Microbrewed Adventures (27 page)

A
CASTLE GOLDEN PILSENER
,
please.”

I am on my first of several African journeys. It is 1995. I am on a train, comfortable, relaxed and with a cold beer in hand. The landscape slithers by, highlighted by the glow of the setting sun. The steam engine chugs ahead, leading us around another horseshoe bend. Two minutes earlier I had watched the sun balance itself on the horizon. Now, I am viewing the rising full moon. I open the window wider, taking a deep breath and another long draw of beer. A baboon glances at me from the dry grasses along the railroad sidings. Sucking the foam off my mustache, I begin to recount the experiences of the past few days, and in particular…

The Zimbabwe Zephyr and the Beer Gardens of Bulawayo
Hari Yemadzisahwira

D
URING THE NIGHT
the train's frequent stops distracted me. During the overnight journey northward, people were continuously getting off and on in the middle of nowhere. Vehicles were not waiting at any of these stations; only people, donkeys, two-wheeled carts and the glowing embers of
small fires comforting the stillness along the tracks. The full moon contributed to the mysteries beyond, throwing shadows that silhouetted trees dotting the landscape. I knew there were small villages out there beyond. In these villages I was sure people brewed beer. I was certain of that.

Riding the “Zimbabwe Zephyr”

As the train silently pulled away I could hear people chatter in Shonna and Ndeble among bits of English. Yes, there was beer out there, because there were people. I felt a very strong urge to get off at one of the next stops with my one small bag of belongings and encounter the unknown of the African night. I took another sip of Castle and promised myself that I'd be back someday and succumb to temptation.

I was on the Zimbabwe National Railways, journeying from Bulawayo to Victoria Falls to catch my long flight back to Colorado. And at the same time I was enjoying the local beer, thinking about the one in my hand and those of the past few days. I had learned to appreciate the commercially produced beers because I had had the privilege of attending an international convention of southern and central African brewers. The variety of cultures, variety of beer styles and quality of life were far better than what my prejudices had anticipated. The all-malt Reinheitsgebot Windhoek lagers of Namibia, the aromatic and hoppy Zambezi Lager of Zimbabwe, the stouts and fruit beers of South Africa all provided quenching relief from the late summer sun of southern Africa. Castle Lager and Castle Pilsener provided welcome rehydra
tion, as I had earlier in the week paddled a canoe along a three-day stretch of the Zambezi River. The elephants 20 feet away, grazing along the riverbanks; hippos sloshing their way only yards from our evening campsites; the distant roar of lions; the ominous crocs lining the riverbanks and the nighttime hyenas skulking through the campgrounds were not beer hallucinations. They were real, though the beer helped. Believe me. Though I learned that one was wise not to drink too much on evening campouts. Late-night urinations were an invitation to dangerous encounters. The morning sun was always welcoming light to my bladder.

As a brewer and an enthusiast of indigenous beers the real treat on this, my first African journey, was the discovery of native and commercially brewed opaque sorghum beer. I feel quite certain that these beers were among the first beers ever brewed, perhaps paralleling the beers of ancient Mesopotamia and Egypt. Unfortunately for historians, we haven't yet discovered the beer records (if they exist at all) of the peoples of southern and central Africa. Unlike the Mesopotamian and ancient Egyptian brews, these sorghum beers remain a living tradition, though no less historical.

Sorghum is a grain that grows well in the semi-arid regions of Africa. It can easily be made into malt, having adequate enzymes to convert itself into the essential sugars and fermentables needed to brew beer. To produce a variety of flavors and color in their beer, local village and homebrewers may roast all or a portion of their grains and malts.

Did I say beer? Well, yes, I did, though to most of the Western world opaque sorghum beer would hardly be recognized or considered as such. But in reality it has more tradition than any pils, bock, pale ale or stout.

My first encounter with this living history was at a conference of southern and central African brewers. The last night of the event featured traditional African cuisine such as ostrich, impala stew, ox veal tongue in peanut butter sauce and milo/sadza (corn mush), along with sorghum beer brewed by the local Chibuku Brewery. I must have got a little carried away with the Chibuku that night. During the “circumcision dance” and the “tower of power ceremony,” one of the African dancers dragged me into the dirt dancing circle. Several hotel employees told me the next morning that they saw me drinking a lot of Chibuku just before I began kicking up the dust, dancing in front of the entire delegation.

I visited the small Chibuku Brewery in the municipality of Dete. The brewery was one of dozens of Chibuku Breweries in southern Africa commercially producing opaque sorghum beer.

More than half of all the beer consumed in South Africa, Botswana, Zim
babwe and neighboring nations is not light lager, but rather Chibuku-type sorghum beer. Here at the tiny brewery in Dete they were churning out 10,000 to 12,000 hectoliters per month (that's about 8,500 to 10,000 U.S. barrels; one barrel equals 31 gallons).

How is it made? Malted sorghum is ground to a medium-fine flour (along with maize, or corn, in some formulations). The flour is “mashed” into hot water and converted into soluble starches and fermentable sugars. From the mashing vessel, the sweet liquid is passed over a simple screen, removing only the coarsest pieces of crushed grain. The sweet liquid with the fine flour enters a stainless steel tank, where it is cooled. Yeast is added and so are a couple of shovelfuls of freshly milled sorghum malt. On the same day, the mixture is packaged and shipped to retail outlets and beer halls. What a concept—brewed and packaged in one day! And get this: the beer is not alcoholic when it leaves the brewery. I wondered what the tax man was going to do now!

