Rumble in the Jungle
About forty-eight years ago, I set off with my great mate Jimmy, hitch hiking south across Europe to Spain, then across the Mediterranean to Algeria, across the Sahara Desert to Niger, Nigeria and the Cameroun. It’s a long story. We packed a few essentials, tent, sleeping bag, machete, books, diary, sketch pad, matches, clothes, along with a few nonessentials; a crisp, pressed white shirt, silk bow tie and a recipe which we could cook for our unwiting hosts along the way.
Deep in the Cameroonian jungle however, we ate porcupine and snake in a searingly hot sauce, devoid of any subtlety, spice or herb, with a manioc pulp on the side, washed down with warm palm wine, the ‘Poitin’ of the West African coast. These were not restaurant dishes I hasten to add, they were the home cooking of relatively primitive tribespeople who we accessed by inflatable Spanish ex-army dinghy along the banks of the then uncharted river Nyong, flowing west out of Mbalmayo, just south of Yaoundé, the political capital.
We bought the dinghy off a couple of sprightly, travelling Spaniards in the central market square, Yaoundé, having identified the Nyong as a fun way of travelling the 300 miles down to the coast at Kribi. Two back packs and a couple of bags of supplies filled up all available space as we launched into the wide, grey, sweeping, water which seemed to clutch us to it and carry us with it.
Towards evening we pulled onto one of the many tiny beaches protruding from otherwise dense forest either side of the river, just big enough to pitch a two-man tent and light a fire. It wasn’t too long before we spotted eyes in the jungle, spotting us back, and within half an hour, we were greeted by a procession of local villagers, led by the chief and the men of the village, followed by the children, then the lepers and finally the women.
Having brought food to our camp, they invited us back to their village for supper, an offer we jumped at and followed them for maybe half a mile back to their encampment, a collection of finely crafted mud huts in a small clearing where they dished up the above menu. That happened on a number of occasions over the weeks we were on the river and to think that friends and family always feared the worst from our off grid African adventure. I’m not sure a pair of Cameroonians, camped on the banks of the river Avon in the woodlands of some private estate in Wiltshire would have received similar hospitality.
I can’t now remember the recipe I packed, but not surprisingly it didn’t get much of an airing in the tropical rainforests. However, I remember it was well received on the numerous occasions I trotted it out in fairer climates, and as a result, hosts insisted we stay longer, never expecting that such transients could be so enterprising and sociable.
Did we make it to Kribi I hear you ask? Well, yes we did, but not entirely by inflatable dinghy. After about three weeks paddling, a series of events sprang upon us, altering our course and very nearly ending our lives.
The pace of the river picked up one day and we could hear a light wind, then heavier wind rustling through the trees. Looking up to the highest canopy however, we spotted that the trees weren’t rustling at all, but that the river, or part of it, was diverting down a fairly steep slope over to our right-hand side, and quite a torrent it was. It was a wide enough piece of water though, and over to the left, the way ahead looked tranquil and serene.
Gurgling around in the back of my mind, a thought dawned on me that if we were to get to the coast, otherwise known as sea level, from an inland plateau some three thousand feet above sea level, then at some point we were going to have to go down hill. Unbeknownst to us, that point had just been reached. The serenity of the water ahead of us compared to the tempest on our right-hand side had one explanation. The way ahead displayed all the signs of the lip of a waterfall and as we squared the vessel up to front it, over we went. ‘Grab the camera’ were Jimmy’s last words.
The carnage that followed was epic. It’s a story in itself. One bit of physics I did learn though was that the angle an inflatable dinghy enters a volume of water from a height, is equal to the angle it bounces back out again and propels it, in this instance, directly under the waterfall from whence it came. Forty thousand litres and metric tons of water flipped the craft over, spilling its contents and crew out into the ensuing rapids to continue the downhill trajectory for several hundred yards before being spat into the jungle at the water’s edge. After that episode we called it a day on our river expedition, deflated the dinghy along with our spirits, packed up and shipped out to the nearest trail, where we hitch hiked the remaining miles to Kribi.
My current top tip on a recipe you should take on your travels and which will stun in any household, is the Royal Chicken Korma recipe by Diana Henry, adapted from her great friend Roopa Gulati and featured in her book; ‘A bird in the hand’. Its opening gambit will definitely put most people off attempting to cook it, so your version will probably be the first your hosts will have tried, and they will be forever in your debt.
Here’s a snippet; ‘Fine slice onions, salt liberally and set aside in a colander. Squeeze out any excess liquid, pat dry. Deep fry in vegetable oil until golden then drain. Blitz into a smooth paste with a little hot water. Set aside.’ Then there’s only 20 more ingredients to blanch, simmer, squeeze, soak, crush, roast, puree, and cook and you’re done. It’s absolute heaven, in fact it’s so good, I’m going to cook it again right now.
