Eating Mud Crabs in Kandahar: Stories of Food during Wartime by the World's Leading Correspondents
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Reviews for Eating Mud Crabs in Kandahar
6 ratings1 review
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I loved this book. It took me all over the world’s war zones of the past few decades through tales of local food, of eating and not eating during war. We are introduced to Benazir Bhutto, Kim Jong Il, and Ariel Sharon in fascinating and very personal ways that are not usually written about, namely, how they eat. The stories are chock full of history that’s we’ve just lived through but with a behind-the-scenes vantage point that doesn’t show up in the newspapers. Isabel Hilton’s Miraculous Harvest is a fantastic read about Mao’s cultural revolution and the largest mass starvation in history. It is wonderful how these writers have packed so much into these short stories. Tim Hetherington’s Same Day Cow about life with the American soldiers in Afghanistan had me laughing out loud. Farnaz Fassihi and Joshua Hammer really made me feel what it must be like to be a foreign correspondent. In Jeweled Rice, Fassihi takes us to a troubled Iran where she stays with her grandmother who wants to her to finish her dinner before she runs to cover the latest student riots. Hammer in Weighed Down by a Good Meal in Gaza and Israel walks us through some very hot water he found himself in resulting from a kidnapping and an offhanded comment he made about the food. Each story in this book is one you’ll want to retell to your friends. If you are a traveler, you will love the landscapes and odd corners of the world this book brings you to. I really enjoyed reading the 6 (of the 18) stories written by female foreign correspondents. These are not perspectives we get to hear enough of and they are absolutely delightful. Christina Lamb in Eating Mud Crabs in Kandahar takes us on her very first foreign assignment as a young woman in Afghanistan who has to dress as a man and ride horses without touching the guy she’s sitting behind. In Sugarland, Amy Wilentz takes us right into a makeshift home of a very hungry Haitian family during dinnertime. Through describing the local favorite foods she tells the colorful story of their culture, political history and post-earthquake living conditions. Many of the stories have the heart-wrenching aspects to them that are inevitable with war and that no food can comfort. Sam Kiley’s, Eau de Cadavre, in Somalia and Rwanda is just that. He makes you taste and smell genocide. The stories are not downers though as the reporters are witty and good-humored. You really can’t help but chuckle, even in dire situations, when you see them doing the most ridiculous things to get food, all the while smoking and drinking to excess.
Book preview
Eating Mud Crabs in Kandahar - Matt McAllester
INTRODUCTION
THE NAME OF THE
THIRD CHICKEN
~ KOSOVO ~
MATT McALLESTER
WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO EAT?
I ASKED THE KOSOVAR ALBANIAN woman, at whose wooden hut in the snow-covered Mountains of the Damned I had just arrived, in the company of her son, another reporter, two photographers, and a translator.
Actually, I didn’t ask her directly. I asked the other reporter, Philip Sher-well, who spoke German. He then asked the question of the elderly lady’s son, Haki, because he too spoke German. He then asked the lady, whose name was Zejnepe, in Albanian. And back, through Haki and Philip and two languages I did not understand, came the answer.
We have some flour and oil for making bread,
Zejnepe said.
What else do you have?
I asked, looking around at a few other jars and tins on a shelf that lined the walls of the shepherd’s hut, which was heated with a wood-burning stove. We were warming our frozen bare feet and sodden socks and boots in front of the stove. It was late April 1999 and we had just hiked from the small Yugoslav republic of Montenegro through Serb-controlled territory, at some risk, to visit this old lady who had sworn she would rather be killed than leave Kosovo. Living with her in the tiny hut were five other adult relatives, three elderly, two young. The six of us who had just arrived were exhausted—except for Haki, who strolled through the snow and over the mountains as if he was going down to get coffee from the corner store. Philip and I had not known each other long. We worked for different newspapers and were not used to working together. Our exhaustion, coupled with my need to rely on him as a translator, was creating a timbre of irritation in the hut as we continued this crucial interview, which we knew would constitute one of the only firsthand accounts of life inside Serb-controlled Kosovo.
