An American learning how to eat in Africa

 

We cooked meals over an open fire alongside our narrow, shallow stream in the desert at a place you can’t find on the map.

 

There in southwestern Kenya, among the Maasai, for six weeks fifty of us camped in tents, counting orientees, children, and staff.

 

Our crew had set up the kitchen tent and cooking fire under fig trees, to take advantage of their shade, but baboons overhead threw figs at us. Our Kenyan staff hollered to drive them away, but they sat there with defiance in their eyes and kept pelting us.

 

One morning while I crouched beside the fire, cooking breakfast for our group, a baboon up in a tree pooped into the pot of food. I threw the whole thing out and began again.

 

“Can God spread a table in the desert?” the Israelites grumbled against God (Psalm 78:19). Yes, He gave them manna in their desert, and He gave us chapatis in ours—round, flat, bread-like, and fried in lard. Unleavened, and with a dense, rubbery consistency, chapatis are a staple throughout Kenya.

 

God also gave us ugali, a thick, stiff porridge of white cornmeal. We Americans found it flavorless because Kenyans don’t put salt or sugar in it, but they love it and eat large mounds a couple of times a day.

 

We also sampled dik-dik, ostrich eggs—one equals ten chicken eggs—and warthog, a gift from our Maasai friends who shot it with bows and arrows. It tasted delicious, tender and moist.

 

We learned hands-on things like how to soak vegetables and fruit in bleach-water to kill amoebas and other critters that could have made us really, really sick.

 

Our menu also included Marmite (sometimes called Vegemite, depending on the continent), a dark brown sticky substance the Brits and New Zealanders among us spread on their bread and butter. They were wild about it, but we Americans found it nasty.

 

And lest anyone believes that when a hen lays eggs, they look just like they do when we buy them at our North American supermarkets—No way! Before we cracked our eggs, we washed off straw, poop, and an occasional feather, and—since people didn’t refrigerate eggs and there was no such thing as a “use by” date—we tested them for freshness. We poured water into a container and dropped an egg in; a fresh egg would sink to the bottom, but a spoiled egg would float.

 

Our dining room, which adjoined the kitchen tent area under the trees, consisted of wooden folding tables and canvas safari chairs. I used both hands to eat. One hand navigated a fork, the other waved above my plate to protect it from flies, figs, and baboon droppings from above.

 

We also learned that what we call Jell-O is called “jelly” in Africa. And what we call jelly, Africans call “jam.” How confusing for us Americans!

 

Hamburger is called “mince.”

 

French fries are called “chips.”

 

Potato chips are called “crisps.”

 

Zucchinis are called “corgettes.”

 

Green peppers are called “capsicum.”

 

And corn is called “maize.”

 

Oh, dear . . . . We had so much to learn!