Salty dried meat: biltong

Does anyone else find the English word "jerky" weird and unpalatable? Granted, jerky is an age-old tradition and the salting/drying process makes an excellent preservation tool, but - the word "jerky" lacks a certain... je ne sais quoi. Why would we pair a tasty protein-packed snack with a word that refers to silliness or uncoordinated movement?  The word jerky is so bad, even Macho Man Randy Savage calls his jerky snacks Slim Jims to make them seem better!

Other languages describe jerky in at least slightly more appealing terms: Brazilians call it carne de sol. Spaniards, cecina. Bosnians call it suho meso, and Mongolians name it borts. Here in Southern Africa, dried meat is universally known as biltong, derived from Dutch meaning "rump-strip." Sounds appropriate. Biltong's counter partner is droëwors, or "dry sausage," which upon experiencing, sounds pretty appropriate too. 

Biltong and its popularity in Namibia compare to no other country. That's no surprise considering the ubiquity of game that exist in the bushveld, a region in the hot, dry north-east of Southern Africa that is dominated by low-growing thorn trees and bush. Stuart's Field Guide to Mammals of Southern Africa counts 39 types of buffalo, antelope, wild pig, and deer species alone. Plus, there's always cows, which admittedly are the post popular forms of jerky worldwide. According to several biltong stores, oryx (also known as gemsbok) and springbok are a close 2nd and 3rd in sales in Namibia. 

Okay, we've established that biltong is dried meat. How does it get from animal to package? In short, the meat is cut into strips, rubbed with vinegar, and coated in spices- usually coriander, pepper, salt, and garlic. The meat is refrigerated overnight and then hung in a place to dry with decent ventilation: outside under a yurt roof (for making borts), a slatted wood table (for carne de sol), or in a showy display box with meat hooks (hello biltong!) The meat hangs out for about a week, then should be ready to eat. YouTube and Google offer endless entertainment on DIY biltong boxes. 

Now for the fun part: eating it. Low in fat, high in protein, biltong comes in a variety of cuts, textures and flavors, so choosing a preferred type is individualized. For people with extremely sharp knives or teeth of steel, there's the biltong "pieces." They are thick and huge. Even though "snap-sticks" sound like dog treats, this cut is much much thinner but still gives your jaw some work to do. Biltong also comes in "slices," cut in the opposite direction to create a flatter, chewier consistency. There's "chip" shaped, but won't fool anyone who wants a substitute for the real thing.  Lastly, biltong comes in "shredded" and "pulverized" for topping lovers, or those who want extra protein in their health shakes. Maybe?

Supermarkets carry decent varieties, like original, bbq, or coriander. But it's the boutique shops that have flavors like pepper, fatti (chunks of fat still attached to the meat), peri-peri, chili, sweet 'n sour, chutney, ect. Boutique shops will also vacuum pac orders for tourists. Sliced cuts tend to have a higher moisture content (thus making it chewier) so vacuum pacs seal in the smell and flavor. Sadly, the Animal and Plant Health Inspection Agency (APHIS) says any Namibian meat exports are prohibited to bring into the United States. Same goes for South Africa. Read the 754 page document right here.  There's concern for the spread of various animal related viruses (did you know there's such thing as hog cholera?!) To this effect, the idea of eating your weight in biltong while in-country, gets better and better. Once you've had biltong, a Slim Jim will never taste the same again.

Boutique store presentation. It's almost as much
 fun as going to a butcher. Almost.

They're called pieces, but only in comparison to the animal it once was.
So. Hard. To. Eat.

Biltong chips.

Droe wors: meat stuffed into sausage casing and at some point, dried.
Not my favorite. At all.

Slices. Probably the most useful for
those who want to eat discreetly.

Snap sticks, my personal favorite.
As you can see. I ate it all.

