January 9, 2009

It is a moonless October night in the middle of the African bush. Waiters in crisp white shirts clear the plates after our sumptuous dinner at the Mowana Safari Lodge. An elegant banquet table has been set on the lawn beside the riverbank for the fourteen of us visiting from America, plus one seat for Robin, a British-born astronomer I’ve invited for the after-dinner stargazing.

Candles define the path from the main lodge to this secluded setting where a huge Baobab tree is strung with fairy lights. On the table are handcrafted wire sculptures of The Big 5 – elephant, lion, buffalo, leopard and rhino. Individual place settings feature sparkling crystal, polished silver and shimmering copper place mats. Candlelight illuminates the faces of attentive African waiters serving their guests, who are flushed from too much sun and way too much Stellenbosch Pinotage.

Our gourmet meal started with an appetizer of Queen Prawns followed by a main course including King Klip fish, Impala chops and spicy onion fritters. The staff, who come from the village of Kasane, are perfectly trained – efficient without being obtrusive. They stealthily replenish the basket of sesame flatbread and top off our wine glasses without spilling a drop.

Today’s thrilling game sightings are the subject of enthusiastic conversation. We saw huge numbers of elephants traveling in family groups, with babies stumbling over their floppy, flaccid trunks while trying to keep pace with the grown-ups; delicate lily-hoppers with exceptionally long toes walking across floating vegetation; dozens of hippopotami snorting and bellowing in the muddy Chobe River.

We learned some interesting facts, too. I didn’t know that hippos are the most dangerous animals in Africa. Nor that they can outrun a human. Nor that a male hippo marks its territory by excreting a mixture of feces and urine while twirling its tail like a propeller.

But I digress.

It’s time for dessert.

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Weeks earlier, in my office in Woodland Hills, California, I work through the million-and-one details of this latest adventure of The WOW Travel Club. Laura, my agent from Cape Town, makes an off-hand suggestion that we could have a bonfire as part of this riverside dinner event.

“Wonderful!” I exclaim. “We’ll have s’mores.”

“Oh, I think you’ll have enough,” she replies.

“No. We’ll have s’mores.”

“Some more what?”

“They’re an American institution, for heaven’s sake! You break a graham cracker and Hershey bar in half.”

“Hershey?,” she interrupted. “Why not Belgian chocolate – or Swiss? Even Ghirardelli would be higher quality.”

“No, no, no. Those froufrou chocolates just don’t cut it. Good old-fashioned Hershey bars are the only way to do s’mores.”

I flash back to a balmy summer night, on vacation with my family. It’s 1962. We’re huddled around a fire at our campsite at Mount Rushmore National Park.

“You roast a marshmallow over the coals till it’s brown and puffy and almost dripping off the stick,” I continue to Laura. “Sandwich the warm, gooey marshmallow between the chocolate and the two graham cracker halves.“

I’m sitting on a folding canvas campstool, staring into the fire. My two older brothers are there. All the s’more stuff we bought back at Kroger’s in Saginaw is set out on the picnic table. Dad is unbending one of the coat hangers. Mom comes out of the camper with my little brother Ronnie, in his cowboy pajamas.

“The heat from the marshmallow melts the chocolate – Hershey brand melts the best – and it all oozes together.”

You can tell a lot about a person by the way they roast a marshmallow. My brother Bobby is such a show-off. He lets his marshmallow catch on fire – on purpose. It gets all black and crusty on the outside, but the inside is still cold so his chocolate doesn’t melt right. Jim, my older brother, experiments with two marshmallows – trying to make a double-decker that he calls a “More s’more.” Ronnie’s already brushed his teeth, but my Dad slips him a roasted marshmallow when Mom isn’t looking.

“Squeeze the crackers together. Do it gently, though. Otherwise it’ll ooze out all over the place.”

My marshmallows always get perfectly golden brown all the way around. They’re soft and warm inside and the chocolate melts instantly when I mash it all together. The graham crackers are so fresh that my s’mores crunch when I take the first bite . . 

“Wow,” Laura gushes. “That sounds really good.”

“So much fun to make. And so good to eat! You’ll find out in a few weeks.”

“I can’t wait to try. Would you like me to find the ingredients?”

“You take care of arranging for the bonfire. I’ll take care of the rest.”

This is why Kraft Jet-Puffed Marshmallows, Nabisco Honey-Maid Graham Crackers and Hershey Milk Chocolate bars – the original ones – travel securely in my carry-on bag more than 10,000 miles to Botswana. And why I get detained at the security checkpoint at Johannesburg Airport. The guard gives me a funny look, but thank goodness he doesn’t confiscate my stuff.