Philip asked Haki, who asked Zejnepe what else they had. Zejnepe told Haki, who told Philip, who told me the answer.
Coffee and sugar,
Philip said, and I wrote that down in my notebook.
Can we move on?
he added. He had stopped writing in his notebook.
In a minute,
I said. Could you ask her if they have any other source of food? They can’t just be surviving on bread and coffee.
Philip paused, took a deep breath, and asked Haki, who asked Zejnepe my question.
Every day her nephew, Jeton, goes down the hill to where they keep a cow tethered, and he milks it and brings back the milk,
Philip said, and I stared at my notebook and wrote down what he had said and tried not to look at him.
Matt, do you mind if we actually move on to the reason we’re here and ask about Serbian ethnic cleansing rather than performing an audit of her larder?
Philip asked.
Didn’t I see some chickens outside?
I asked.
Yes, you did,
Philip said, without bothering to ask Haki, given that we had unquestionably seen chickens outside the hut pecking in the muddy snow.
Could you ask her how many chickens she has?
I said.
Philip put down his notebook.
And would you like me to ask her the name of the third chicken?
No, never mind,
I said, realizing that my volunteer translator had just resigned.
Thank you,
Philip said, asking a question of his own.
In the years since, Philip and I have often laughed about the name of the third chicken, but I can also still see why the precise number of Zejnepe’s fowl seemed important to me then. Zejnepe and her relatives looked hungry and drawn. The chickens bought these people time. In the grassy plain that spread out below the snowy mountains—gazing down from the mountains at the plain was like looking at spring from midwinter—the Serbian paramilitary groups usually showed little mercy to remaining Albanians. There was no extra food to be had up here in the mountains. In fact, Jeton and his equally brave father, Emrush, made occasional nighttime excursions down to the plain to get more flour from their abandoned house, which was in a village within view. They had checked the refrigerator, and everything inside had gone off. Philip, his photographer colleague, Julian Simmonds, and I debated going with Jeton on his next journey to get flour, but we decided it was too dangerous. It would have been a nighttime raid to get an ingredient.
War had very rapidly taken a lot from these people: their homes, their freedom of movement, and Zejnepe’s husband, who had been shot dead by Serbs. And what they were left with was basic shelter, a source of heat, each other, and some larder supplies. Flour, oil, milk, coffee, sugar, eggs, perhaps some chicken meat. Food meant survival, which meant the Serbs had not yet won.
Not all wars are fought over food supplies or other natural resources—although many are—but in all wars food plays a significant role. At some stage in a day’s fighting, a soldier has to roll behind the wall he is using for shelter to open his army-issue rations. In a day of explaining to her children why they can’t go home yet, a refugee mother has to feed them two or three times. In a day of reporting on a conflict, no matter where in the world, a correspondent has to fuel up as well. No matter what role you have in a conflict, you have to step out of it for at least a few minutes every day to have breakfast, lunch, dinner—or a piece of bread. Meals put war on hold, even if the guns are still firing outside. And in these moments families regroup, friends tell stories of the day so far and exchange crucial information, and new friends are made; sharing a meal with a stranger is the best way to make you strangers no longer. Amid the awfulness of war, food is a rare, regular source of comfort. And when there is comfort, there is openness. Confidences are shared and jokes cracked. Philip is one of my dearest friends, and many of our bonding moments came over not-very-good meals in places where there was fighting, beginning there in the mountains as we shared bread—with shame but great gratitude—that Zejnepe and her family gave us.
Many foreign correspondents are somewhat food-obsessed. Food can be a rare source of comfort on the road. But even those who don’t carry pepper mills in their backpacks, as my friend Ed Gargan does, are inevitably aware of how food can be a matter of life or death and how meals can reveal secrets. The writers in this collection have reached into their memories and notebooks to unearth stories about food they have never had a chance to write before, or were never able to expand upon in the newspapers or magazines that employ them. Not all of the stories take place, strictly speaking, in war zones, but the shadow of conflict or the threat of violence or oppression looms in all.