How To Braai

Grilling in southern Africa is serious business as evidenced by many humorous road signs advertising the life altering greatness of meat. "Ostrich: lean, tasty, red meat." "When it comes to health, bring on the biltong." Or simply, "hot and meat." In fact, grilling has its own culture here. First off, instead of a grill, it's called a braai both in noun and verb. Second, a true proper braai starts early and burns hot all day, keeping the company amongst friends and family. People party at home, at lodges, even on the side of a country road. The party only ends when the last coals have cooled. 

Cooking on the grill/braai is a huge past time for Mark, and one he had to put on hold while living in Brazil since our apartment building wanted no part in building fires. So when he arrived to Windhoek, six weeks after I got here, he joyfully kicked me to the curb and took over the cooking.  It didn't help that my first attempts at grilling ended in embarrassment.  I mean, in the past I have successfully grilled, but here, the logistics of big metal boxes and drawers confounded me. One time I tried placing charcoal briquettes in the top box, but they all fell through the bottom. I walked away covered in soot, and no dinner to show for it. Another time I made a cute pyramid of coals and lit them on fire in the bottom drawer. They burned, but didn't emit enough heat. My filets rubberized by the time I figured out the drawer was actually to collect ash refuse.

Google didn't help either- no blogs or Youtube or Wikihow had a decent "how to guide" for setting up the braai. I enlisted the help of my dad via email. Reading between the lines, I could feel him laughing at me as he suggested I just "ring the neighbor's doorbell and ask." Well that's all good and fine when you don't have 2 hungry kids on a school night. Or that everyone has 8 foot tall, electrified and barb wired walls with roving security. It didn't exactly make me feel ready to show up unannounced (though since my arrival, I have met some very cool neighbors.) Finally, after a few more trial and errors, I figured out how to braai. I can make mean fire. With wood- which is how a true southern African does it. 

Turns out, several of my newly arrived American friends were in the same position: in possession of a really cool braai, but no idea on how to use it. I happily passed on my knowledge, and ultimately decided to document this process for anyone who felt as clueless as I did. 

To create a wood powered braai, you need:

- Grate. Either a large one that covers the entirety of the braai, or a handled mini grill that you can sandwich meat in between. 

 - Wood. The grocery stores sell perfectly portioned 10kg bags of split wood. Pick up two or more bags to keep yourself fit, and save face from ever running out of wood. Your guests will relentlessly tease if you do.

- Newspaper or kindling. Fire starters are a popular option too. They come in various shapes, reek of gas and leave oily residue everywhere, especially if you are clumsy like me. 

- A metal poker. For poking. Ok, and for stoking the lit firewood and encouraging kids to make the sparks fly.

- A metal rake. For raking. You have to be able to scoot the coals over and spread them across the grilling area.

- Fire resistant gloves. Not required, but dead handy.

- Time. Maybe 90 minutes to get a decent fire ready to grill. Oh yeah, and meat. 

Schlink braai, behind our house.

Stellenbosch, Spier Winery, and A Terrible Massage

After a lively stay in Cape Town, we did an overnight in Stellenbosch, a colonial-ish university town surrounded by thick vineyards. We thought this would be our opportunity to finally slow down, drink wine, and relax for once. More than a few friends recommended going to Spier, famous for a few reasons: wine (duh), their farm-to-table food sources (omg), and an all day kids club (hooray!) 

In short, it was delicious, nice, and pretty. But, not particularly relaxing- because the minute we laid eyes on the black and yellow cruiser bikes, we all gained a second wind. We couldn't just not ride, so we brought the kids to their club and took off as if we were starring in a summer romance film in the country side. I loved every second of it, plus Mark took the kids on a bike ride while I could escape for an hour to get a relaxing massage. However, I am pretty sure I just don't know how to relax...

A five foot tall, 20-year old man-teen with a sparse goatee and meat-packer hands called me into the room. I made my usual idle chit-chat and during my massage I managed to learn the following: he's 1/2 Afrikaaner, 1/2 German, and 1/2 Portuguese (verbatim). The latter is why he likes spicy food so much. Though he's never left South Africa,  his dream is to travel to the United States and visit... Kansas... for no known reasons other than "it speaks to me" and that he likes the color yellow.  He loves gaming, hates his parents, and considers himself the black sheep of the family. Lastly, he hasn't quite graduated from massage school yet, but he knows deep in his heart that aromatherapy is a holistic-health game changer. He just couldn't stop talking! But I guess it's not his fault, I couldn't stop responding. 