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Meanwhile, back in Africa, Robin has invited the guests to follow him to the far end of the lawn, where staff members arrange blankets on the cool grass. Robin points out constellations unique to the southern hemisphere. The Milky Way arches across the night sky, brighter than it is back home. He describes the vastness of the universe, speaking of astrophysics, black holes and supernovas.

Stargazing seemed like a good idea back in Woodland Hills, but my people are now all a little buzzed. His lofty commentary is way over their heads and they’re nodding off.

I’m having serious doubts about my little “surprise.”  After such an elegant meal with a bit too much wine, and now Robin’s mind-numbing extraterrestrial orientation, will my group appreciate my little Girl Scout stunt? They’ve paid a lot of money to come to Africa on a luxury vacation and I want to give them sticky, cloyingly sweet s’mores? And I schlepped this stuff all the way here in my carry-on bag? What was I thinking? What am I – nuts?!

I gather everyone up and lead them to  the bonfire, the hotel gardener has whittled sticks from branches of a Jackalberry tree. Moete, the head chef, has assured me that, per my instructions, he has timed the fire building so that the coals will be perfect. Glowing, not flaming.

Waiters stand by. They have absolutely no clue what they’re supposed to do.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I announce in my chirpiest camp-counselor voice. “Here are your sticks. And here are your marshmallows!”

Nobody moves.

They’re not the least bit hungry. Or interested. But these are good travelers – and good sports. It’s not long before they’re demonstrating a variety of s’more-making skills. Some, like me, prefer the slow roast method. Others opt for Bobby’s fast flame-out technique, with their marshmallow torches illuminating the faces of the cooks and servers who are clearly amused at the sight of these crazy white tourists crouching over the smoky campfire.

I pass my marshmallow stick to Moete. “You try it.”

He smiles, shaking his head. “No, Ma’am, I cannot.”

“Come on.” I offer him the bag of marshmallows. He pushes his tall paper chef’s toque a little further down on his forehead. He glances warily at his staff and steps forward. Moete reaches into the bag and withdraws a marshmallow. He fingers it, smells it and gently skewers it onto the stick. With great precision, he rotates the stick over the glowing embers. The red-hot coals illuminate his earnest expression. Waiters inch a little closer. We’re all mesmerized by the intensity of his concentration. He is, after all, the master chef at the Mowana Safari Lodge.

We watch as his marshmallow puffs and softens and gets browner and browner, puffier and puffier until … PLOP! The white, gooey blob drops off the stick and flares up into a fireball. Moete is stunned.

We groan in unison. “Aaaawwwww . . .”

Moete looks up, embarrassed. Even a little humiliated. But then he breaks into a wide, toothy grin and reaches for another marshmallow.

Sticks are offered to the other wait staff, and they elbow each other to make room around the fire, moaning when one of their marshmallows erupts in flame. Us white people stand by to assist, at the ready with Honey-Maid graham crackers and Hershey chocolate.

Moete fares better on his next attempt. A glob of gooey, white marshmallow cream dribbles down his cheek as he reaches for the Jet-Puffed bag and prepares to roast another.

White people waiting on black people. Americans waiting on Africans. Any vestige of hierarchy is dissolved, at least for this moment. Laughter is our shared language. It’s unclear who is having more fun.

By the time we’ve gone through five bags of marshmallows, nobody wants to call it a night. They’re all buzzed on sugar. Staff looks a bit uncomfortable, unsure what to do next. Fun and familiarity turn to awkwardness. They’ve let down their guard, but now they’re on edge and a little uneasy.

“Kumbaya, my Lord, kumbaya . . .” Shelly and Elaine begin singing. Everybody chuckles. But we join in, “. . . Someone’s singing, Lord, kumbaya. Oh Lord, kumbaya.”

The Africans respond with one of their songs, humming at first – their feet tapping out a slow, rhythmic beat. Their song builds into a chant. They lock arms and sway to the rhythm. They whistle and stomp. One guy steps forward to dance.

We applaud enthusiastically.

Sharon starts with her beautiful clear soprano voice: “This land is your land, this land is my land . . .” We join in, “From California to the New York Island; From the redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters . . .”

Next up, Eve and James sing a Chinese lullaby from their childhood in Taiwan.

The Africans whoop and howl and sing some more. We join their line dance, circling the neglected bonfire.

And so it goes. African rhythms alternating with our familiar songs. Clapping. Dancing. Chanting. Laughing. As the moon rises above the horizon.

Sometimes I wonder what Moete and the others remember about that night.

For me, it was a “WOW” moment. A reminder of why I do what I love and love what I do.

Who could have ever imagined that a simple, sweet s’more could inspire such simple, sweet connection?