything to preserve this cuisine. There is nothing that properly documents Swahili food. And it is the spice epicenter. It is the original “fusion food”. They traded people for peppercorns!”
“Yes. But why are you here? You are here for money. You are a profiteer like any other mzungu in Africa. No?”
“No.”
(another scotch and a bit more dribble)
“I am here to study food. I will take home with me recipes from the old Swahili mamas. The young ones just want fish-n-chips. So their cuisine is dying. And I will help to preserve...”
“But WHY are you doing this?”
“I might write a book and I am looking at opening a restaurant. I don't know what I am doing yet.” I hadn’t planned that far and that was all I had. I was fading. My bartender was biting his lip to keep himself from falling asleep at the bar. One of my Maasai askari (watchman) on his nightly rounds strolls through the bar and leaves us with a waft of leather and must from the cow fat he rubs on his skin. I notice that he is only armed with a stick which seems ridiculous to me at the time because I have given him strict orders to kill cats that have been waking me and my guests up at 4:00 am every day. How the hell is he going to... Why doesn't he have a fucking bow or a spear or something cooler than a stick. I make a note-to-self on a bar room napkin: "Arm Maasai. Maybe poison." I am dizzy from scotch and my Indian friend is still very keen on exploring my intentions in Africa.
“So you are here to take recipes and cooking techniques from the Swahili people, and use them in ways to make yourself money? You are here for profit. Not as some sort of crusader to the preservation of the Swahili culture. If you write a book or open a restaurant you aim to profit off your experience with the Swahili people.”
(scotch again, then verbal implosion)
“I am living in bush Africa. I have been isolated from my friends and family for years while traveling around food. So, yes. Somebody is going to fucking pay me for it! Ultimately the Swahili people would benefit from a book that preserves their culture. But I am not doing what I do for charity. When I leave here somebody is going to pay me for having a cracked tooth that I can’t get fixed! Somebody is going to pay me for malaria-induced hallucinations involving semi-frozen, sandy octopus!! Someone is going to pay me for eating barracuda and green bananas every other day for months upon end!!! Someone somewhere will pay me! So yeah. I am a privateer. Why are you in Africa?"
We finish the bottle of scotch and head toward our respective targets. Me toward the reception area to make sure the computer is turned off (so that the village power doesn’t paralyze my only link to the outside world when we kill our generator). And my Indian friend staggers towards his room where he will find his sweet smelling and sleeping wife snuggled up next to my measuring cup.
When I enter the reception area I find that a local puppy has paid another visit and chewed on a tassel of the expensive Moroccan rug that adorns the floor. It is the first thing guests see when they arrive. I will have to alert my gardener, The Green Assassin, in the morning. But an askari should be aware tonight I decide. We don't want any missed opportunities. So I go to fetch one.
The askari I find on this particular evening doesn’t speak English so I am forced to communicate in drunken and broken Kiswahili. Best I can remember is that paka is a cat and bata is a dog. So I proceed to tell him that the bata is causing a lot of matatizos (problems) by coming in at night and chewing the carpet. But listen! I don’t want the bata killed because this particular bata chases the paka. And the paka is causing matatizos because it is waking the wageney at night looking for chakula. So just chase the bata away, OK?
Wholesale veritable confusion ensues. The askari makes a horrid attempt at English and unleashes a string of words so jumbled and non-sensical it sounded as if someone had dropped some sort of word grenade.
I repeat it, changing my verbage as many ways as I know how. Why the fuck is this so difficult! I am desperately trying to maintain my composure and I am drunk off my ass. I know that they haven’t had the education that I have had. And I try to remind myself of how fortunate I am. The goddamn bata is chewing the carpet! Don’t kill the bata because the bata chases the paka. Don’t you understand?! How damned difficult is this?! Do I need to draw stick figures?!
I tell the askari to wait and I leave to fetch the bartender who somewhat understands English. I bring everyone together and tell the same damn story. The bata is chewing the carpet. Don’t kill it. It chases the paka. It really is that simple.
My bartender looks at me and says, “The matatizo is that bata mean ‘duck’ and duck don’t chase cat. Askari chase dog that chew carpet. Hakuna matata.”
Well, shit. Hakuna matata. I am going to bed...
The bartender had to pull my Indian friend off his bed and dress him the next morning cause he was too drunk to do it himself and his wife wasn’t strong enough to lift him. A few more staff helped to prop him up in a Land Rover and get him to the airport in time to catch his flight.
The African sun was bright that next morning. I woke up wrapped up in my mosquito net clutching a mangled napkin that said, "Arm Maasai. Maybe poison." When I went by the kitchen my sous chef held up the measuring cup with a proud smile reflecting his ability to recover these sort of things. Something that the boss would surely miss and consequentially interrogate everyone over for weeks.
“For garden”, he says and smiles.
