The ugali truth: food diaries vol. I

Editor's note: I've gone far too long without a food-specific post - an embarrassing ommission.

It’s thick, white, grainy, and though locals claim it should have no taste – prepare for a snicker if you dare salt it – but it is the defining food of Southern Africa. Ugali, nsima, nshima, pap, papa, wusa – it all means a sticky glop of cheap calories in the form of corn porridge.

In a way, one of the liberating aspects of traveling in much of southern Africa is that there’s no gourmet food traditions (a major exception being Zanzibar) and therefore no pressure to seek out the regions great delicacies.

The preeminent regional board game, bao, is entirely about finding food to survive. It’s even played with seeds. When you make a good move and steal your opponent’s seeds, it’s called “finding something to eat.” When you can’t make a move, “you have nothing to eat.” (It’s also often played for money and cheating is not tolerated. If you’re opponent catches you may be the victim of “having no teeth left with which to eat.”)

Ugali (Swahili) is survival food. Corn is a quick, dirt cheap crop to grow, and from the Rift Valley in Tanzania to Cape Town, you will find miles and miles of the stuff planted on every marginally fertile piece of land.

The porridge is often served with a bit of stewed or curried meat and sometimes a few vegetables (my favorite being salty pumpkin greens), but the bulk of the calories come from the corn and a lot of poor people must make do with just ugali for more meals than is healthy. Even in Mozambique, with its Portuguese cooking flair, the perfectly crisped side-of-the-road whole chickens are served with a liberal dollop of wusa.

I grew up with pap (what South Africans call it) and always loved it as grainier, heartier alternative to mashed potatoes and a great side to grilled meats. Apparently I learned improper pap etiquette, though, enjoying it with a healthy (unhealthy?) dose of salt and butter. When I did this in a local restaurant in the tiny lakeside town of Monkey Bay, Malawi, a Malawian in the restaurant laughed and schooled me in the ways of nsima (the Malawian name).

“It’s not supposed to taste like anything,” he said.

If you’re lucky enough to have some accoutrements to your starch, the nsima is there to soak up the flavors, which it does quite effectively. Papa (Botswana) is a no-silverware affair. Despite the fact that it’s served scorching hot, you are supposed to dig in fingers first. You didn’t need those fingerprints, anyway.

Scoop out half a fistful, use your thumb to dimple the bottom and scoop up that fatty morsel of beef you had your eye on. Enjoy, and keep telling yourself it’s beef.