I am sitting on a bench outside the chicken shack. I am
eating beans. I am watching motorcycles flutter past. I am being rained on. I
am crossing my ankles.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Guingan Style
Speaking to likely inevitably Mr. Diallo found out he was
Mr. Bah. He was a bit drunk and me not really but our conversation was in four
languages. He was selling prepacked semi-local snake oils and powders. Wearing
sunglasses too. I saw him later drinking his earnings, and selling still.
And we were sitting on a log that termites had finished
with, balancing. Palm wine is 2000 francs guinéens per skin, about a litre.
Easy to drink, even when it’s hot. And it’s always hot. Or warm. There is no
good equilibrium between sweetness cloying sweetness and vinegar pee fart
juice. But some things don’t matter when you’re drinking.
There was a young girl wearing yellow, including a bucket on
her head that was yellow. An older girl went by with what are those pancakes in
a bit of brown paper. Presented them to some seated men. Commissioned
undoubtedly, she didn’t eat any of any of them.
I was holding a chicken with my feet. A cock at that, seven
dollars at that. But its legs were tied together with a band of blue so it
wouldn’t have gotten away quick even if it had been inspired to go and if I
hadn’t been gently retaining it. But I got up to pee on the other side of the
dry streambed so I confided the chicken to auntie sitting just in front of me selling tappets,
and she confided it to her sister next to her. I came back from the openair
bathroom finding the pancake lady. One thousand each to break the bank so
emptied my pockets acquiring them, brought them back to share. Oily and
leavened a bit and with rice flour and tepid and a bit hard so we devoured
them.
Time to go cause the wine and the wine are gone. Back to
bikes. Back to the market. Bought more wine, the red kind in the bottles that
are repurposed to hold gasoline later. So it can get hot against my sweaty back
on the way home. Or we could send it with mom. Ended up choosing the later.
Better for transport, worse for potential hydration on the ride home. Two
almost crashes and one real one, involving a domesticated animal.
The road is flat and rocky, barren, exposed, gravelly, flesh
wasting away to expose the hard white bone beneath. I traded bikes and rode the
“Eastman” blue one with the upside down bars and bent cranks. It had a slow
leak that got faster. Later we found out that there were two trous. The chain
was skipping and descending frequently too so frequently that I finally gave up
flustered and traded back. The air boiled away, leaving only dust and light
behind, each competing for my antagonism but instead they got beat by
yeast+sugar.
Palm Wine
We went to visit Thiako’s
uncle in Tcherôt, an old village at the end of a long winding track into the
bush to the south and east of where we were staying. Before, many families
lived in Tcherôt, but they had all moved away to the city and to Senegal; only
his uncle and his small family remained as permanent residents. Despite the
paucity of inhabitants, the village is well known as a place of palm wine
collection, and any decently learned child from the sub-prefecture could point
out the appropriate turnoff from the main road.
We were guided to the
place where his uncle was working by his young son Talan, a small boy with eyes
and head equally round. We found his uncle and others at their camp, a low
place, where a stream would flow during the rainy season. They were collecting
palm wine.
Palm wine, as collected
by the Coñagui people of northern Guinea, refers to a family of drinks made
from the sap of a variety of palm tree. Thiako’s uncle explained the process to
me while his nephew August kept working, and Thiako translated and elaborated
as necessary.
“Palm wine is collected
during the dry season, while the palm trees are flowering and fruiting. During
the dry season, honey wine replaces palm wine as the tipple of choice, as the
honey harvest is performed at during the last month of the dry season. Female
palms (or the female parts, recognizable via their more prominent fruiting
bodies) are sought as they produce more sap than the males. These fruiting
bodies are located at the crown of the tree, requiring an often significant
ascent for all but the youngest of palms.
For this purpose, a
sort of harness/sling is fashioned from a few long pieces of palm frond. Two
rigid bands are formed (presumably with hot water) into U-shaped sections. The
long flexible tips of the two fronds are braided together into a thick rope,
and then joined with the other ends in a sort of square knot, easy to tie and
easy to untie. The result is an oval-shaped
hoop, fitting the diameter of the trunk of the palm and the back of the
climber. Additional flaxen rope is wrapped around one side of the oval for
abrasion resistance where the contraption slides along the tree.
After ascending, the trunk,
barefoot for increased traction, all of his kit swinging from its strings, the
climber removes one of two sharp bamboo-handled chisel from their bamboo
sheaths (the two chisels are identical, maybe the extra is a backup?) and cuts
a small hole at the base of the fruiting body. A small piece of young frond is
wound into a cone and pressed into the hole to serve as a funnel. The climber
then takes an empty plastic bottle (repurposed soda or water) and suspends it
beneath the funnel, attaching it with string to the fronds above. The sap
starts to ooze within minutes.
The process (cut spout
capture) is repeated four or five more
times around the crown of the tree, one bottle per fruiting body. Then the
climbing process is reversed, and the climber seeks out a new tree.
An average palm will
fill an average water bottle in about 12 hours. So, twice a day (in the morning
and in the evening), the bottles must be emptied. The hole can also be plugged
with a wadded up frond, so as not to waste nor attract more insects and
sugar-loving animals. On the ground, the contents of each bottle are filtered
(a plastic bottle cut in half with a bit of fabric inside) into large bidons (20-liter vegetable oil
containers). As the bidon becomes
full, a thin white foam—the head, really—puffs out. This indicates the
freshness of the wine. Checking the filter afterwards shows bits of palm,
windblown detritus, and some insects that died happy.
The sap is not
naturally alcoholic. Freshly tapped, it is very sweet, and only a little bit
tangy. However, yeasts naturally present (in the air, in the containers,
everywhere) metabolize the sugar and , within a few hours of being tapped,
create a wine that is distinctly acrid, slightly sweet, and perhaps three to
seven percent alcohol by volume. The more it sits, the stronger it gets, until
all the sugar is metabolized, and then it turns vinegary. It is drunk at all of
these stages.
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