One For the Road, August 2010

Food is allegedly the best way into a foreign culture. Peter Frost begs to differ.

I am not a joiner, of furniture, games or riots - it is not in my nature and if God had meant for me to be so, he would have given me a better arm and a steadier hand. As it is, my natural wrist action is about as useful as Gordon Ramsay at a Decency in the Kitchen conference.

Still, I believe fervently in joining the family of (well-fed) man, a great, nostalgic entirely Humanist 1950s Julie and Julia construct in which heaving family tables overflow with the recently baked goodness of the land’s bounty. Around the table, in a quasi-Italian peasant idyll, hundreds of freshly scrubbed, cotton-clad people gambol happily and bask in the wholesomeness of slow food, dappled sunlight and the love of a benevolent dictator named Mama. It is Good.

Realistically of course it is not Good. As you crisscross the globe in search of The Real Thing, the truth is that local cuisine should best be approached with caution and an exit strategy. Haggis. Sauerkraut. Sautéed gibbon, flayed Weimaraner, boiled cabbage. The Brussel sprout is hardly worth travelling 4000 kilometres for, yet that’s what you’ll end up with should you find yourself tucking into a traditional Belgian meal of Witlof, the guest of a doily-loving knickknack collector delighted at your innocent request for “something traditional, please.”

Undeterred by my increasingly long list of near-death culinary experiences (rat in chili sauce in Thailand, green ants in Australia, tarantula in Malaysia, fried crickets in the Philippines and the best of all, durian fruit in Malaysia), I headed to Scandinavia, to smile at the fjords, buy some thin pale furniture and partake in a little harmless reindeer stew, seasoned with potatoes and a friendly veggie mix. My first stop was Norway, where I hopped off the good ship Sea Cloud II at Stavanger fjord and headed into the wild north. In the small village of Tinn, Floki the local fisher picked me up from my inn and took me off to his place, a fairytale stave-like home, for a taste of real Norway. I now fully understand why the Vikings ran riot over much of Europe – one sniff of raake orret would have been enough to send boiled cabbage-loving Osric fleeing for the safety of his native Sussex. In a nutshell, raake orret is rotten trout, served on bread made from yellow peas washed down with 90 percent proof witblitz. The trick, apparently, is to avoid the botulism threat.

A few days later I crossed into Sweden, and, fed up with the burger joints of bigger towns, opted for the Lapp village of Junosuando, close to the famed Ice Hotel at Kiruna and known for its organic holidays. The nice chap named Love (pronounced Loaf) at the Arctic retreat listened to my fast food moanings, nodded sagely and disappeared into the kitchen. He emerged with a small tin and bade me follow him. Outside he headed for the stream, and with a deft tug, opened the tin. Underwater. Ploof. Let me say here that I am a huge Abba fan, think the Volvo XC60 is glorious and was prepared to love Love’s fare. But I am also aware that the olfactory sense is the strongest. Months-old, dead, fermented herring so potent that it explodes on opening – underwater - was more than my philanthropic side could allow. Cultural relations soured, along with the surströmming’s "gräddfil", the traditional curded cream it is served with. A week later, sat in a Southampton bedsit, I have never been so glad in my life to see baked beans on toast.


Published in the August 2010 issue of Horizons for British Airways

One For the Road August 2010, Horizons magazine

Food is allegedly the best way into a foreign culture. Peter Frost begs to differ.

I am not a joiner, of furniture, games or riots - it is not in my nature and if God had meant for me to be so, he would have given me a better arm and a steadier hand. As it is, my natural wrist action is about as useful as Gordon Ramsay at a Decency in the Kitchen conference.

Still, I believe fervently in joining the family of (well-fed) man, a great, nostalgic entirely Humanist 1950s Julie and Julia construct in which heaving family tables overflow with the recently baked goodness of the land’s bounty. Around the table, in a quasi-Italian peasant idyll, hundreds of freshly scrubbed, cotton-clad people gambol happily and bask in the wholesomeness of slow food, dappled sunlight and the love of a benevolent dictator named Mama. It is Good.

