From the Sahel to... the Holy Land!

It's been a long time since my last post. But, I have an excuse. My husband, dog, and I packed up and moved away from Niger. We spent the better part of a year studying Hebrew and Arabic, and the last year getting to know our new home...

Jerusalem!

Now, I'm sure you are wondering why on earth it has taken me so long to come up with something to write about as the food in Jerusalem is amazingly varied, delicious, and famous. There are numerous cookbooks highlighting recipes from this region, like Yottam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi's Jerusalem.

Well, that is exactly the problem. For someone who loves all kinds of cuisines and whose spice drawer is overflowing with re-purposed jam jars full of cumin, coriander, and za'atar, this place is heaven.

Where to begin?! That has been my conundrum. I've also been distracted by the beautiful scenery and plethora of things to see and do...

Finally, tonight, I've decided to just start with what is cooking in my oven at this very moment.

Yes, the humble stuffed cabbage leaf.

It's not sexy looking, and it certainly doesn't scream Jerusalem. But, it was inspired by the organic veggie box I have been getting weekly for the past six months. Chubeza is a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) farm located about 36 km west of Jerusalem. Every week, boxes bursting with whatever they have growing in their fields are packed up and ready for pick up or delivery.

Recently, cabbage has been making a regular appearance. Not being a huge fan of cabbage, I've been kind of at a loss for what to do with the cabbage heads waiting patiently in my fridge. So, I turned to Claudia Roden's, The Book of Jewish Food, for inspiration. According to Roden, "Cabbage is the historic Ashkenazi vegetable" (p.161). People in Central and Eastern Europe prepare the leaves in various ways - stuffing them with meat being one of them.

Roden's recipe seemed a little lean to me, and I haven't had much luck baking uncooked rice, as she suggests, in vegetables before. So, I combined her recipe with another one from Extending the Table, a useful little cookbook my mom bought for me before my first move overseas. The resulting dish is surprisingly simple to prepare, light, yet filling, and the perfect combination of savory-meaty flavors that define good comfort food. Enjoy!

Stuffed Cabbage Leaves

12 large leaves from a medium to large head of cabbage
1 medium onion, finely chopped
olive oil
1 lb (500 g) ground beef
1 cup cooked rice
1.5 teaspoons dried rosemary
1.5 teaspoons dried oregano
2 medium eggs, beaten
salt
pepper

3 cups finely chopped tomatoes, or 1 can tomato puree
juice of 1 lemon
2 Tablespoons sugar
1/2 cup chicken stock

Remove the core of the cabbage by cutting a deep cone around the stem-end of the head.
Immerse the whole head of cabbage in a large pot of salted, boiling water.
Carefully remove the leaves one at a time as they begin to soften. I did this with two wooden spoons, placing the detached leaves in an empty bowl next to me.
Next, prepare the filling by frying the onion and beef in about a Tablespoon of olive oil.
When the meat begins to brown, season it with salt, pepper, the rosemary, and the oregano.
Remove the meat from the heat and allow it to cool while you prepare the sauce.
Combine the tomatoes, lemon, sugar, and chicken stock in a large bowl. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
Once the meat has cooled a little, mix in the eggs and the cooked rice.
To stuff the leaves, lay one cabbage leaf on a plate.
Put approximately 2 rounded Tablespoons of meat mixture on the leaf near the stem end.
Fold the sides over the meat and roll the leaf up creating a little packet.
Place the stuffed cabbage leaf in a rectangular baking dish, seam-side down.
Continue with the rest of the leaves and meat mixture until the baking dish is full.
The stuffed cabbage packets should be packed in fairly tightly.
Next, pour the tomato sauce over the cabbage rolls.
Cover the baking dish with aluminum foil and place in a preheated 350F/180C oven.
Bake for about an hour and a half.
I served the stuffed cabbage leaves with polenta and a balsamic and oil dressed salad, prepped by my hubby.

Grasshopper - It's What's for Dinner

"Before you cook them, you have to remove the wings. Like this."

