Sunshine City

Harare, Southern Africa.

I live in a city in Southern Africa.  Harare in particular. The Sunshine City.

On a good day I get up before the sun rises, while it is still dark out- and sometimes dark inside when there is no electricity-just before the birds start singing.

My Grandparents would have been proud; they were the generation that believed that you begin work before the sun rises. My Grandfather had a particular song, “Vasikana vekwa Sengwe musafuge musoro, zuva rino buda muvete.” The Sengwe girls don’t cover your head when sleeping, the sun will rise while you are asleep. Basically chiding us to be early to rise.

Up I get, sleepily open up my eyes, get dressed and out the door.

A small battle with the dogs that want to play so early in the morning doubles up as a warm up, running up and down and stretching a bit.

Out the gate and I realise I’m not the only one awake.  There are many of us, those going to work, and school and the ones trying to get a good healthy start to the day. Some would choose to call it exercising, but it feels more like energising and getting a chance to talk to your Creator about all and anything.

If I am running late, the first people I usually meet are the two ladies, who seem like the best of friends- sometimes I wonder how they get their power walk and remember to breathe while deeply engrossed in what seems like the news from the day before- because I say good morning and its almost an afterthought that leads them to say “goodmorning” and they carry on their lengthy conversation.

By the time we say our fleeting hellos I've come round the corner. I meet the gentleman, we silently say hello through a nod and a smile- but I wonder if he has many of the same tee shirts or it’s just the one that always gets a good wash after the morning jog.

Then I pass by the security guard standing outside the gate of the property he looks after, ready to end his shift. If I’m lucky I can catch a glimpse of the well manicure lawns, and the landscaping. I think that’s one of my favourite things, I often pick a route with the palatial homes and well manicured lawns, those are a bit far so I have to jog further. But it is worth it. I get some great visuals of gardening ideas…what plants are in season and how to brighten up our family’s property.

I thank God for the beautiful creations and the change of seasons as I run along the purple carpet of Jacaranda flowers that line the streets for this short season. Note I run along, not on top, my fear of being stung by one of the buzzing bees leads to faster movement. I like bees and appreciate their hard work enough not to disrupt them and have them waste their precious time and sacrifice their life stinging me.

But I get confused so early in the cool mornings, before the sunrises, before I can blame the heat of the sun for my blurred vision.  Is there a lack of architects or designers in our country? I ask because here in Harare there seems to be palatial monstrosities popping up everywhere.  Why are they ever expanding palatial properties on tiny pieces of land? Why are we building on wetlands?  Why is there not enough affordable housing ? Why are these building projects being approved?

 So many questions. So few answers.

I carry on. There is the lady running, steady pace, following the rhythm blasting out of her earphones. I envy her, she has enough breath and energy for a vibrant ‘good morning’ and even a had wave.

Another gentleman, a senior citizen walking along as fast as his legs carry him-  I give him a special shout out as he is out again the same route at a much slower pace late afternoon pushing his grandchild through the neighbourhood on an afternoon stroll.

There are the primary school kids, uniform clad, shiny Vaseline-smeared face, who greet me with a smile, “Good Morning Mame”. I think to myself, I must be aging quicker than I imagined since I’m now Mame, no longer Sister. But their greeting is genuine, I don’t hold it against them and I reply as eagerly “Good Morning”. Off to school these leaders go. I silently pray that they learn something and that their teachers will impact their lives in a positive manner. And then I thank the Lord that that is not me, I mean it is 6am! And the child is half way to school already.  Then I think looking at their kind of uniform, they have quite a long commute before they get to school. These kids are not wearing the colours of the primary schools in the neighbourhood- so they probably  have a kombii journey or two before they get to school.

More confusion. Why do we not have more schools in the surrounding residential areas? And why not good schools as well? It breaks my heart when these small humans, get into a kombii alone headed to school. If it were up to me, there should be a school within a walking distance accessible to our primary school children. There are enough sad stories of these children being run over by our careless drivers on our terrible roads. And then the stories they don’t tell you of the evils that these young children are subject to on their way to school, to supposedly get a formal education.

What happened to our drive for education, good, high quality education for all?

So many questions. So few answers.

And then there is the one that really gets to me. Where is the water? One of the local churches opens  up its taps for the residents during the early mornings and late evenings. Drip, drop, drips of water into the containers. Containers into their cars, or wheelbarrows, or on top of their heads, the residents head off in their different directions. And this is in the low density, what more in the high density areas? Why is this acceptable as normal?

I’m on my way home now, squinting as I focus on the road ahead and enjoy the sunrise over the eastern sky. The two supermarket cashiers, wearing their uniforms, perpetually running late as you see them always running to catch the beginning of their shift. 

You pass by that lady who’s lingering fragrance of the body lotion tells you that the day has begun and that I should be getting home to start the other tasks of the day. 

The kombis zoom past you and through the streets of the neighbourhood, picking up the people shouting a many variations of “are you coming to town?”- Town here?- Harare!- City!- Handei Town!  You wonder how long it will take for the kombi to fill up before it actually heads in the direction of town. That is probably the longest part of the journey as the kombis in general do not believe in waiting and sitting in traffic. Enough traffic violations are committed to get you to town in the quickest and not the safest manner. I’m sure they would explain it to you as being efficient. If only we had more truly efficient and effective modes of public transport.

Dai Dai dai   I rwiyo rwe benzi—if only, if only, if only, a song of a fool.

And as I approach my street, running quite fast  (well I think it’s fast and that’s all that matters) more cars are on the road, more people walking , going to their various destinations- trying to change their tomorrows for the better.

I’m home now. I have not solved anything, (…well maybe reducing my health care bills and nipping potential ailments in the bud). Gained some perspective. Seen some beauty and ready for the new day.