The writers are all British or American print journalists who are among the world’s greatest chroniclers of recent conflicts. The stories they tell mostly take place between that momentous year of change, 1989, and 2009—for little reason other than organizational neatness. They offer stories of the appetites of the powerful—Benazir Bhutto, Ariel Sharon, Kim Jong Il—and of the powerless and, in some cases, starving. There are personal stories, about the birth and illness of a beloved son and about understanding the country of Georgia through one great friend, and there are more traditional reported stories, about the transformative power of food in China and the obsession among the starving millions of North Korea with locating sources of nutrition. And alongside the stories of food, there is a story of drink—bar owner Scott Anderson’s tale of drinking his way into the heart of the Irish Republican Army’s fund-raising crew.
I have sought out stories from all of the troubled corners of the world, but perhaps inevitably three writers tell stories of Afghanistan and three of Israel and the Palestinian Territories: important conflicts that carry on to this day.
Amid the tragedy and the violence there are jokes, and great goodwill. And, perhaps, a little more humanity than we can usually slip into our newspaper and magazine stories.
Zejnepe never left Kosovo. Sometime between our visit and the end of the war, Serbian soldiers or paramilitary troops shot her dead along with two of the other elderly people in the hut. Jeton, Haki, and his brother Naim found her body on the mountainside as the snow melted. After the war I visited her grave with them on a gentle sunny morning. After we stood in silence for a while, they took me home to their village. They had prepared lunch.
~ PART ONE ~
SURVIVAL RATIONS
NIGHT LIGHT
~ EL SALVADOR AND HAITI ~
LEE HOCKSTADER
I AM SITTING IN MY APARTMENT AT NIGHT, ALONE AND IN THE DARK. In San Salvador, electricity is as fickle as the weather—you take what you get. Tonight there is none, so I sit in the dark.
In the dark but not in silence. Directly above my roof, maybe a hundred yards overhead, a Salvadoran army helicopter gunship hovers, its blades thudding against the thick tropical heat. The helicopter’s gunner is firing staccato cannon bursts into the hills a mile away, where the guerrillas make camp just outside the capital. Each burst belches out an angry, mechanical growl, very loud: Bbrrrr! Between cannon bursts I hear a little girl crying, having been jolted from her sleep in the apartment across the hall. Her parents, Seventh Day Adventist missionaries who feed me home-cooked meals and proselytize me at the dessert course, are trying to comfort her. Their voices are murmurs through the walls.
I have a battery-operated lantern that emits just enough mottled, bluish light for me to avoid bumping into walls as I navigate my little apartment. I set it on the kitchen counter so it illuminates the gas stove and fry some ham and eggs. I’m hungry, and the cooking gives me something to do besides sit and listen to the cannon fire overhead.
Bbbrrrr!
I eat my eggs, sopping up yolk with stale bread. I try to read the paper but the light’s no good; I can’t make out the print.
My apartment, on the ground floor, is cheerless and shabby, furnished with rattan chairs and table. In the living room, louvered glass slats give out on an overgrown garden that frames a miniature, scum-crusted pool. Vermin of every description enter my apartment through the glass slats, which don’t close convincingly. The living room’s damp shag carpet is alive with beetles and crickets and slugs. Except in bed, I keep my shoes on at all times. If I were in El Salvador more often than a few days every month or two, between reporting trips to Haiti, Nicaragua, Cuba, Guatemala, or Honduras, I’d probably move to a better place.
Bbbrrrr!
The helicopter is still going at it. Sleep is impossible, and it’s not late anyway. If I had friends in El Salvador I could go out, but after just a few months here the people I do know—colleagues whose offices flank mine in an office building downtown—aren’t really friends. Besides, I have no car here, and taxis are scarce when the gunship is doing its work.
