An African Thanksgiving - Part 2

Hell’s gate was upon us. Fifteen of us packed into the forester, platz (as wimpy as it sounds), and Suzuki 4x4 that the Kisumu crew arrived in thanks to Lisa. Lisa from Kisumu had also brought all of the drinks for the weekend upon here arrival the night before, she was deemed the party starter. After all, she did carry in one of those large black plastic crates (the kind you typically see for milk) full of lager bottles and her wine came by the litre and a half size only. Lunch was already prepared. PB&J sandwiches, bananas, chips, carrot sticks and fresh fruit. On our way to the western entrance of Hell’s Gate we all were interrupted by a shaded savannah full of munching giraffe and idle zebra. I had just begun some African music in my car and the animals appeared as if beckoned by it. I tipped my hat to them for the added scenery and threw the platz back in drive. We drove down the winding pothole patched road and turned onto a dusty, dirt one that lead to the entrance. The air was incredible. Fresh and pure, the antithesis of Nairobi’s. The day was sunny but a pleasant, steady breeze cooled the warmth of the sun, it was the perfect day for a hike. We arrived at the gate entry. Now the bargaining began. It was my mission to get all 15 of us into the park at resident Kenyan rates. Really, I only needed to bargain in about 9 people. Three were Ugandan (already qualified since they are East African residents) and three others had forms from immigration stating something. My negotiating skills were on point, I’ve tuned them since moving to Kenya. My schmoozing skills were just as typical as they’ve always been. So we all entered the park as residents, to hike the gorge. A place in a trench so wicked, that hell itself had discarded it. The hike was gorgeous. I again leave it to the pictures to describe the insanity that is the gorge or simply leave it to Dante’s inferno to depict the stages of it. We were led by a guide for safety and direction purposes. He took us deep into the caves of the gorge, walls chiseled away by water layer by layer. It had been dry in Kenya for the past year, so some areas where a rushing river would lie, we could simply trek. We scoured rocks, boulders, cliffs, foothills, rivers, waterfalls, near cavernous trenches, washed out lands, boiling springs, and mud/sink holes to dry sun drenched openings. It was intense in a purely adventurous way. All the while we passed bones obviously left by animals not nearly as readied as the pack of us. The hike was magnificent. Nearly three hours in all. We ascended to a sandstone rocky overlook that peered down upon the gorge at the hike’s end. It was a stunning scene. Peaked hills surrounded the lush green trees that lined the single meandering dark line of the gorge, the bottom of which escaped all vision. The crew gathered round and took down some lunch.

Time check, 2:30 pm, it was getting late. Later than planned at least. Anne needed to get the turkey in the oven soon. Assuming 15 min/lb and we had an 18 lb bird, it would take 4 hours plus to cook. Not to mention the cooking organizational skills it takes to do beans, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cider, pumpkin soup, and gravy using just two main burners with a third the size of a pilot light. So Anne gathered up one group and headed home, back to Twiga to prepare the feast. The other two groups followed, 20 minutes in lag. We all gathered back at what we now called our retreat. The bird was in the oven and the stuffing had been started on the burners (make-do stuffing cooking style, burners on LOW heat, hand cycled). One pot was typical stuffing with the chicken stock, the other was vegetarian where apple juice and milk were used in lieu of meat product. It made no matter, the scent of Thanksgiving was enveloping Twiga. Annzibar was the kitchen quarterback and also the entire offense at most times. People were very helpful though, and absolutely as helpful as they could be without consuming the kitchen. But many of us simply relaxed at the same time. Tusker lager was flowing throughout the house and around the grounds. Anne, as is required by her during dinner prep, cracked the 1.5L red wine and dowsed her glass. She sauntered eloquently to and fro, cooking…sipping, stirring…sipping, checking…sipping, turning…sipping, tasting…sipping, directing…sipping. The oven was convection, nice for airflow, and nice for stripping the cooking time down by a third. Todd and I were in charge of the Turkey. This glorious monster that would be so succulent in just a short amount of time. It was in something called a roasting pan, not entirely typical of the roasting pans you see back home. But it was large enough to hold the turkey and all the tasty, greasy, drippings to boot. We were the ones that would check the meat, baste the meat, and carve the meat. Anne covered up the top in aluminum foil after an hour and we sat back and let it roast. The basting was done by spoon. Ladling small portions over the glistening skin time and time again. Salad prep was going on near the dining room by a gaggle of ladies. Garlic/plain/and buttered baguettes were prepped for the oven.