I have not solved the world’s problems. Just seen them and left me with more questions. Perhaps in the course of the day I’ll solve some small problems and make some sort of impact.

The sun is up, blazing hot already. Not a rain cloud in sight.

It has been a lengthy, hot, scorching, dry season. Perhaps it will rain, even though not a cloud is in sight. Those are the conversations are these days. There  is a glimmer of hope. The rain will cool us all down. Not solve all our problems but begin to be a solution.

Kunze kupisia ndinoziva Kuchanaya kucha tonhorera – Even though it gets so hot outside, I know it will rain, it will cool down -Alexio Kawara

Of Jam and Bread

“How can a nation be called great if its bread tastes like kleenex?” -Julia Child 

Missing aspects of my life in Northern Italy, I took an adventure through the suburbs of Harare to a local market named ‘Upmarket’ in an attempt to cure my nostalgia. The concept of the market is similar of the market in Bra, Italy although in a ginormously smaller scale in every way possible- less: space, people, vendors, produce. The element of surprize though is ubiquitous to both markets.

I arrived a little over an hour after the opening time of the market. The stalls laden with fresh produce, but more of prepared foods: from baked goods, jams, condiments and ready-made meals packed in individual portions for those in the neighbourhood of Belgravia stopping by to pick up a quick wholesome tasteful and possibly exotic (with Thai, Indian and even Lebanese foods on sale) lunch, or in my case a mid-morning snack.

Longing for the familiar; a taste, the complex aroma of the marriage of fresh and fermented artisanal bread, a crunchy crusty outside and a delicately soft and squishy interior I made a beeline to the bread stall, having been told that some of the tastiest sourdough bread can be found here. I have made sourdough bread before, it is a long and tedious process, but the results are worth the labour. So yippee artisanal bread has made itself public to Harare, courtesy of a new local business- The Bread Co.

For those of you who have never tasted sourdough bread, I urge you to do so. Although somewhat of a novelty for us in Harare, there is nothing new to it as sourdough bread dates back to ancient civilizations.

For a first timer, it is peculiar- almost off tasting. This is due to the lengthy period of fermentation and the naturally occurring yeasts. Lost? Some-what simply put: that means the bakers do not use the standard commercial baker’s yeast. They make, or rather grow their own yeast. They start with the simplest mixture of flour and water- called the ‘starter’ allowing that to ‘grow’ for a period. The natural yeasts in the form of various types of bacteria are the key components of the sour taste of the bread. Once it has grown to the proper volume, voila you have the home grown yeast that will not only flavour the bread but act as a leavening agent.

When you put the bread close to your nose it is yeast like, a fermentation of grains, at the same time creamy. Depending on the natural additives- usually spices and flavourings you might smell some rye, or fennel.

Back to the market- To my astonishment I found the vendors packing up, the dozens of loaves of bread had sold out within a short time of setting up the market stall. Once you embrace the flavour, aroma and texture you will understand why the bread does not last long at the stalls. 

The atmosphere of conviviality through the market and conversation with the bakers of the wonderful bread made up for its absence. The short conversation between myself and the gastronomes was interrupted several times by others seeking out this extraordinary bread. They were directed, as I was, to some of the outlets throughout Harare, where if you arrive early enough, and are quick enough you will get your daily bread.

Although I have never actually tasted the aforementioned breads, I eagerly anticipate the time when I will savour the complex flavours. The bakers assured me that it will be well worth the wait.

I decided to get something to accompany this mysterious bread, for when I eventually find it, thinking that I best be prepared. I headed on to the stall with the honey lady, wanting a sweet treat with a distinctive flavour.

Again, I met a vendor informing me that their product had sold out. A persuasive business woman though, she had no intention of letting me leave the stall empty handed. I was offered a taster of a beautifully fragranced creamy coloured preserve on a minuscule slice of bread. I politely declined the creamy fruit curd, informing  the lady that my refusal was not for lack of a quality product but rather not wanting my immune system to overwork itself rejecting this beautiful yet  deadly (only to my immune system ) fruit preserve.

Not dismayed by my immune system she encouraged me to take a look at the other preserves. A brilliant red caught my eye and a wonderful surprize, tamarillos jam. Commonly known as tree tomato jam. Score. My mother recently acquired two tree tomato plants (or is it a tree? ) after my coaxing.  I have never eaten the fruit before but a little research  convinced me that this somewhat exotic (at least to our family orchard) was well worth growing.

One of the tree tomato plants in the family orchard 

Back to the honey lady, she did not need to persuade me into purchasing the little jar of brilliant coloured jam. A quick exchange of bills and I was off- without the bread but with some mystery jam.

I got home in time for lunch as opposed to the mid-morning snack I had aimed for. Nonetheless, I was not about to wait till I happened to find the bread. I toasted a slice of not so special, commercial, generic tasting brown bread. While I waited for it to pop up I dug a teaspoon in the jar, stirred through and felt the consistency, how else do I describe it but jam like, gooey thick but still able to go through it. Spoon in my mouth, a slight ting, tart, acidic. The a swift change to sweet, not a heavy sweetness that you associate with rich foods. But a light refreshing sweetness almost like a granadilla. The jam way a wonderful fusion of the traditional ripe tomato flavour and that of something sweet like a strawberry. Savoury-sweet or even sweet-savoury. A great middle ground to please us all.

So now I have a jar of tamarillo jam keeping cool in the fridge waiting patiently to accompany the bread and perhaps I am pushing it too far to think that I might get a surprise and come across so flavourful semi hard cheese (that would be a great pairing with the new found jam) or should I just appreciate the availability of sourdough bread.

For now I wait. Hopefully another good surprize will find me soon…I am sure by then I would have found that bread.