Sending me off on my three-year assignment, my editor in Washington had told me I should think of myself as a sort of one-man news-gathering hub for Central America and the Caribbean—the eyes and ears of a great metropolitan newspaper. He said I should be better informed than the local CIA station chiefs, and have a wider range of contacts. At the moment, I might as well be locked in a sensory-deprivation tank.
I lean back from the table in my folding chair and mutter, What the fuck! I’m going nuts. I’m stuck. I can’t read. There’s no light. I carry the lantern back into the kitchen and fling open the cabinet and fridge doors. What I find is mildly encouraging, thanks to a recent foraging trip to Miami. There is a French garlic sausage. Some packets of Japanese rice crackers, spicy little crescents flecked with red pepper. A jar of Moroccan green olives. Then I remember that Doña Marta, my housekeeper, has left me a batch of her refried beans, irresistibly oily and black as tar, made fresh that morning. I find them on a plate under waxed paper. And there is beer, still cool in the lifeless fridge. This is good. This is solace. I have the makings here of a feast.
I’d begged to be a foreign correspondent, and dreamed of it, but my sketchy fantasies hadn’t included gunfire and power outages and loneliness. Ambition, restlessness, a vague idea that it would be good to be far from editors and paid to travel the world—this is what had led me, like generations of correspondents before me, to apply. At my newspaper, the Washington Post, three postings were available—Germany, India, and Central America. When the foreign editor had asked my preference I’d more or less shrugged, saying I’d be thrilled to go anywhere.
Now, months later, I’ve arrived in Central America at a pivotal moment, just as communism and the Cold War are unraveling. The Soviet Union, having financed and sponsored the region’s leftist combatants in order to bleed the United States, has suddenly disappeared from the world stage. Like a slow leak from a balloon, the logic is seeping out of two decades of proxy wars, death squads, massacres, and fraternal bloodbaths.
But it’s harder to stop the armed young men who know nothing but fighting and killing. The momentum of revenge impels them; repurposing them will take time.
As I work my beat, traveling among Salvador, Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala, and Haiti, I’m struck by the relentless grimness that has settled in after so many seasons of violence and despair. In Nicaragua, where the United States has spent billions arming and equipping the Contra rebels, families are bitterly divided and the economy lies in ruins; there are just two or three working elevators in the entire country. Honduras, equally bleak, is crawling with CIA agents who are busy tracking and manipulating the region’s various small wars. In Guatemala, a team of American forensic specialists is digging up the remains of leftists murdered by death squads. Moving among these countries is grinding and joyless.
Everything besides work feels like a welcome escape, and nothing more so than food. In Nicaragua, my colleagues and I eat in open-air restaurants after the day’s heat has eased. We trade rumors and feast on skirt steaks with chimichurri sauce served with huge platters of French fries. We eat bull’s testicles a la parilla, sizzling from the grill, and garlicky shrimp and baby eels drowning in olive oil.
The bills are a pittance, just ten or fifteen dollars a person. But inflation has atomized the local currency, so to pay for dinner we all produce stacks of pesos whose huge denominations obscure their actual value, which is close to zero. Just counting it all takes forever—it’s like paying with pennies, only this is paper money—and by the time we’ve finished, the table is covered with an impressive dune of cash. The photographers climb up on chairs to take pictures of this hillock of nearly worthless bills.
In Salvador, I develop an unhealthy addiction to Pollo Campero, a chain of fried chicken joints whose secret recipe, near as I can tell, involves nothing but salt. On trips to the countryside to track down the guerrillas, I stuff my backpack with pupusas revueltas, pillowy corn tortillas filled with beans, cheese, and meat, the ubiquitous street food of San Salvador.
As comfort food this is all fine, but it provides meager relief. There is bloodshed and trauma everywhere, and the days are blood-spattered and draining. I’ve always loved to eat, but after a while, my relationship with food is transformed. It’s not just that I enjoy food; I am needy. For me, food becomes like alcohol, and consuming it is a diversion that helps keep me sane. I eat partly in hope of forgetting what I’ve seen, and remembering what pleasure feels like.
