LOOKING FOR CHAPATI MADODO IN CHINA

Lake view Hotel announces itself in bold letters. You only learn later that the lake is artificial and you are hard pressed to find it. Unable to locate the lake in the expansive Peking Univeristy in Beijing China, I decide to take a walk down the street and look for goat head soup or mutura aka African sausage. My Okuyu brains tells me it doesn’t make sense to buy food with fancy names from a 5 star hotel at three times the price opposite the road. Minus the fancy names. And it’s more fun fending for yourself out there among the average folk. The common mwananchi. To experience real life on the ground. I am conscious that i will face linguistic challenges here. The workers at the 5 star hotel hardly speak English. I don’t expect greater competence in the streets. 

The first thing that hits me in the streets is bikes. There are bikes everywhere. Scooters. Motorbikes. Motorized bicycles. Tricycles. All kinds. New. Old ones. Some in repair shops. Others in second hand shops. And some brand new ones with sales signs prominently displayed on their shop windows. There are Bikes everywhere.

I walk on. I am sure I look odd. Am the only black guy around. They are definitely staring. I don’t blame them. I too would stare at an odd guy walking down a bicycle street all alone. “Nihaoo.”. They say. At least i know that one. I know they are greeting me. I don’t remember what the reply is supposed to be. I suspect it’s ‘nihaoo ma.’ But I don’t dare try it for fear of saying the wrong thing. So I respond with a nod of the head and a friendly grin. Some say something in the local language and point me to their shops. I believe they are inviting me to buy a bike. But it’s not a bike I am looking for at this moment. I keep walking . I begin doubting I will find a nyama choma joint or a kiosk selling tumbukiza or goat head soup.

I see a foot bridge in front and since I can’t smell roast, I climb the bridge ready to find my way back to my hotel. Then I notice the first food stall. It’s only a window opening into the street. When I get near, I realize they are only selling fruit cocktails or juice. These are the pictures I see on the menu. The rest of the menu is in Chinese. The lady behind the counter is friendly. She has a smashing smile. But she says “no.” to every question I ask. Am unable to order any drink so I move on. I am now really hungry. I am ready for anything. Matumbo. Chapati madodo. Anything. But I can only see bicycles and motor bikes. 

Am about to throw my hands in the air in exasperation and declare food from dingy joints unsafe anyway when some flaps seem to fly into the streets. A woman with a brush follows them. She is washing the floor. I look inside. It looks familiar. There are people sat inside. Eating. The inside looks like a Java but located somewhere in River-road in down town Nairobi. I stand outside staring. “Are you closing?” I ask. I don’t understand the reply. I point inside and make a question mark in the air. “Can I go in?” “Ok.”. A stranger across the street says. I look at her and she waves me inside. I find myself a comfortable place, sit and wait. 

Promptly I am brought a menu. It’s also all in Chinese. The pictures don’t help. I try my luck. Do you have chicken? The waiter clearly does not understand. She flips through the menu and points at different dishes at random and looks at me inquiringly. A man across the table says something to her. “Aaaaah, ok”, the waiter says and dashes off. I believe she has understood. Thank you very much, I tell the man. Welcome. He replies and continues eating. 

When my food comes, it’s a bowl of chicken pieces and vegetables doused in what appears to be quite a lot of oil. There is rice on the sides. I pick my chopsticks and fish a few pieces of the chicken into a small side bowl provided. You can’t tell if it’s chicken by merely looking at it. It’s been cut into small bony pieces. I am suspecting most of it is the neck. “You know how to use chopsticks?” Its my earlier translator. “I try,” I reply. “You have been here long?” “Not really, I just arrived this afternoon”. He does not comment on my reply so am not sure he has understood me. “What about you?” I ask. “Is this your home town?” “No am visiting. Am here for a conference.” He has finished eating. He stands up and leaves.

I continue picking the small bony pieces of chicken, sucking the juices and bits of flesh as you would a lolly pop. I put the fleshless bones on a saucer. They pile. They look messy. I am uncomfortable. I don’t know what to do. Do they expect me to crush and chew the bones. The waiter seems to notice my discomfort. She comes with a phone in which she types something in Chinese then presses a button. She shows me the translation. “The style of eating”. It says. I don’t know what she wants. I smile and say “I am fine”. She goes away. I am disturbed. Am I ruining the reputation of an entire continents’ eating habits. My experience is that for Africans, bad habits tend to get generalized whereas great achievements are seen as exceptional. 

I am still turning these ideas in my mind when a woman enters accompanied by a child. A girl of about 7 years. I can’t quite tell. They seat opposite me. The girl is well schooled. She stares at me discreetly. I pretend I am not looking their direction but watch them at the corner of my eye. She tugs her Mum and whispers something. I am sure it’s about me. The mother tries to make a masked turn in my direction. She can’t. To look at me she has to make 180 degrees turn and she knows I will be looking. Then she realizes there is a mirror in front of her. She uses it. Her eyes and mine make four. She looks down embarrassed. I am still struggling with the statement “the style of eating”. Now I am wondering if that is the cause of the child’s concern.

I wave at the waiter. Using gestures I ask her to bring her translating phone. I type “what do you do with the bones”? She presses the translation button. She has a puzzled look on her face. She types something in Chinese. Translates. “You have eaten your bones, haven’t you”. I am the one puzzled now. So I type “yes thank you”. Loudly and followed with what I consider an appropriate gesture i say “can I have the bill now?”. “Fourty two” she says loudly. She understands English? I give her a hundred Yuan bill and she promptly returns with change. I separate a five Yuan note and extend it to her as a tip. “No” she says politely. I insist. “No”, she insists. I fold my yuan into my wallet and leave. Are they not allowed to take tips? Over to my Chinese friends..