As we came to the near end, I figured he'd finish the massage with arms and hands, my absolute favorite part. Apparently, that is an extra 250 Rand (17 USD), and proceeded to the scalp massage instead. He announced he'd be doing something different and not asking to see if I'd care.  Like an oily baptism, he ladled directly onto my face and proceeded to rub his hitch hiker thumbs into my 3rd eye. It felt like a mother sternly rubbing dirt off her kid's face, but grosser and totally unrelaxing. Then he palmed both sides of my head and squeezed it like a cantaloupe. With that, he left me to gather my leaked brains and get dressed. 

Now, I had a feeling he used a bit of oil, but I didn't know how much until I stood up. I wiped out taking bottles of lotions and the bedding with me. No one can make a graceful exit after that, but I held my lubricated head high as best I could, and strolled out the door like I did that sort of thing every day. I found Mark who had just dropped the kids off at their club. We drank some wine, ate dinner and laughed at my non-relaxful, sopping existence before preparing ourselves for a full day driving back to southern Namibia. 

The only photo I took that day, and I was of a tireD cow in Stellenbosch.
I guess I was too busy drinking wine and getting slopped on.

Walking Around Cusco

Temporarily satisfied with seeing Incan ruins, today was another "light day" touring Cusco. On the agenda: visit a few churches, markets, and time permitting- a museum or two. Because our days seemed to mostly start at Plaza de Armas, we had already tracked down two: the Cathedral of Cusco aka Cathedral Basilica of the Assumption of the Virgin, and Church of the Society of Jesus. Church services were always going on so we didn't get a chance to visit inside. Continuing on our jaunt, we passed by Church of San Francisco and the Church of San Pedro, both which had a live marching band getting ready for processionals down the street. 

Margo was in some need of butt paste (hiking is hard work on wee bums!) so I detoured to a pharmacy while the others peered inside the doors for details. Busy with preparations and/or services, we missed these as well. No matter because we arrived to the San Pedro Market, which was full of entertainment and colors. Stacks of bamboo, buckets of juice, and piles of vegetables were everywhere. Then we wandered inside the tarp covered portion, and even Margo was distracted from her bottomly discomforts (man it's dry here. In Cusco, I mean) to stare at the products on offer. The cool morning weather meant glorious smells of fresh meats, produce, and breads. 

Walking back toward the Plaza with efforts focused on getting lunch, we turned onto a pedestrian street attracted by sounds of traditional drums and flutes. We walked right into a tiny courtyard where the musician was playing in full-on Incan dress. Of course the herd of alpacas totally eclipsed this experience as the kids rejoiced and begged to feed them. Donation in the pot, the kids stuffed corn husks in their faces, squealing with joy. It was all good and fun until the alpaca lady tried to put Deets on an alpaca. Neither the creature nor he were impressed. Taking this as our cue, we had one other church in mind: San Blas aka Saint Blaise, patron of throat illnesses, animals, wool combers, and wool trading. Seems appropriate. Up the steps we went, where- yes the church was closed. But no matter, we were waaaaay overdue for lunch so we stopped at a volunteer run cafe right on the square: The Meeting Place where proceeds go to local charities. They make big-ass yeasty waffles, and killer mango lassis. I ate so much I felt drunk. To walk off the food stupor, we made our way home for an early evening. Tomorrow would be another epic travel day to: MACHU PICCHU! Estimated time of departure: 4:15 am...

 Many vendors serve the juice
in a plastic sack with a straw instead of cups.

Outside the San Pedro Market.

Bamboo and coconuts.

Fresh and cool air running through the market.

Gizzards? Feet? Beak? All included.

Margo wanted to know why their eyes were still open.

Alpaca feeding time.

Shaggy.

Margo, Em, Deets and Josh.

Planning.

