Travel and Write

I stare hopelessly at the huge chunk of white maize flour on my plate. Nsima, as it is called, is something half way between a tasteless cake and a tasteless porridge that turns into cement once inside your stomach. Azibo is sitting between me and his Dad. His radiant smile shows off the trademark Malawian dimples. His skin is so dark that it sparkles. 20-something, Azibo is a fisherman who also works as a tour guide when "his luck comes". He found me on the beach this morning when I was being chatted up by a group of villagers who spoke absolutely no English, and insisted that I have lunch with his family. African hospitality is strange sometimes. A guest is so honored that he must be seated separately on the table, and I had to struggle to finally be allowed to sit on the ground with the rest of the family. His Mom brings me a basin of clean water to wash my hands.
- You know how to eat nsima? - asks Azibo's Dad.
I nod. Using the tip of my fingers, I pinch off some nsima, dip it into the tomato sauce, pick up a tiny kapenta fish, and quickly stuff everything in my mouth before the soaked nsima crumbles. Everybody laughs.
- You eat as if you were afraid to touch food.
- In my country, it's considered impolite to eat with your hands.
- Not good. You have to use all your senses to eat. You see the food, you smell it, you taste it, you hear it, and you have to touch it as well. Look!
Azibo's Dad uses all his 5 fingers and his whole palm, rolls his handful of nsima into a ball. He then dips it into the sauce, shoves a fish inside the ball, curls his 4 fingers into a spoon and uses his thumb to push the food into his mouth.
- Try it.
It is a strange feeling when the hot ball of nsima touches my skin, lingers long enough to make my palm tickle. The tomato sauce is soft, the fish tender, the taste mingles and melts in my hand. It's not that nsima doesn't have any taste, it's just that I never knew how to find it. And I have to say, that taste feels pretty good.