The beverage is designed to ferment in the package or in serving tanks holding the draft versions of this brew. After one day, the beer has developed 1 percent alcohol. It has a creamy texture, much like a thick milkshake or smoothie. The yeast has begun to ferment the sugars into alcohol. The shovelful of malt at the end of the brewing process introduces loads of lactobacillus bacteria to the sweet liquid. At the warm African temperatures, a lactic souring slowly evolves during fermentation. After 24 hours the beer has a slight acidic taste and a slight aromatic character reminiscent of yogurt (but remember, there is no milk in this beverage). The tannins from the sorghum husk contribute a drying astringency to the mouthfeel. The overall flavor is a pleasant blend of sweet and sour. Carbonation is beginning to naturally develop, and the bready aroma of yeast soon begins to emerge. I liked the beer quite a bit, though I imagine that something like this would be even more delicious with a fruit or chocolate flavor served at cold temperatures.

Sorghum beer is healthy. As a matter of fact, it is an important part of the nutritional intake of many Africans; fermented grain is nutritionally superior to nonfermented grain.

The alcohol rises to 2 percent on day two and 3 percent on day three, and then on the fourth day the worm will emerge from the package. This is when you know the beer is at its prime, at about 4 to 4½ percent. Alcohol, acidity and flavor balance to the preference of most Chibuku enthusiasts. The worm? No, it is not the wiggly kind, but rather the foaming fermentation that emerges from the pinhole atop the milk-carton-like container.

Enthusiasts may be found wearing a Chibuku Brewery T-shirt with the
slogan “Hari Yemadzisahwira.” I believe it is the Chibuku version of “Relax. Don't worry. Have a homebrew.” More accurately, it relates that with good beer, there are friends to be made.

Commercially made Chibuku is quite popular, but the homebrewed stuff is even more so. Instant 24-hour homebrew kits are available throughout South Africa, as well as “all-grain” traditional homebrew kits. But most sorghum beer is made to village standards or family recipes handed down through generations, using 100 percent home-malted sorghum.

The soothing clickety-clack of the railroad tracks and my third Castle Pilsener helped me recall my visit to the beer gardens of Bulawayo the day before. As an editor, I had read and published an article in the 1984 issue of
Zymurgy
magazine about the beer gardens of Bulawayo. Now, 13 years later, the intrigue materialized as I traveled through Zimbabwe seeking these fabled beer gardens.

When I arrived in Bulawayo, I learned there were no longer any beer gardens in town. I ended up consulting a cab driver parked outside my hotel. “You wanna do what?” he asked incredulously.

“Yeah man, I wanna go to one of those sorghum beer gardens. Can you take me there, and will I be able to find a cab ride back?”

Richard, the cab driver, looked at me a bit perplexed, but then shrugged his shoulders and abandoned himself to my crazy fantasy. “Sure man, but you aren't gonna find a cab out there to get you back. I'll tell you what; I'll stick with you for as long as you want to stay. Buy me beer and let me know when you want to come back.” This was not America!

Off we went to the western suburbs of Bulawayo seeking the Mashumba Beer Garden in Makakoba Township. The streets were dimly lit, but there was no shortage of people walking to everyday destinations. We pulled over and stopped in a well-lit area. Sitting on the graveled surface, women sold vegetables and snack food. There was a bustle of activity. The place was alive.

We enter the walled garden through a high, grand-looking gate. My first impression was one of lots of people, all in quiet, happy conversation. Benches haphazardly lined the grounds extending beyond the maze of tall
walls. Curiously, I did not notice anyone drinking any beer. In fact I didn't notice any beer. I followed Richard. To get a “draw” of brew we stood in line and Richard handed me a rather intimidatingly large, five-liter, white plastic bucket. “Where are the glasses?” I recall wondering. I didn't wonder long. As I stepped up to a small window, the draftsman asked, “Two liters or four?” “Two,” I quickly blurted, silently thinking, “One can't be too cautious with these kinds of experiences, you know.”
Swooooosh
, the brew gushed out of its dispenser and within 0.84 seconds my bucket proudly contained two liters of fermenting, sour-smelling, yeasty, thick, beery, alcoholic and nutritiously wonderful Chibuku. We exited the dispensary and I realized the virtues of all those white plastic buckets being shared at tables throughout the garden.

Richard and I found a bench occupied by several other men and women. We passed around our communal bucket of brew and shared its glories. Every time it was my turn, I grasped the sides of the bucket with my thumbs and fingers to swirl the contents (to get the good stuff into suspension), inhale the pungent lactic aroma (in my mind repeating a mantra, “Charles, there are no known pathogens that can survive in beer. Charles, there are no known pathogens that can survive in beer. Charles, there are…”), take a good, healthy swig and begin to feel the camaraderie, the glow, the warm evening air, the conversation, the culture and the urge for another. The conversation became more animated and Isaac, a stringer of tennis racquets seated next to me, found questioning me easier: “Is America very far from here?” “Where is your family?” “Why are you here?” “Who are you?”

I was smiling. After my sixth swirl, swig and swallow I noticed Regina, a rather large, robust woman who had been nervously watching me for the last 20 minutes. She was uncomfortable about something and not smiling. Something bad was in the air and I was beginning to feel nervous. I swirled, swigged and swallowed one more time. Then, while seated, with hands on her wide hips and a slight friendly yet frustrated tilt of her head, she pleaded in a plaintiff command, “Sir,” pausing apologetically, “Will you puleeeeeeeeaase keep your
thumbs
out of the bucket.” Red faced, shrinking aback and totally embarrassed, I thought to myself, “And I was concerned about pathogens!” This issue of “thumbs out of the bucket” is clearly an important consideration when drinking in the beer gardens of Bulawayo. I learned a very important cultural lesson, one I'm sure is not in any beer etiquette book.