On the morning after the meal in my darkened apartment, I am out reporting in San Salvador with a colleague when his pager buzzes: six priests have been murdered overnight at the nation’s preeminent university. We race across town and arrive before the police. Four of the priests are lying facedown on their front lawn, their arms splayed at weird angles. Two of them are draped in their nightshirts; the others have on T-shirts or pajamas. They’re wearing slippers. One priest is tall; his white gown is crumpled, its hem bunched at his thighs. Just beyond him lies a second priest—dark T-shirt, lighter pants. A third is to the left, and a fourth is nearly skull-to-skull with the third. Two more are inside the house.
On the lawn, the brains of two of the men have been blown cleanly from their heads by the impact of assault rifles fired at close range. Their skulls, emptied of their contents, are sallow, deflated, and misshapen. I stare, then turn away and squeeze my eyes shut tight. I am dizzy and breathless.
Just a few months earlier I’d been in Washington, D.C., living with my girlfriend, wearing bow ties to work, trying out a beard, playing hoops on weekends, cooking elaborate meals—soufflés, Chinese pot stickers, chicken Kiev. I was a dandy, self-absorbed; I’d seen nothing very terrible. Now I am here on this lawn, with these dead priests, staring, looking away, my mouth so dry I can barely swallow. So this is what evil looks like, I think.
The priests were Salvadoran leftists, liberation theologists, men of peace. They were the most famous intellectuals in the country—one the university’s rector, another the vice-rector, another a noted sociologist whom I’d interviewed weeks before, a kind man, self-effacing, intelligent. They had been taken from the beds where they slept, dragged into the yard of their residence, and executed by Salvadoran army troops. The army brass, fierce anti-communists, have long hated the Jesuits, whom they regard as the guerrillas’ intellectual godfathers.
By mid-morning, the sun is blinding. The bystanders at the Jesuits’ house, standing like sentries and gawking at the bodies, cast stocky shadows. The sun has etched dark shadow-rims around the bodies, too, delineating them. It is hot, suffocating.
We get another pager message, this time about a Mexican cameraman, a colleague, who is missing. We set out in a convoy of media vehicles—Jeeps and Land Cruisers with TV
in big letters taped to the windows like a talisman to repel bullets. There is shooting everywhere—the guerrillas have stormed the capital, capturing chic neighborhoods and slums—and the city is a mess. Shattered glass carpets the sidewalks. The streets are an obstacle course of fallen utility poles and tangled bouquets of power lines. No one knows which wires might electrocute you.
We pile out of our cars in the neighborhood where the cameraman was last seen—a rundown school with its trash-strewn playing field, some abandoned-looking small apartment buildings—and start looking around. It is spookily quiet. We see no one. Then gunfire erupts. Fuck! I throw myself to the pavement and roll to the curb, the only bit of cover available, and my colleagues do the same, all of us piled up, panting, cursing. We can’t tell where the shooting is coming from, whether we’re the target or simply caught in the crossfire, but the bullets are just over our heads, buzzing like angry hornets. My teeth, my fists, my jaw, my eyes, my ass, my whole body is clenched in terror, and I press my face into the dirt and dog shit at the curb. I have never been religious, but now I am praying: Pleasegodpleasepleasepleasepleasegod.
My beat for the newspaper includes both Central America and the Caribbean, but no air connections link them directly. To fly from El Salvador or Nicaragua to, say, Cuba or Haiti, you have to go through Miami. My habit is to stay a few days in transit with my notes and laundry and receipts strewn over the floor of my hotel room.
I do my expense accounts, work, order room service, see a few friends, try to decompress. But I am jumpy and short-tempered—I find myself flinching at loud noises. I take a stab at talking about the chaos I’ve witnessed, describing my fear, the paralyzing proximity of gunfire and bullets. It doesn’t help. Over drinks with a friend at the News Café in South Beach, bathed in