My two friends and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised, before grabbing a grasshopper from the large pile on my dining table. We gingerly pinched off the delicate wings as our teacher, Aishatou, had shown us.

Grasshoppers are a popular snack food in Niamey where you can buy them out of wheelbarrows on the outskirts of Katako Marché. Though they are available year-round, the best time to eat the insect is during the rainy season, when they feast on green shoots breaking through the soil.

"Do you eat grasshoppers often?" inquired one of my friends as we continued to de-wing our dinner.

"Oh all the time! But you, you shouldn't eat too many. You're not used to them, so you might get a stomach ache," replied our teacher.

I wondered to myself if "grasshopper belly" couldn't be attributed to the use of insecticides. Each year, swarms of locusts (the migratory phase of grasshoppers) come down from Algeria and Libya in the North. Typically, the size of these swarms is kept in check by the use of pesticides. However, a representative from the Centre national de lutte antiacridienne (National Center for Locust Control) assured me that it is not these locusts that are gathered for consumption.

The grasshoppers for sale at Katako Marché are brought in almost year-round by villagers who sweep them up very early in the morning when the insects are too cold to move very much. At home, they boil the grasshoppers in a large cauldron full of salt-water. Afterwards, the insects are laid out to dry in the sun before being taken to market.

 

Once we had a neat pile of grasshopper heads and thoraxes, we moved into the kitchen. Our teacher's recipe involved sautéing the insects with onions, hot peppers, and spices until fragrant and crispy.

 

"You'll know if the grasshoppers are bad by the way they smell when you fry them," said Aishatou over the loud, spluttery popping sounds coming from the pan. An earthy, piquant smell that stung the inside of my nose filled the kitchen.

"So, do these smell like good ones?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. You bought some very nice ones. The eyes are clear and shiny, and they smell lovely, don't they?"

"They smell like nothing I've ever smelled before," I said laughing.

"Of course! But I'm sure you are going to like these," said our teacher as she piled the well-cooked grasshoppers on a plate for us to share.

I have to admit that the final product looked pretty appetizing - as far as grasshoppers for dinner goes. Aishatou served the browned morsels with fresh tomatoes, onion, and a sprinkling of minced tonkoteo peppers.

Sitting around my dining table, my friends and I each took a warm grasshopper, silently wished each other luck, and popped them in our mouths. I braced myself for a crunchy, then squishy sensation based on a previous experience eating barbequed crickets at my grandmother's house. However, I was pleasantly surprised by how crispy and flavorful the grasshoppers were. It was a lot like eating spice-rubbed Pringles potato chips. They just sort of dissolved into feathery nothingness once you crunched through the brittle body.

Although I can't say that once I leave Niger I will have cravings for sautéed grasshoppers, I do know that if push comes to shove, I'll know how to turn those garden pests into something palatable!

Corsica, France: A WWOOFer's Paradise

Sitting beneath the shade of some old olive trees, munching on freshly made yogurt cake, Anni, the organic farmer I was staying with as a WWOOfer (a volunteer with World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms) asked me, "So why did you choose Corsica?"

I paused and thought of this scene from the previous week when I was just a plain old tourist careening down narrow roads with my husband in our rented Hyundai:

Corsica is the most mountainous island in the Mediterranean, situated west of Italy and southeast of France. The sapphire blue water of the eleven kilometer Strait of Bonifacio separates it from Sardinia - its Italian cousin to the south. With abundant fresh water, fertile soil, and numerous vantage points across the ocean, the island has been a location worth defending since Mesolithic times. I would argue that its stunning coastal scenery...

...and porky inhabitants might also have something to do with its appeal.

Scenery and food. Those were definitely at the top of our list of reasons to visit Corsica. My husband was mostly interested in discovering the best coastlines for swimming and exploring tide pools...

...as well as tasting Corsica's little-known wines made from indigenous grape varieties like Nielluccio, Sciaccarello, and Vermentino.