Sacred Valley Tour, Peru

Even though we all were tired enough from traveling and sun exposure, sound sleep was hard to find. In a matter of minutes we all became nose whistling mouth breathers in our heatless apartment. Sure we were provided a space heater and were nearly flattened with layers of heavy blankets, but finding a stable temperature proved quite difficult. Plus we'd later learn that the home owner would charge us over a 100 dollars to use the (useless) heater, which made the house feel even colder. For the first few nights Mark and I ended up playing musical beds (the house did have seven total) in three different rooms to deal with insomniac children, dry coughs and snores, and ice cold feet against overly warm bodies.

Nevertheless, we all woke early from jet lag and the excitement of seeing giant stacks of handcrafted ancient rocks, perfectly placed during the Incan empire. We hired a driver to do a circuit tour around the Sacred Valley- someone experienced to handle steep hairpin turns and navigating amongst the masses of tour buses on two lane highways. I'm prone to car sickness so I won the front passenger seat, but nearly regretted it when the sun hit the dashboard.

Our first stop was a alpaca/cultural site called Awanakancha that introduced us to the many types of even toed ungulates which we could feed with unlimited stalks of greenery. The alpacas were a huge hit and not just with kids. I didn't see a single person frowning there, even if we were in tight quarters with a mess of camera happy and selfie stick jabbing tourists getting herded down to the line to the other end. Past the alpaca pens, we watched weavers, corn shuckers, and jewelry makers present their talents with adorable children right by their side. If the kids were excited about feeding alpacas, I was over the moon looking at the variety of potatoes and corn grown in Peru. I love food so much.

Onward we went to Pisac to gape at ancient terraces, tombs, and fortresses at 10,826 feet. Nothing says fun than walking halfway up the mountain when your daughter announces she needs to use the bathroom in the most urgent way. We could tell on a few less worn paths people unfortunately had marked their territory in ungallant ways. Undeterred, we found the proper bathroom and continued our venture up to the fortresses lined with empty rooms, perfect for playing "cozinha," Margo's Brazilian version to playing house... or rather "kitchen." And as we became champions of the Incan Fortress, we quickly headed back to the van to escape the increasingly congested stairways.

I suspect we were ragingly late on our return, having spent over two hours hiking. Everyone was in dangerous range of hangriness, but still opted to run through Pisac's giant market at the bottom of the mountain. Deets was obsessed with getting a chess board, and Margo wanted to buy her classmates toy alpacas. Those missions accomplished it was another hour fifteen minutes to get to the brewery we'd picked out for lunch. Mark reasoned we could avoid complaints of car sickness if the kids slept on empty stomachs. He was right.

We passed through a couple towns, one being notable for its famous grilled cuy (Guinea pig.) Sure enough, Calca, a town with puma pride, had women waving their cuy-on-a-stick to cars; the shiny taut skin charred to a deep maroon/brown, feet and heads intact. I enjoyed this so much I didn't think to take a picture. Once out of their town, Mark muttered something about my responsibility to look for the brewery that may or may not be directly on the roadside; or possibly across the river and past the railroad tracks. Knowing how late we were for lunch, I was freaking out that I'd miss it, saving all my attention to blurry buildings and unreadable signs. We lucked out, and the driver deftly turned into the parking lot for Sacred Valley Brewing Company (Cerveceria del Valle Sagrado). Beered and fed with ample time to play with rocks and harass the local cat, we were all fit for another stop: the Ollantaytambo Ruins at 9,169 feet.

Our driver gave us 45 minutes to ascend and return to the van. Craning my view to the top, I doubted this to be feasible. But the kids all but ran up the steps, nary a complaint to be uttered. We traversed across stone irrigation channels, up the terraced layers, and past thousands of tons of carved rocks with spy windows in between. We made it back filthy to the core and only ten minutes late!

