VIRGIN TERRITORY

                                                           UNTOUCHED, UNTRIED, UNTAINTED

THE BLUE LAGOON - BROOKE SHIELDS & CHRISTOPHER ATKINS

The title already shows the reader I am not messing about with the subject matter.  These are things I do for the first time, probably the only time for the indulgence of having tried.  It is a complex challenge with opposite mixed sensations of pleasure and triumph, disgust and triumph or all three together.   It is most definitely “virgin territory” for me.

Ingesting lambs eye, chewing on bat stew, and drinking cow’s blood is virginal territory for me. Driving on a racetrack at 200mph in a Porche, or becoming the member of the Mile High Club just pumps up more adrenalin than my body has ever produced in anyone’s lifetime.

THE HANGING GARDENS OF BABYLON

Culinary speaking, I am very shy and reticent in being courageous at different foods. So when faced with a situation in the deepest and darkest of Baghdad  of being honored with lambs eye, the squeamishness was not the factor, but the excitement of taste and texture. If you studied biology, the whole optic nerve is part of the brain that protrudes outside the skull. In some beliefs, it is the key to the soul.  There was no avoiding this delicacy as there was only two eyes, one for my father, the guest of honor, and one for me. Our hosts had the delight of testing our resolve.  The two of us were visiting the Hanging Gardens of Babylon in Hillah, 100 km south of Baghdad.  One of the seven wonders of the world, I was standing in this dusty area described as the so-called “Hanging Gardens.”   Plants are grown above ground, and are cultivated in the air, with the roots of the trees above the (normal) tilled earth, forming a roof. To date, no archaeological evidence has been found at Babylon for the Hanging Gardens. It is possible that evidence exists beneath the Euphrates, which cannot be excavated safely at present.  

Back to the banquet dinner by the Euphrates River, I was served boiled sheep’s eye. It was smaller than I had imagined and black.  Gelatinous and chewy, the centre was distinctly creamy.  A hint of cumin masked the dank aroma.  Heart pounding, I was unsure and fantasizing if I didn’t chew it completely, the  eye would find its way through my alimentary canal peeking into my every orifice and capturing my soul.  (The vivid imagination I possess – no one should wonder why I write.) I decided that gulping down the bitter Iraqi tea would wash any lingering after-taste that had begun to clog my tongue.   Every gland I possessed went into alert mode.  All black beady Iraqi eyes waiting for any reaction.   I made it and so did my alliance increase with these Iraqis. Strange what constitutes friendship bonding. 

Ornithophobia, the fear of birds alive and flapping extends to even dead ones.  I suffer from this phobia and the thought of  swallowing bat stew just gives me anxiety, and shake with the flight or fight syndrome.   Any psychiatrist would say to alleviate phobias is to jump right in and face the fear.  I cajole myself that at worst I would upchuck, but that thought was not pleasant.  So logic has it, that if you are hungry enough, gratifying the stomach would alleviate the pain of starvation.  Therefore whatever the gratification, it would satisfy the frontal lobe that connects to the stomach.     I decided not to eat for 2 days prior to this feast.

FRUIT BAT SOUP

Pacific islanders generally eat whatever they can capture.  And bats do circle caves rising above the ocean.  The dish has a strong aroma and flavor influenced by whatever the bats had been eating.  Hungry and actually ravenous, I took a spoonful and was pleasantly surprised.   It did not taste like chicken, it was gamey, different and oddly fragrant, perhaps my bat was a fruit bat and possibly ingested some guava.  The wing still intact in the stew has given a gelatinous texture but I couldn’t quite bring it up to suck on the meat as my dining mates were deliciously pulling it from the wings. And triumphantly my anxiety, surge of adrenalin, overcame the fear and was able to finish what was on my plate. 

Blood drinking is not a usual cuisine.   Generally used in cooking with other meats to make sausages, or congealed and put into soups. But I am looking at slurping some hemoglobin sans HIV positive!  I am in Nairobi visiting my English aunt-in-law, whose life spans nine decades.  She reprimands me for not being as adventurous and suggests that I follow the Maasai tribe in the Tanzanian dessert doing what they do, eat what they eat….. basically living like a nomad for a spell.  Real virgin territory.