Almost lost to industrial wine-making, which did not favor local grapes, these native varieties are making a huge come-back thanks to people like Marc Imbert of Domaine de Torraccia and Elisabeth Quilichini of Castellu di Barrici. These heritage winemakers strive to produce quality wines that reflect the flavors of the strong Mediterranean sun and granite soil of Corsica.

But viticulture and oenology are not the only things going for Corsica, gastronomically speaking. The once self-sufficient island also produces flavorful fruits, vegetables, and nuts - like figs, citron, Swiss chard, and chestnuts - that are transformed into rustic dishes that please the palate and soothe the soul. Pungent but deliciously meaty charcuterie is made from the acorn-fed pigs that roam the island, and shepherds still tend flocks of sheep and goats whose rich milk is turned into flavorful cheeses.

With its abundance of stunning scenery, good food, and twenty different WWOOF farms - ranging from vineyards to cheese-making sheep operations - to choose from, Corsica was the ideal place for me to give WWOOFing a try for the first time.

Anni and Philippe, the owners of L'Ortunlinu - the only certified organic farm in Bonifacio, Corsica - welcomed me into their modest home where I quickly adapted to a routine of:

...weeding rows of plants and clearing fields early in the morning...

...dining on simple lunches showcasing the rich flavors of freshly harvested vegetables from their farm...



...enjoying siestas on the beach in the heat of the afternoon...

...and finishing the day by harvesting produce to sell at Bonifacio's farmer's market or the Ortulinu shop front in town.

Thanks to jovial conversations with Anni, Philippe, and other farmers in the area, I learned a lot about Corsican agriculture and experienced first-hand the pleasures of a different rhythm of life spent outside working with the plants we set on our tables every day without even a thought.

Although a recent Stanford University study shows that there is no nutritional difference between organically and conventionally grown produce, Anni and Philippe have confirmed for me that there is a taste difference (and I suspect an overall health difference). I believe this comes from the absence of pesticides and fertilizers, healthy soil, and the fact that the produce is harvested right before going to market.

After leaving their farm, where I feasted on fresh, sticky-sweet figs for a week...

...the conventional figs I bought while in transit back to Niger just weren't the same.

Kopto (Moringa oleifera): One solution to food insecurity and malnutrition in Niger

My travel companion opened a large Tupperware box and a very pungent, earthy-sour smell with a hint of sugar enveloped our old Toyota Land Cruiser. Her lunch consisted of roasted chicken thighs and some type of cooked leafy green. I turned my head away in a vain attempt to lessen the impact of her lunch on my nostrils and looked out at the dry, sandy landscape rolling by my window. Monoculture and deforestation had clearly taken their toll on the environment in this part of southern Niger. Men with handmade hoes were breaking through the parched earth to uproot desiccated millet stalks, piling them onto rickety wooden carts pulled by beleaguered donkeys. It had recently drizzled in this area of the country, so the farmers were preparing to sow their millet fields. If Niger does not receive an adequate amount of rainfall this year and these farmers’ crops die, the country, like many in the Sahel, will have to address a major food crisis. Desertification coupled with one of the highest population growth rates in the world increases Niger’s vulnerability to the consequences of crop failure - poverty, hunger, and malnutrition.

As we bounced along and my nose acclimated to the odors in the car, I realized that I was smelling something familiar. The greens in my companion's lunchbox were kopto, a type of leaf eaten in Niamey especially during the month of Ramadan. In fact, we were on our way to a kopto farm to talk to the women who cultivate it and to learn more about their proposal for packaging and selling their kopto harvests.

In Zarma, kopto means leaves in the general sense but has come to be associated specifically with the leaves from the tree Moringa oleifera. Zarma speakers also call it windibundu while Hausa speakers refer to it as zogala gandi. Moringa trees are native to northern India but are common throughout Asia, Africa, and Latin America. Its ability to thrive in areas with poor soil and low rainfall make it an ideal candidate for fighting against desertification in the Sahel. In addition, its rapid growth rate and highly nutritious leaves and beans present Niger with one compelling solution to chronic issues of malnutrition. Some Nigeriens also believe that this panacea lowers blood sugar levels, making it an ideal food for diabetics.