I was certain this was the last hurrah for the day, especially since it was 4:15pm already. But some time later the driver abruptly turned left into Chinchero at 12,343 feet. He gave us thirty minutes, but with the dropping sun and cold temperatures, we kept on schedule, giving Margo exactly five minutes to make her (losing) case not to see rocks anymore. Deets however gained his second wind and was climbing on anything he could make purchase on, followed by sprinting across a terrace field which quite frankly was irresistible even for me. When Margo caught up, she ran too. And 28 minutes later we collapsed in the van watching the sky turn red, orange and purple- a twilight comparable only to a Colorado version. We arrived home around 8pm, with the bus depot across the street already filled with empty tour buses from what was likely a full day for many others.

Alpaca saying hi at Awanakancha.

Weaver at Awanakancha.

Potatoes of every shape and size.
Awanakancha

Incan ruins in Pisac.

Pisac ruins.

Pisac Market.

Pisac Market.

Mmm. Beer.

Ollantaytambo Ruins from below.

And above.

And from the side. Expert terracing.

Needing no encouragement.
Ollantaytambo.

My Margo, so fearless.
Ollantaytambo.

Chinchero Ruins.

Chinchero field that drops off to nothingness.

Chinchero at sunset.

Chinchero Champion Climber.

Chinchero local. 

Cusco, Peru

According the Lonely Planet Peru, "the Incans deemed Cuzco and the Sacred Valley the belly button of the world." Now, I have worked as an operating room nurse and I have pulled some strange and very gross things out of belly buttons so I found the book's description nauseating and well, wrong. Cusco et. al is anything but, and we could feel this the moment the plane broke through the fog of Lima, rising against the grain of the Andes Mountain Range. When I first saw the snow peaks I was so excited that I jumped out of my seat and across the aisle, scaring the man dozing against the window. He accepted my apology and adroitly went back to sleep despite the wafting dung bomb in the bathroom, and my children (and me) cheering over the fact we were flying over 25 million year old mountains.

In less than 90 minutes we found ourselves wandering past baskets and baskets of free coca leaves, eager taxi drivers jockeying for customers, and into the parking lot to meet our Air BnB hostess who hired a van to take us across town. She marched us inside our home for the week to discuss not only the house, but to assist us in planning transportation and timelines to make the most of our time here. We'd have a few big, napless travel days to tour the valley mixed with a few milder days exploring around Cusco. The kids, already adept to Schlink Family Fun Hikes went along with the plan more or less. We tried to focus on all the awesomeness that granite rocks, forts, and llamas bring to the table, and less on the long curvy roads, elevation challenges, and the inevitable amount of walking we'd do.

Luckily, our apartment was only a fifteen minute walk to Plaza das Armas, the big famous square of Cusco. Adorned with giant churches, gaping tourists, shops, and restaurants, there's plenty of comforts to be found. We marched the kids directly there in search of food, but first and foremost to watch the 2016 Champions' League Final. The entire city was busting with sounds of soccer fans, and nary a seat to be found- which didn't bode well for exhausted and hungry kids. We ended up at a pub with a surly bartender where we (I) ate a lack luster plate of tapas: pickled meats, spicy olives and cheese. Perhaps it wasn't the best choice, for the kids lasted about twenty minutes before I tugged them back up the hill to take a much needed nap. Luckily, they bounced back for another trek into town at dinner time, where Deets picked a Peruvian restaurant called Deva that boasted its famous "chicha de jora" a sweet and frothy fermented corn beer. To make matters even better, we enjoyed pisco sours and Cusquena Quinoa Beer to wash down ceviche and roasted alpaca tenderloin. Verdict on the alpaca: chewy. Perhaps grilled might be better?

The Plaza on the way home was crammed with spectators watching a traditional music dance show. The kids danced to stay warm in the quickly cooling night while I jogged off to pick up necessary ground coffee for the morning. We made it home around 8pm and... by 8:30pm, we had all passed out. 

Andes Mountain Range

Peaks estimated to be around 20,000 feet.

Big.

Just outside Cusco

Overhead view of Saqsaywaman Ruins
overlooking the valley in which Cusco sits.

Cusco, Peru

Plaza de Armas
Church of the Society of Jesus

Quinoa beer. Clean taste but you need to
ignore the smell of silo corn storage.