Microbrewed Adventures - Charles Papazian [93]
We enter the walled garden through a high, grand-looking gate. My first impression was one of lots of people, all in quiet, happy conversation. Benches haphazardly lined the grounds extending beyond the maze of tall walls. Curiously, I did not notice anyone drinking any beer. In fact I didn’t notice any beer. I followed Richard. To get a “draw” of brew we stood in line and Richard handed me a rather intimidatingly large, five-liter, white plastic bucket. “Where are the glasses?” I recall wondering. I didn’t wonder long. As I stepped up to a small window, the draftsman asked, “Two liters or four?” “Two,” I quickly blurted, silently thinking, “One can’t be too cautious with these kinds of experiences, you know.” Swooooosh, the brew gushed out of its dispenser and within 0.84 seconds my bucket proudly contained two liters of fermenting, sour-smelling, yeasty, thick, beery, alcoholic and nutritiously wonderful Chibuku. We exited the dispensary and I realized the virtues of all those white plastic buckets being shared at tables throughout the garden.
Richard and I found a bench occupied by several other men and women. We passed around our communal bucket of brew and shared its glories. Every time it was my turn, I grasped the sides of the bucket with my thumbs and fingers to swirl the contents (to get the good stuff into suspension), inhale the pungent lactic aroma (in my mind repeating a mantra, “Charles, there are no known pathogens that can survive in beer. Charles, there are no known pathogens that can survive in beer. Charles, there are…”), take a good, healthy swig and begin to feel the camaraderie, the glow, the warm evening air, the conversation, the culture and the urge for another. The conversation became more animated and Isaac, a stringer of tennis racquets seated next to me, found questioning me easier: “Is America very far from here?” “Where is your family?” “Why are you here?” “Who are you?”
I was smiling. After my sixth swirl, swig and swallow I noticed Regina, a rather large, robust woman who had been nervously watching me for the last 20 minutes. She was uncomfortable about something and not smiling. Something bad was in the air and I was beginning to feel nervous. I swirled, swigged and swallowed one more time. Then, while seated, with hands on her wide hips and a slight friendly yet frustrated tilt of her head, she pleaded in a plaintiff command, “Sir,” pausing apologetically, “Will you puleeeeeeeeaase keep your thumbs out of the bucket.” Red faced, shrinking aback and totally embarrassed, I thought to myself, “And I was concerned about pathogens!” This issue of “thumbs out of the bucket” is clearly an important consideration when drinking in the beer gardens of Bulawayo. I learned a very important cultural lesson, one I’m sure is not in any beer etiquette book.
I can still recall the clean aftertaste and the desire to always have just one more swig. The stuff grew on me. I must admit, it grew rather slowly, but one does develop a taste for the unique. It doesn’t come easy. But when you’ve acquired it…well, perhaps you will find out for yourself someday.
Richard and I polished off our two liters and some of the others’ liters as well. We left, and as I climbed into the cab I couldn’t help but notice a sign high on the building next door to the beer garden: “Mushumbo Surgery, M-W-F, 1–4 P.M.” Hmmmmmmmm, I wondered if the beer garden was open before noon?
“Let’s go Richard,” I said. “I need a Castle now.”
THE TRAIN PULLED INTO VICTORIA FALLS STATION at 7 A.M. I’d had a reasonable night’s rest and was pleasantly recollecting my two and a half weeks’ experiences. My plane would leave the next day. I know I’ll be back someday. Gemütlichkeit. Hari Yemadzisahwira. Or, like I said, “Relax. Don’t worry. Have a homebrew.”
POSTNOTE: REENTERING THE UNITED STATES, I walked up to immigrations at New York City’s JFK Airport wearily