CAMEROON 1978
I’m sure it’s not just me who feels plagued with a distinct lack of any momentum at the moment. Everything is promised and about to happen, but nothing actually has. So for some bizarre reason, my mind has drifted back to 1978, The Cameroon, Mbalmayo and the banks of the river Nyong, just south of the cultural capital, Yauonde. But more of that later, here’s this week’s menu.
CHERMOULA MARINATED HAKE, POTATOES, TOMATOES - £9.50
Chermoula is a mix of fresh coriander, garlic, ground cumin, paprika, chilli pepper, olive oil and lemon juice. We’ve marinated the hake and vacpacked it ready for you to cook at home, really simply. Then we’ve cooked off the sliced potato and tomato in herbs and spices and boxed it up ready for you to reheat at home.
KENSONS FARM ORGANIC SALAD LEAVES, OLIVE OIL, CHARDONNAY VINEGAR DRESSING.- £3.00
We’re bagging up some of Hugh’s finest peppery salad leaves to accompany the hake and adding a pot of dressing to toss through it. We’ve been using Kensons Farm for the past 10 years and his products are wonderful. Go and visit his veg shed over in Sutton Mandeville if you’re ever in need of inspiration https://kensonsfarm.wordpress.com/
VANILLA CHEESECAKE WITH GOOSEBERRIES AND ELDERFLOWER - £4.00
This is a lovely little palette cleanser after all those herbs and spices, a couple of spoons is all you need to finish the meal.
NEW STORE CUPBOARD ADDITIONS
We have added a couple of items to our store cupboard this week.
OLIVE OIL
We use a delicious extra virgin olive oil which is brought into the UK by a friend who sources it from family run suppliers over in the Malaga region of Spain. It is from 1 set of olive groves which are strictly regulated, from care of the trees and fruit to the pressing process, by the Junta. It comes in 2 litre bottles and sells for £15, so £7.50 a litre.
ORTIZ ANCHOVIES
Additionally, we are now stocking small jars of exquisite Ortiz anchovies from Brindisa, they really are the Rolls Royce of anchovy and we are throwing in a scrummy canape recipe which shows them off to perfection. 95gm jar of anchovies in olive oil £8.50.
CAMEROON 1978
Just to get you in the mood - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0LFtrXN6GU8
Back in June ’78, Jimmy and I, well into our travels by now, had fallen on the idea to travel 300 miles down the river Nyong to the coast at Kribi. All we needed was a small boat, and a group of charming Spanish adventurers accommodated us over a three day haggle in Yaounde’s central square, it cost 440 French francs and comprised a 2 meter long inflatable ex-army dingy with 2 paddles. We were beside ourselves with excitement and launched the very next day.
The mighty Nyong is a formidable river, we had checked at the National Geographic Centre in Yaounde, I know, a bit weird, to see if they had any maps or charts of the river, there were none, no one had ever been down it, could we take photos they asked and let them have copies on the off chance we ever returned.
Day one we encountered our first corpse, floating high and caught in an eddy, a little backwater. I think it had been down to the bottom and come back up again, floating face up, arms outstretched with a steady river of cream coloured maggots streaming from its mouth, we took a photo. We passed it a few times that day, unnerving would be an understatement, In contrast, the jungle that surrounded us on both sides was absolutely beautiful, there were few roads in those parts, the river was the main thoroughfare.
Every evening we found somewhere to pull up and pitch our tent and it was never long before eyes appeared in the jungle watching our every move. One evening, midway through building a camp fire, we were visited by a procession of locals bearing fruit and other gifts and inviting us back to their village for supper. The village chief led the way, followed by the elders, the children, the lepers and finally the women, it was helpful to understand the pecking order I have to say. When I say village, I mean a cluster of mud huts, palm roofs, the full nine yards when you think remote African jungle. We feasted on porcupine and snake, washed down with very intoxicating palm wine. Fortunately the children had learnt some French at school, so we were able to exchange pleasantries with the elders through them.
A week and many nautical miles later, things started to change slightly. We kept meeting local fishermen who were always keen to share their knowledge of the river, how to avoid the perilous rapids and cliff falls, that sort of thing, and the general advise was always ‘keep left’. One afternoon, baking hot as always, we heard the wind whistling through the trees and the river, instead of being dead flat, had developed a slight incline. On closer inspection, the trees were motionless, the whistling, rushing noise was the river itself as it accelerated downhill in the distance.
We stiffened a bit, I think that would be an accurate description, as we slowly dragged our camera from our pack, laying it at the front of the boat, ‘this could get a bit fruity’, we thought, ‘let’s be ready’. Minutes later, we were hurtling, totally out of control through some pretty fierce rapids, but always, to the left, the water seemed calmer, so we steered a course accordingly. The river was continually dropping away to our right, the noise was terrifying, but our way ahead was dead flat and unnervingly calm. That’s when we realised why, we were heading for the lip of a waterfall. Suddenly the thrashing rapids to our right seemed really inviting and we attempted to alter course, but the river’s momentum had different ideas for us and we were dragged over the edge.
We plunged, bow first into the river below, but being an inflatable, we bounced straight back out and backward, under the falls. Forty million tons of water filled the boat instantly and we were catapulted out from under the waterfall about ten meters. I looked around, no bags, certainly no camera, and more alarmingly, no Jimmy, then the boat was sucked back under the falls, with me in it. Seconds later I’m clinging onto the edge of the boat as we are fired out from under the water again, this time hurtling a couple of hundred meters down-stream and ending up lodged between a huge boulder and the jungle. Shaking, I crawled out onto the boulder, stood up and looked back across the river to the falls. In the middle of the river was another, even bigger boulder, in front of which and with the river pouring either side like an avalanche, stood Jimmy, waist deep, waving and smiling.
I have to say, I was rather pleased to see him, although pleasure turned to pain moments later. My boulder had trees hanging over it, what do you expect in the jungle. Cascading from the trees fell huge, fierce, black ants, raining down onto my bare shoulders and back, I felt I was being eaten alive and hurled myself back into the rapids below, leaving the boat behind. I was thrown onto rocks in the middle of the river about 400 yards downstream. Looking back again, there was Jimmy, who had managed to keep hold of his rucksack, he clamped his pack to his back before stepping out from the shelter of his rock into the foaming water. He was upended immediately, his back pack floated to the surface and his body raced, face down, through the same channel of water leading to my rocky outcrop. I reached out and grabbed his pack as he raced by and pulled him ashore. Apart from a deep gouge in his hip and blood everywhere, he was in pretty good shape.
There was certainly no shortage of momentum that day, nor in the days to follow.