Monday, August 29, 2005
Accra, Ghana
On the outskirts of Accra, children stand by the road and wave dead bush rats the size of dogs, flattened duikers with grotesquely charred heads, an occasional monkey and monstrous forest snails at passing cars. While in most other places this would be about as sociable as a hard smack to the back of the head, the children in Ghana are just trying to be friendly and make a few quick cedis. In Ghana, bush meat is almost as popular as Celine Deon. It was the original African delicacy, long before beef shwarmas, ice or even mayonnaise hit the scene. We had been invited to stay at the house of Amstel, a friend Tuuli had gotten to know during a previous stay in Ghana, and I felt that we could not pass up this chance to immediately say thank you with the gift of bush food.
Tuuli and Nate were not so certain, but in the end I convinced them that at the very least, we should buy a quartet of forest snails. The four slimy mollusks, still alive, were put into a black plastic bag by our friendly snail monger and we were quickly on our way. Unbenowkst to us, Accra traffic was setting a nasty trap up ahead and we were stuck for hours inching our way towards Nkrumah Circle. By the time we were through and had met up with Amstel, it was late and we left our bags in the car until morning.
The next day I found that two of the snails had not survived the journey. It was apparent that at some point baggage had shifted and smothered the two largest snails. Saddened but not yet dismayed, I took the surviving snails and put them in a large bucket. Tuuli, who had earlier boasted of her skill in cooking the tiny cousins of these massive forest snails, said that they should be left for a few days in order to flush their systems. Agreeing, I put a cover over the bucket and prepared to head into town with Nate. I figured Tuuli, who was staying behind, could keep an eye on the bucket. However the idea of baby sitting snails did not sit so well with her. She told me she would have nothing to do with it. After asking her a few more times, it became clear that the snails would not be her responsibility.
When I returned, the lid was mysteriously ajar and one of them was missing. Someone had bumped the lid aside and a snail was loose, somewhere in Amstels house. I looked around the bucket. Nothing but piles of clothes, bags and boxes unloaded from the Stingray. Tuuli was relaxing on the couch, completely unaware that somewhere in the house lurked a freakishly big mollusk. Where the forest snail was baffled me, having left the most suitable habitat in the house, but I knew for certain that we would not have a place to stay much longer if it decided to reappear at in inopportune time somewhere completely inappropriate. Amstels bed in the adjoining room kept coming to mind.
It was not until two days later that the snail turned up. In my medicine bag, dead as a door nail, next to my toothbrush. This was not a coincidence. I turned and held up my soiled toothbrush for Nate and Tuuli. Tuuli started laughing. The culprit could be no one else but her. I soon found out that Tuuli, attempting to teach me some sort of lesson on responsibility, had found the snail the day before, still alive at the time, and hid it in my medicine bag. Upon the snails death, it had expelled all kinds of noxious and potentially hazardous fluids, saturating my toiletries with the essence of rancid mollusk. Despite this awful realization and my inability to grasp the lesson, I was relieved that it did not turn up in one of the many places my imagination had assured me it would.
On the outskirts of Accra, children stand by the road and wave dead bush rats the size of dogs, flattened duikers with grotesquely charred heads, an occasional monkey and monstrous forest snails at passing cars. While in most other places this would be about as sociable as a hard smack to the back of the head, the children in Ghana are just trying to be friendly and make a few quick cedis. In Ghana, bush meat is almost as popular as Celine Deon. It was the original African delicacy, long before beef shwarmas, ice or even mayonnaise hit the scene. We had been invited to stay at the house of Amstel, a friend Tuuli had gotten to know during a previous stay in Ghana, and I felt that we could not pass up this chance to immediately say thank you with the gift of bush food.
Tuuli and Nate were not so certain, but in the end I convinced them that at the very least, we should buy a quartet of forest snails. The four slimy mollusks, still alive, were put into a black plastic bag by our friendly snail monger and we were quickly on our way. Unbenowkst to us, Accra traffic was setting a nasty trap up ahead and we were stuck for hours inching our way towards Nkrumah Circle. By the time we were through and had met up with Amstel, it was late and we left our bags in the car until morning.
The next day I found that two of the snails had not survived the journey. It was apparent that at some point baggage had shifted and smothered the two largest snails. Saddened but not yet dismayed, I took the surviving snails and put them in a large bucket. Tuuli, who had earlier boasted of her skill in cooking the tiny cousins of these massive forest snails, said that they should be left for a few days in order to flush their systems. Agreeing, I put a cover over the bucket and prepared to head into town with Nate. I figured Tuuli, who was staying behind, could keep an eye on the bucket. However the idea of baby sitting snails did not sit so well with her. She told me she would have nothing to do with it. After asking her a few more times, it became clear that the snails would not be her responsibility.
When I returned, the lid was mysteriously ajar and one of them was missing. Someone had bumped the lid aside and a snail was loose, somewhere in Amstels house. I looked around the bucket. Nothing but piles of clothes, bags and boxes unloaded from the Stingray. Tuuli was relaxing on the couch, completely unaware that somewhere in the house lurked a freakishly big mollusk. Where the forest snail was baffled me, having left the most suitable habitat in the house, but I knew for certain that we would not have a place to stay much longer if it decided to reappear at in inopportune time somewhere completely inappropriate. Amstels bed in the adjoining room kept coming to mind.
It was not until two days later that the snail turned up. In my medicine bag, dead as a door nail, next to my toothbrush. This was not a coincidence. I turned and held up my soiled toothbrush for Nate and Tuuli. Tuuli started laughing. The culprit could be no one else but her. I soon found out that Tuuli, attempting to teach me some sort of lesson on responsibility, had found the snail the day before, still alive at the time, and hid it in my medicine bag. Upon the snails death, it had expelled all kinds of noxious and potentially hazardous fluids, saturating my toiletries with the essence of rancid mollusk. Despite this awful realization and my inability to grasp the lesson, I was relieved that it did not turn up in one of the many places my imagination had assured me it would.
2 Comments:
Certainly not a menu that Mom and I would want to share on our next visit to Africa. Good to see that you all still have a good sense of humor. Hope all the visa work can be accomplished and you all can get back underway.
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