A niébé field bordered by moringa and papaya trees

The farm we visited was lush and green, unlike the fields we passed to get to our destination. Moringa trees were growing along the edges to demarcate each plot and serve as a windbreak for other crops such as sorgho (sorghum), millet, and niébé (black-eyed peas). In return for their protection, the Moringa trees benefit from the weeding, fertilization, and irrigation of the other crops. The multiple harvests provided by the quick-growing leaves ensure that the farmers have a source of income and food when the other crops are not producing. One of the few drawbacks to this plant is the fact that it requires irrigation in the first months of its life until it becomes established and can survive on sparse rainfall alone.

After showing us their fields, the women took us to see their homes where they dried the Moringa leaves on their roofs. They explained to us that this situation is not ideal because the leaves lose nutrients when exposed to sunlight. In addition, they lacked proper storage and packaging facilities, so the dried leaves were kept piled-up on the dirt floors of their one-room huts until market day. Before leaving the village, one of the women gave me some freshly cooked moringa leaves in an effort to convert me. Although I love the kopto dish associated with Ramadan, I decided to try making a wheat-berry salad with the leaves. It has become a regular side dish at meals in my home, but it could easily be a light lunch since the wheat-berries are filling and the kopto is a good source of vitamins A and C, calcium, potassium, and protein.

Granaries along the road.

Crop diversity projects, like the women’s kopto cooperative I visited, benefit rural farmers who are most likely to be affected in a food crisis. By moving away from monocultures, promoting reforestation, and looking to alternative sources of food, farmers can begin to reverse the effects of desertification and improve their resiliency in times of low grain production. Organizations, like the Eden Foundation, are researching which native perennials can be planted amongst annual crops to improve soil fertility, discourage topsoil loss, and most importantly, diversify nutrition for the people. This focus on native plants addresses the issue of irrigation, a technology that is not available to everyone. Other initiatives that are working to better nutrition and food security in Niger are:

Helen Keller International: educating families about infant and young child feeding to reduce malnutrition and give children a better start in life

Africare - Niger: multiple projects addressing issues such as food security, good governance, education, and management of natural resources 

Chapalo: Millet Beer, Julia Child... and Hookers

Adamou Idé is to thank for my recent foray into one of Niamey’s red light districts. I was reading a short story from the Nigerien author's Misères et grandeurs ordinaires when I came across a line about getting drunk from “chapalo sold on the sly.” Throw together a mysterious food item with a catchy name and the phrase “on the sly” and you are guaranteed to pique my curiosity.

Paulina, font of all Nigerien knowledge, doubled over with laughter when I asked her to tell me about chapalo. She found it thoroughly amusing that I even knew about the stuff and was happy to tell me all about it. Chapalo is a type of traditional beer that is brewed in many West African countries. It is especially popular in Togo, Benin, Burkina Faso, Côte d’Ivoire, and Mali. Although you can find it in Niger, it is usually produced and consumed by Togolese, Beninese, and Burkinabé immigrants living in pockets around the capital city, making it a popular target for conservative Muslims who view it as haram, or dirty and strictly forbidden. By the end of our conversation, my gardener had joined in as well. Both he and Paulina agreed that the best chapalo comes from Burkina Faso in terms of flavor and quality. So of course, my next question was, “where do you get it?”

The Burkinabé chapalo “cabaret” is tucked down the narrow alleyways of a residential neighborhood most non-residents would never even notice. From the outside, it looks like any other housing compound fenced in with straw mats tied between stripped tree branches. But once you walk through the corrugated tin door of the establishment, you realize that this place is different. Four large black cauldrons bubbling over hot, wood fires stand in the center of an open-air courtyard littered with large pans, coals, and yellow calabash bowls. A stout woman with her head tied up in a scarf stands watch over the scene. She is introduced to me as the chapalo brew master and proprietress of the cabaret. All Burkinabé chapalo is made by women, who learn the art from their mothers.