THE MAASAI TRIBE

The 30 year old Land Rover jeep with my reliable Kenyan guide, trusted bodyguard, friend and mentor called Kafil.  His name in Arabic means Protector, in Swahili means Responsible, he’s definitely the perfect person taking me on this odyssey.  A noble and dignified people, the Maasai have proudly maintained their traditional lifestyle and cultural identity despite pressures of the modern world.  I caught up with them in the depth of Tanzania.  Among the Maasai people, drinking blood from cattle is a part of the traditional diet, especially after special occasions such as a ritual circumcision or birth of a child.  My worry was whether it would be a thimble slug, or a pint size drinking session.     It is the celebration of  Emuratare, the circumcision of Meejoli, a strong tall boy of 15.   As I talked to Meejoli, his father Obie is giving Meejoli a speech on how to be a Maasai before the circumcision ceremony.

"Meejoli, circumcision means a sharp knife cutting into the skin of the most sensitive part of your body. You must not budge; don' t move a muscle or even blink. The slightest movement on your part will mean you are a coward, incompetent and unworthy to be a Maasai man. Ours has always been a proud family and we will not tolerate unnecessary embarrassment, so you had better be ready. Imagine yourself alone remaining uncircumcised like the water youth (white man). I hear they are not circumcised. Such a thing is not known in Maasailand."

After that very somber and scary speech, you can be sure that the cow’s blood drink (champagne to them) thimble size or pint size seems a lot easier to down after that lecture.

I’m digressing because describing the drink in its horror is difficult enough. Finding the words, even for a blogger, so you could envisage the memory of the taste,  would be a triumph for me as a writer.  Warm, fresh straight from the cow, the blood is mixed with equal parts of milk, reminiscence of a strawberry milkshake.  I was given a 4oz cup.  In the cold dessert night, any warming drink was welcoming.   The smell reeked of raw, iron or cooper like taste.  A very slight hint of saltiness, and reminds me of medium rare veal’s liver with a creamed sauce.   With that in mind, I downed it one go.  There was a moment where I thought it would come up, but I want that pride Obei was talking about, no flinching no blinking and certainly no regurgitating. I felt rejuvenated and energized as the elixir filled me up for days.

PORCHE 911 TURBO

In my driving span of a few decades, I have always driven according to the law of the land.  I pride in my chauffeur-like smooth ride, never jerking at stops or whizzing to overtake on the inside; always leaving at least three car lengths in between me the guy in front.  In other words, I am a safe driver but incredibly boring.   So to ante up my life a notch or two, going on a circuit in a Porche 911 Turbo would just  bring on the wobbly knees, the shakes, with a lurch of my heart into my mouth.   The Porche, kindly loaned to me by an admirer in the car business, does things no other car, man, alien can do.   The roar of power behind the wheel, within seconds I was doing 120mph round the Abingdon circuit in Oxfordshire.  It is fast.  The rear wheel steering is phenomenal and it revs up to 7000 rpm.  After half an hour, I am soaking in sweat, and the outside temperature was 10°C in mid February.   The steering was so agile, I just let go.  The surge of adrenalin rushed into my system, keeping me alert and all the while focused but then I went round the corner too fast and almost doubled on myself.   When I returned to the start of the track, my nerves cracked and shook all over from sheer fright.  What a machine, the engineering is impressive but can’t wait for the GT3 to come out.  

THE MILE HIGH CLUB

Now we come to the virgin territory of the High Mile Club.  We won’t mention airline and we won’t mention route but it was a long haul trip.  It involved the upper deck of a 747 with my long time partner.  Let me add that the plane was reasonably empty as it was New Year’s eve, and any sensible human being was out partying and celebrating 2010 down below ground.  Food service done, drink service done, lights dimmed, fellow passengers donned sleeping masks and the cabin went into sleep mode.  Nothing moved other than the slight motion of the plane. 

THE MANUAL IN CASE OF EMERGENCY

As New Year followed the plane en route, we celebrated in our own way, in our own time within the constraints of limited privacy, limited space, limiting our pleasurable noise and lowering our speed, maintaining pace so that when we both culminated at our highest peak, it warmly enveloped us quietly and as gracefully as possible. The New Year’s revelry sipping Veuve Clicquot was most special after our own private yet very public celebration.

Cheers!