The aromas drove the crowd in. It was nearing 7 pm. All was near done. The turkey had been resting to cool for the carve. There was no thermometer, no pop up red dial a done turkey meter. We had to do it the olde fashioned way, the way of our forefathers. The way of the pilgrims. By the easy feel of the leg slipping off from the breast…and by a 3 inch deep knife probe to center breast. The carving of the turkey was a massacre. Hacked apart as though done by amateurs. Chunks of meat were sliced off and dropped into a brilliantly crème serving platter. One platter for white, the smaller for dark. A 10 foot buffet style bar formed out of polished concrete and at chest level separated the kitchen from the solid block wood dining table. All the starters, entrees, dressings, desserts were assembled on the buffet. The helping hands had properly adorned the table with china sets for fourteen. Two large block picnic table type benches were on either side of the king’s table, with a seat on each end. Wine was poured all around, soup was served and a toast was given. Then the pack of scholars sank in for the meal. The buffet was fit for a regal high fancy and well to do occasion. There was salad with ranch or Italian, bread, stuffing, green beans, whipped mashed potatoes, turkey galore, and the topper of Anne-made turkey gravy. The two pumpkin and two apple pies were there to tempt, but clearly ready for after dining. The group was nearly silent for thirty five minutes. Once the first round had nestled in the stomachs, the lively chatter began. The meal went on for a couple hours after which it was time to retire to the living room fire with fresh lively heat, and begin to think about cutting into the pies.

When I say pies, I mean pies. All created and baked from scratch. The Nairobi crew did the two apples. The apple pie plates were enormous, seemingly the size you would only see on some overwhelmingly oversized coffee table at Pottery Barn. They must have measured a football field in diameter. The two pumpkins were from Eldoret made by the Toddster. Normal in size, and most importantly, normal in color, look, feel, and excellent in taste. It’s difficult to bake pies in Nairobi, it’s possibly even more so to bake them in Eldoret. Todd’s oven only knows one function…broil. So he cycled the broiling coil to bake the pies. We were all once again sprawled out all over the living room. Some people looked nearly inverted on the couches. The pies came out, carried with ice cream and whip cream. They were both delicious. Talk again had arisen about the Nile River Explorer’s video. Night had just been breached when we decided to gather round the computer for theatrical type viewing. The DVD was quite righteously created and had 45 solid minutes worth of footage of our destruction on the Nile. After the river rafting video, we all vegged out and continue sipping our digestivos. Story telling ensued with a medley of classic, corny, and cunning tales. The pattern of the night was the inclusion of wild natives in each fable. No reason of how or why that was dreamt up, it’s just one of those things that happens when groups get together, drink for hours, and end up around a fire. *Same way that I see no real reason as to how a group hits up bowling, then Stan’s, then dances around with their headlamps on, but I understand it. The stories continued on for a bit, then the weariness of all sank in. By about 1-2am everybody had found their sleeping places once more and no longer went to bed dreaming about the Thanksgiving that would have been if only they were back in the states. The Thanksgiving weekend extravaganza had just been pulled off. Anne was tired, but had that blatant smile of family home satisfaction on her face.

All rested well, the group adventure for Sunday was Crescent Island. Wild giraffe, wildebeest, dik diks, zebra, and pythons awaited us. All we had to do was plop eight people in a canoe built for four with a motor strapped on by twine and avoid the hippos. Another fun day was sure to come.