The woman explained to me that her chapalo is made from red millet, but that it can also be made of sorghum, or a combination of both. First, she washes the millet in large buckets of distilled water kept in clean, plastic garbage cans before transferring the grain to the cauldrons. These are covered and left to boil for two days, after which the contents are strained through a large, loosely woven basket into a wide, shallow pan.

Once the honey-brown liquid is collected, the pan is placed in the shade of a straw mat hangar that also serves as a bar. Yeast is added, and the chapalo is allowed to cool and ferment for one day before it is poured into old (but thoroughly washed) paint buckets from which the woman’s daughter serves the fresh brew. She uses a half-liter glass juice bottle to measure out the beer into small calabash bowls (150 CFA). For those who want their chapalo to go, she fills up whatever receptacle the customer brings - usually the ubiquitous liter-and-a-half Telwa or Rharhous water bottle (450 CFA). 

The clientele on this sleepy afternoon include students from the local university discussing a text they are leafing through, a group of cloudy-eyed old men speaking in a language that is clearly not Hausa or Zarma, a businessman in a tie reading the paper, and some women who work as housekeepers. Children run in and out of the dappled shade of the bar, stealing a sip here and there from customers who are generous enough to share what is in their bowl. The Burkinabé believe that chapalo is good for the health and begin giving it to their children from a young age. Everyone is either holding their calabash bowl or letting it rest on a hand-made tripod of thin, twisted rebar kept near their feet.

After paying for my liter-and-a-half, I took my fresh find home and shared it with friends, who said they would not trade the popular commercial Flag beer for the sour, grainy flavor of home-made chapalo. Not wanting it to go to waste, I combed through my cookbooks and came across Carbonnades à la flamande, by Julia Child. Having been raised on beer stews, I couldn’t resist the idea of combining French/Belgian cuisine and traditional West African beer. Served alongside a frosty glass of chapalo, the stew and the beer were a success! So much so, that I went back to get more chapalo…

This time, I went a little later in the day, more towards early evening than late afternoon. The crowd at the chapalo cabaret had clearly turned from the family friendly daytime group into a very male-dominated evening crowd who stared at me as I waltzed through the door. The warm, welcoming atmosphere in which I had been introduced to chapalo was replaced by a steely-eyed coldness that clearly told me to buy my chapalo and get out. On my way out the door, I noticed that the street was littered with used condoms.

The culture that surrounds chapalo is multifaceted. While it is a drink that is enjoyed by family members and close friends at a neighborhood “pub” where kids run around and play while adults share stories with whoever happens to drop in (including me), it is also a drink that is associated with prostitutes and having fun in the shadowy folds of the night – a side they don’t want to share with outsiders, much less curious foreign women.

So, curious (but not foolhardy) foreign woman that I am, I will settle for returning to my Adamou Idé novels and his characters, like those in Camisole de Paille, to better understand the world of those men and women of the night whose lives are obscured by the darkness and straw walls of the Niamey chapalo cabarets.

Culinary Safari

Every time I visit Park W for a respite from the hustle and bustle of life in the big city, I leave salivating for more. Not because warthogs darting between tall clumps of dry grass make my mouth water, but because of the amazing food that is served at the Ile du lamantin Ecolodge. Nathalie, the amicable manager and chef, has developed a West African-French fusion menu that incorporates local ingredients in dishes like Crème au fruit de baobab (Baobab Fruit Cream), Terrine de tchapata (an egg-based dish with local spinach), and Pintade sauce tikadigué (Guinea Fowl with Peanut Sauce). She serves her culinary creations amidst the idyllic scenery of a small island in the middle of the Niger River.

Covered with smooth boulders and towering baobab trees, the Ile du lamantin provides the perfect backdrop for dining al fresco on fresh capitaine (a local fish) with coconut tomato sauce in the company of… bathing elephants. Being a fan of using seasonal, local ingredients, I was keen to learn about Nathalie’s recipes and asked if she would be willing to teach a cooking class. Happily, she agreed and so was born the idea for a culinary safari.