Realistically of course it is not Good. As you crisscross the globe in search of The Real Thing, the truth is that local cuisine should best be approached with caution and an exit strategy. Haggis. Sauerkraut. Sautéed gibbon, flayed Weimaraner, boiled cabbage. The Brussel sprout is hardly worth travelling 4000 kilometres for, yet that’s what you’ll end up with should you find yourself tucking into a traditional Belgian meal of Witlof, the guest of a doily-loving knickknack collector delighted at your innocent request for “something traditional, please.”

Undeterred by my increasingly long list of near-death culinary experiences (rat in chili sauce in Thailand, green ants in Australia, tarantula in Malaysia, fried crickets in the Philippines and the best of all, durian fruit in Malaysia), I headed to Scandinavia, to smile at the fjords, buy some thin pale furniture and partake in a little harmless reindeer stew, seasoned with potatoes and a friendly veggie mix. My first stop was Norway, where I hopped off the good ship Sea Cloud II at Stavanger fjord and headed into the wild north. In the small village of Tinn, Floki the local fisher picked me up from my inn and took me off to his place, a fairytale stave-like home, for a taste of real Norway. I now fully understand why the Vikings ran riot over much of Europe – one sniff of raake orret would have been enough to send boiled cabbage-loving Osric fleeing for the safety of his native Sussex. In a nutshell, raake orret is rotten trout, served on bread made from yellow peas washed down with 90 percent proof witblitz. The trick, apparently, is to avoid the botulism threat.

A few days later I crossed into Sweden, and, fed up with the burger joints of bigger towns, opted for the Lapp village of Junosuando, close to the famed Ice Hotel at Kiruna and known for its organic holidays. The nice chap named Love (pronounced Loaf) at the Arctic retreat listened to my fast food moanings, nodded sagely and disappeared into the kitchen. He emerged with a small tin and bade me follow him. Outside he headed for the stream, and with a deft tug, opened the tin. Underwater. Ploof. Let me say here that I am a huge Abba fan, think the Volvo XC60 is glorious and was prepared to love Love’s fare. But I am also aware that the olfactory sense is the strongest. Months-old, dead, fermented herring so potent that it explodes on opening – underwater - was more than my philanthropic side could allow. Cultural relations soured, along with the surströmming’s "gräddfil", the traditional curded cream it is served with. A week later, sat in a Southampton bedsit, I have never been so glad in my life to see baked beans on toast.

One For the Road September 2010, Horizons magazine

Dancing to Irkutsk

Just as the opening chapter of Patrick Süskind’s Perfume relates the rather ignominious birth of Grenouille, his genius lead character in a fish market in France - under a table among the entrails - so Rudolf Nureyev, dance’s greatest son, first saw the light of day in a spot unbefitting of so celebrated a fellow – in a fetid third class carriage somewhere near Lake Baikal on the Trans Siberian Railway.

The story of Nureyev’s knock-and-drop (his Mum allegedly tripped over an Omul

 head [a salmon common in the lake] and gave birth prematurely), always fascinated me. Add my background in dance and a love of rail and you have the makings of a first class daydream; one day I would travel the Trans-Siberian and pay homage at the Spot of the Omul.

Fast forward eight years. I am sitting in a fetid third class carriage clack-clacking across the Urals surrounded by multiple Omul heads and all manner of other indescribably disgusting food. It smells like Süskind’s fish market. My rose-coloured spectacles lie shattered on the wooden floor. I’ve had three Imodium tablets to stave off the need to visit the euphemistically named toilet at the end of the corridor. It’s cold, the old crow next to me is scrubbing her dentures with a scouring agent, and no one has had a wash in four days. I know, I’ve been with them for the duration.

