Photo by Aravind Sivaraj CCx2.0 |
By Jenni
Gate
We drove
down the hill from our home through the city of Kinshasa. Just outside the city, the jungle
was thick. The road was full of pot holes and ruts. Our car bounced along on
the rough pavement, heading towards vast stretches of farm land. About 8 miles
from Kinshasa,
we turned off the road into an open area with several low, concrete-block
buildings spread out around a farming compound. Rice paddies stretched into the
distance, surrounded by jungle. It was the summer of 1970, and we had arrived
at the Chinese Agricultural Research
Center.
The
circumstances of our visit were this: Dad, an agriculturist, was working with a
Taiwanese agricultural mission in coordination with U.S.
efforts to develop rice varieties to help ease the food shortages in Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of the Congo). But
they had a problem—the Congolese people would not plant or eat the rice in
production from the Chinese
Agricultural Research
Center. Dad commented to his
Chinese counterparts that he couldn’t understand why the Congolese rejected the
rice, because all rice tastes the same. The Taiwanese were shocked. The Head of
Station invited all Americans and their families out to the farm to taste the
different varieties being developed.
Oryza sativa |
We toured
the farm, learning that the land for the project was provided by Mobutu. There
were papaya and mango trees, citrus trees, bananas, and coconuts dotting the
landscape near the driveway. Surrounding the homes and research buildings were
the rice paddies, each marked with signs bearing numbers representing the
variety being produced. The plants looked like long grass in the water, with some
that grew as high as 5-ft. tall. Most of the rice was about 3-ft. tall.
Photo: IRRI CCx2.0 |
In one
Quonset hut, we saw many melons, from honeydew to watermelon. At the time, all
watermelons had seeds, so we were impressed when we discovered that the Chinese Agricultural Research
Center had developed
seedless melons. The seeds inside the melons were miniscule, which was great news to me. Dad had always told me
the big, black seeds that I accidentally swallowed every time we ate watermelon
were going to sprout inside my stomach and grow. I didn’t really believe him
but, then again, I had no desire to find out.
At dusk,
the Taiwanese brought us indoors for dinner. We ate a gigantic steamed fish and a
dish called Lion’s Head Stew, which was ground meat cooked in a rice-pasta
pouch. It was so delicious that I’ve searched for Lion’s Head Stew on the menu
at every Chinese restaurant I’ve been to since then, including when I visited Hong Kong years later. I’m still searching, without
success. Our hosts had us sample several rice dishes of different varieties of
rice. We sampled white, creamy, and brown rice in every shade imaginable. Some
rice was white and sticky and tasted like the rice we were used to eating. Some
of the rice was almost sweet. A lot of it tasted like cardboard. This was the
reason the Congolese would not plant and eat the rice produced by the Center.
The rice available in sufficient quantities for use by local farmers had no
flavor. But there were many varieties still being developed. When we tasted one
variety of rice with a clean, nutty flavor, Dad said, “I want 100 kilos of
that.” Our hosts exclaimed that it was their favorite as well.
Red, White, Brown & Wild Rice by Earth100 CCx2.0 |
For me and
my sisters, the best part of the meal was dessert. Iced platters, bearing slices
of cantaloupe, honeydew, watermelon, and yellow-flesh watermelon, all garnished
with curlicue shavings from the rinds, were brought out and passed around. The
novelty of melons without seeds kept us awestruck.
It was
summer in Africa, and those melons were sweet
and refreshing.
Photo by Kelly-Wikimedia CCx2.0 |
*****************
As a side note: Years later, Dad took a flight from Jakarta to Hong Kong. He sat next to a young, Chinese man who had been to Jakarta to buy rattan. As they sat talking, the young man mentioned he had been to Zaire. In a flash of recognition, Dad said, “I remember you! You were at the Research Center.” The young man remembered my dad bringing him with us to the Embassy swimming pool on occasion. They exchanged contact information, both commenting on what a small world it is. Indeed, it is.
I can't believe the memories this story brought back, Jenni. I remember the research center, the wonderful fish dinner and the melons!
ReplyDeleteThat huge burlap bag of rice lasted us for months. The flavor of that rice was so rich and nutty and was always a favorite of mine to help Mom make. I have searched for that variety of rice ever since and have never found one that even comes close.
The excellent tasting rice did not produce a high yielding crop. However, I would expect it to be an expensive rice in Taiwan's markets.
ReplyDeleteThanks for commenting! I am so glad it brought back some great memories. I started this piece with the melons in mind. I remember how surprised we were then that they had developed seedless melons. Now, they can be found everywhere. I get frustrated that we seem to be so limited in choice in the States. I prefer brown, nutty flavored rice, and that preference probably comes from eating that 100 kilos in the Congo. Spoiled us for life!
ReplyDeleteHow long did it take you to work your way through those 100 kilos of rice, Jenni? I like brown rice too, but I can't get my husband to eat it. Nor have I ever seen it in Iran. They have many different kinds of rice, but all of it is white (at least from what I've seen).
ReplyDeleteHeidi, sorry, I just saw this. I think it took us a couple of years to work our way through that bag of rice! I still love brown rice too, but can't get my husband to eat it either. :(
DeleteHope you had a great trip! I was recently nominated for the Versatile Blogger award and was asked to nominate other bloggers that inspire me, so I mentioned you and your blog!
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