Our edible journey into the Nigerien bush started off with the capture of seven poachers. As we pulled into the park’s shady entrance, we saw rangers in camouflage uniforms hauling off a group of handcuffed, scraggly men with barely enough meat on their bones to satisfy a lion. The charred remains of their haul were left in a fly covered pile in front of the ranger station. I could make out a porcupine paw and red highlights on an antelope pelt. Bush meat is a delicacy in markets along the border between Niger and Nigeria. Animal skins, bones, and horns are also sold as key ingredients in traditional medicines and magic potions. Although some game, like warthog, can be hunted legally outside of the park, Nathalie serves whatever she can find, legally, from the markets and villages in the area. She gets fresh fish from the fishermen who pull large, 50lb capitaine from the river right in front of the lodge, and her staff members buy guinea fowl, ducks, and chickens from the farmers who live along the river.

Getting to the Ecolodge is an adventure in itself. After picking up our guides at the entrance, we jostled our way down the dirt track into the heart of the deserted park. Very few people come to Park W, and even fewer have been making the trek since the kidnappings in Niamey in January 2011. As we drove along, we came across many animals including...

...elephants foraging in a grove of trees,












...baboons lounging in the sparse shade of a dry bush,

















...and warthogs running along the road with their wiry tails in the air.

The drive ended at the muddy banks of the Niger River where we loaded into a pirogue and floated down the calm waters to the island. We were greeted by Nathalie who helped us out of the boat and into our cozy thatched roof cabins scattered along a rocky outcropping on the edge of the island. That night, I fell asleep to the sounds of elephants munching on the acacia trees next to my hut, hippos grunting on the bank below, and a lion roaring just across the river.

I had never before crossed the threshold into the small but well-organized kitchen at the Ecolodge and felt like a poacher entering forbidden territory. Nathalie was prepared for our small class of three with Ile du lamantin aprons for each of us and laminated recipe cards in French and English so we could recreate the dishes at home.

She started us off with Crème au fruit de baobab. Nathalie uses baobab fruit collected from the numerous trees that erupt lava-like all over the craggy island. The whole fruit is taken to the neighboring village women who separate the dry flesh from the small black seeds that are found in the hard, furry fruit and pound it into a fine powder with wooden mortars and pestles. This powder is the base for Nathalie’s signature baobab juice and is also used in dessert and jam recipes.

Once the crème was safely in the fridge, we moved on to the Granité de pasteque. This simple recipe is perfect on a hot day, which we have many of here in Niger, and is also a terrific way to use watermelon that might not be sweet enough to eat on its own. The ruby red flakes of ice are also a nice alternative to a more traditional gazpacho- equally satisfying when the sun is scorching.

While we waited for the granité’s ice crystals to form, we began the Bavarois au gingembre. Ginger is very popular here, especially as a juice or syrup that is often served very strong with a bottle of carbonated water so you can mix the two, making your own fresh ginger ale. Nathalie’s bavarois combines milk and ginger syrup, resulting in a pudding that reminds me a lot of anin dofu, a soft gelatin dessert served with ginger syrup in Hong Kong.

The final recipe of our 3-hour class was Blinis à la courge. This savory pancake makes use of the pumpkin-like squashes that are ubiquitous in Niamey, most notably floating in the Niger River by the Kennedy Bridge as they are unloaded from the giant pirogues that bring them from surrounding villages like Boubon (pictured). The blinis, served room temperature with a cool pasta salad, the Granité de pasteque, and Crème au fruit de baobab for dessert, make the perfect lunch for a warm (read blistering) Nigerien afternoon.

Nathalie has kindly allowed me to share some of her recipes from the cooking class on this blog. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do. Cooking on the Ile du lamantin is a creative and unique souvenir from Niger that will enrich my kitchen repertoire no matter where I’m living. Thank you Nathalie and all of the staff at the Ecolodge!