This is the Trans Siberian before Putin’s capitalism. The world’s greatest railway is a used, abused, scarcely operational cattle truck rank with the flotsam and jetsam of Communism’s forgotten millions.  And yet I’m having a lovely time. The impromptu barynya song and dance sessions swell the breast of even the deaf and the infirm (there are many) and there’s a don’t-mind-the-dribble-on-your-shoulder camaraderie you’d never find on the 7.30am from Fish Hoek. I have even managed to find someone to talk to, a young woman heading all the way to Vladivostok who spent three years in a Netherlands convent and is fluent in Dutch. So we pigeon Afrikaans and get by. Happily, Irena has heard of Nureyev (most haven’t, his name mud in Russia after his ‘leap to freedom’ defection) and asks loudly to the crowd for information on the exact birth spot. An energetic donnybrook follows, resulting in various Omul being flung and the old crow losing her teeth in a bowl of peasant shi soup. But finally Irena can report that indeed the ‘consensus’ is Rudi was born not two hours away at Irkutsk.

Now all part of the adventure, a carriage full of Russia’s finest disembark in a melee of colourful, limping chaos, keen to see where this famous son they know nothing about a few hours ago, was born. At the end of the concourse is a bust that I make for, Irena and the mob close behind. A plaque under the head reads, loosely “Triumph of Russian dance.” They cheer. A few minutes later we are back on board, the crowd chowing down on their dried fish, happy at their astute geography and national dance prowess. I’m subdued and preoccupied, but don’t say anything. Instead of Nureyev, above the words is the head of another dancer, an altogether less controversial one. Mikhail Nikolaevich Baryshnikov. The victors certainly do own history. 

PS. In 2008 the Baryshnikov bust was replaced with a likeness of Nureyev. Nothing has ever been said about the swop.


Published in the September 2010 issue of Horizons for British Airways

Local tourism month - much to do

September is local tourism month. Do we have the balls to do what’s needed?

News from the National Department of Tourism is that September is all about promoting local travel. This augers well – according to their own figures, 14.6 million South Africans undertook about 30 million domestic trips in 2009, spending around R22m.

However, as a travel writer who spends much of his time out in the field, it’s clear there’s much to be done. And a whole lot of hot air is being released by the Department, along with the statistics. 

Another of these is the admission that they have spent R70m in six years marketing the country locally. For all that – and it should be applauded – lack-lustre pressure on other national agencies and departments to come to the tourism party means that the money is all but wasted.

Chief among the culprits are the roads. One example is the R26 Free State Maloti Route road, now all but impassable for the hippo-sized potholes. There are countless others, denying communities and travellers access to needed tourist rands.

Then there’s the tourist information office problem across the land. Local political considerations has meant many official offices are all but useless, with a severe lack of knowledge, crazy opening hours (Kimberley’s is closed over holidays) and awful online representation the order of the day. Into this vacuum have sprung up myriad unofficial offices – better run but unregulated, meaning anyone with any agenda and photocopier – or vested interests – can make hay by promoting x over y. News last week that government is looking to streamline these offices (as well as the wider provincial and national authorities) is heartening, but if their solution is simply to shut down the new initiatives and return to the awful official offices, then not heartening at all, and travellers will suffer.

But most important of all is a mind-shift needed by government, in a society that could benefit enormously from it domestic market. The powers-that-be must be made to understand that tourism is absolutely vital, and that properly coordinated, can be the engine that drives real, quantifiable development across all sectors. Just ask New Zealand, Botswana and Costa Rica. Tourism in its broadest sense cannot be left to privatise, and the State must fund its parks, heritage sites, and other natural entities.

Just as important is that South Africans need to look up, open their eyes and reconnect with their whole country. They need urgently to get involved in maintaining and promoting their architectural, natural and historical heritage. I wander across our country with a growing sense that no one sees what I see, that fewer and fewer care about the exquisite dorps, the Kimberley Club, the Pela Cathedral, the lesser flamingos of Kamfers Dam, the historical houses of Hatfield, the giant baobab near Tzaneen, let alone the vast treasure trove of Mid-Century architecture across our interior, quickly falling to the Lubners hording monster. There are too many glorious buildings, small parks, historic sites simply dying from neglect, seemingly ignored by government and us as irrelevant as we rush headlong by in a black BMW headed for world domination.

It’s not good enough to keep suggesting, as some do, that we should be looking after them for foreigner visitors. No, this is our land, our responsibility and our treasure. Make a difference, fill a pothole, lobby your MP. And go visit the Loeriesfontein windmill museum. Twice, just for that glorious road.