From Little House to Kilichi in Niger

Although my interest in doing things the old fashioned way may seem like planning for Armageddon, it has to do with my desire to understand how others live, or used to live. Laura Ingalls Wilder's series of books and my grandmother's steady supply of yarn, knitting needles, and stories of life before and after World War II played a huge role in forming my interest in things like churning my own butter and knitting socks. Of course it makes much more sense to go to the store and just buy both of these items, but when you make them by hand from raw materials, you feel that primal spark of human ingenuity and appreciate plain old butter and socks in a whole new way.

Life in Niger is a harsh reminder of what the world was like before the advent of electricity. Frequent power cuts (often multiple times a day) render lights, freezers, air conditioners, fans, sewing machines, and any other electronic device useless. This can be horribly uncomfortable when the temperature reaches into the 120's and there is not a cloud in sight. It can also be terrible for business if you rely on electricity to create products for customers (just think of all the spoiled frozen meat or shirts that can't be made).

And so, my curiosity in all things "old-fashioned" (from my perspective) has increased since coming to Niger. When you walk through the tailors' section of the grand marché, you see men sitting outside their stalls making clothes to order on foot-powered sewing machines. Of course, they have rigged up a way to motorize their machines, but if the power goes off, it's easy for them to unstrap the tiny motor and start pedaling away.

This need for electric independence reaches into the realm of food as well. If the electricity goes off, whatever you have in the fridge is going to spoil. Like many Americans, I don't think twice about ice-cold water or the food chilling in my refrigerator. Come to think of it, I don't even think twice about owning a refrigerator. However, for many Nigeriens, this basic American appliance is a luxury. Even if they do own a refrigerator, not everyone has a generator that kicks on when the national electric company fails. So what do you do when you have a freezer full of meat and you are instantaneously zapped back to life B.E. (Before Electricity)?

While most meat in Niger is sold live or very recently butchered, thus avoiding the need for refrigeration, some meat is dried under the Nigerien sun to make the regionally distinctive jerky known as kilichi.

This Nigerien specialty is made from the finest cuts of beef or mutton that have been cleaned of all vessels, fat, and bones. It is sliced into long, paper-thin strips about an arm-span in length. These strips are spread out on high tables made of straw screens to dry in the strong sunlight.

Before the meat has completely dried out and is still relatively supple, it is either salted or coated in a spice mixture with a peanut paste base.

Then, it is returned to the drying racks and allowed to dry to a crisp, brittle consistency. The finest kilichi splinters very nicely into crackly bits.

Given Niger's hot, dry climate, it only makes sense to preserve food by drying it in the sun. This is one of the oldest methods of food preservation and is relatively simple and inexpensive (1). When you dry food, all of the moisture is removed, making it an inhospitable environment for bacterial growth, and the natural enzymes that lead to decomposition are slowed down enough to give the food a longer shelf-life (2). In a house with no refrigeration, this can be one of the best ways to keep stores of food for later.

Although I have always wanted to try making my own beef jerky, especially after reading about Pa Ingalls making smoked venison in a hollowed out tree trunk, I am a little hesitant to experiment with it. So instead, I ferreted out the location of the best kilichi vendors in Niamey and paid them a visit (the production and sale of kilichi takes place in different areas of the city).

Their stalls are located on the median of a very busy road, but this does not deter them from swarming you when you pull up to the side. Before I could even get out of the car, several hands were shoving morsels of the thin strips of meat in my face. A Nigerien colleague assured me that this is totally normal. I sampled the crispy bits of meat until I identified a good one (the crispier the better) and began the process of haggling over the price. According to Le Sahel (a local newspaper), the small sheets cost between 1,000 to 5,000 CFA (roughly $2-10) while the larger ones range from 8,000 to 20,000 CFA ($16-40).

While I may not have ignited that primal spark of human ingenuity by making my own beef jerky this time, the pervasive presence of animals on the street and meat processing in the markets of Niamey certainly bring me one step closer to communing with thousands of generations of inventive humans.

1) University of Illinois at Urbana-Champagne, College of Agriculture

http://www.aces.uiuc.edu/vista/html_pubs/DRYING/dryfood.html

2) Put 'em Up: A Comprehensive Home Preserving Guide for the Creative Cook, Sherri Brooks Vinton. p.71