At the beer garden

BASHI LETSIDIDI
Correspondent | Monday November 22, 2010 00:00

Two groups of men sit on concrete benches under a shelter, their optical and social focus an open Chibuku carton.

Another group sits under a tree near the entrance. A young man with a white newsboy cap (stapora cap in Tswanglish) sitting askew on his head pimp-strolls into the compound. He makes his purchase and goes to sit under the shelter alone. He then sets about opening the carton. 

This is the Chibuku depot or 'beer garden' as it is officially known in Gaborone. Situated south along the Gaborone-Tlokweng road, diagonally across that road from CID South offices and just a hop and skip away from the government clinic in Bontleng. Better known as 'the Chibuku flat', it is a charmingly run-down double-storeyed building owned by the Gaborone City Council and is part of a near-contiguous belt of shebeens in the neighbourhood. Set off a few metres from the Chibuku flat - within the same compound - is a disused office building.

To the extent that an elaborate ritual precedes its consumption, Chibuku purposefully mispronounced as 'Chubuku' by uppity folk to assert class, falls in the category of Tequila and Sambuca. As an opaque beer, it has a layer of sediment at the bottom and its drinkers have to give it a really good shake to mix up the contents. Considering how long and complicated the process is, Chibuku cartons should probably come with the following instruction manual:

You grab hold of the gable-top, jam the fingers used to flash the international salute into either cavity and with your thumbs, fold the sealing portion all the way forward. The yeast in Chibuku means that it is in continuous fermentation and one of the top panels of the gable top has a vent that releases gas as the beer matures. The vent is closed off with the left middle finger to ensure the beer doesn't leak out.

The actual shaking begins this way: you make a face, shake the carton vigorously at least 20 times while holding your breath, exhale and set the carton down. To open the thermoplastic seal, you clamp the thumb and index finger on diagonal ends and pull the gables apart, applying little separating force. Then, you fold the gable part of one panel lengthwise all the way up down the middle to create a spillway. Gently blow air into the carton to dissipate foam build-up at the top. Make a kissy face so your lips extend halfway outward. Only then can you pour the beer into your mouth.

If like the young man in the newsboy cap you are drinking alone, you can take as many gulps as you want. As a rule, limit yourself to six gulps if you are part of a communist commune. There is folk legend that if you fold the gable top in between drinking, you would suffer constipation. The best yet inconclusive evidence is an on-off burping jag. But even if this legend may not be true, it is generally advisable to err on the side of caution. 

It is possible to predict the taste by aroma that hits your nose when you open the carton. A porridge-like taste will delight the taste buds but as an American visiting Botswana found out, the taste is not always heavenly. 'Utterly disgusting!' Cletus from Connecticut writes of his experience with Chibuku online. In Setswana that cannot be translated into American English, that pronouncement would have been rebuffed with, 'Cletus, o a kgora malatsi a waitse. Lere Shake eo!...pfhhh.' Ideally, Chibuku has a one-week shelf life and in order to guide consumers who can read, breweries print the date it was made lengthwise on the pouring edge zone.  However, it is actually the weather that determines how long it would suit the tastebuds. Today's is only two days old but already has a dusty taste as temperatures soar and the yeast continues to eat up the sugar.

Chibuku was first brewed and sold in the 1950's by Max Heinrich, a South African Jew living on the Copper Belt of Zambia. Heinrich recorded traditional beer brewing he witnessed among the local Zambian community in a book.

Later when he westernised the brewing process and started large-scale commercial production, his preferred name for the brew ('by the book') became 'Chibuku' in the adaptation of a local dialect. Over the years Chibuku has become a market leader in the traditional sorghum beer category in Southern Africa. Internationally, it is also a sensation.

While on a trip to Malawi years ago, an English university student called Will Jameson got to taste the 'vile yet potent brew.'

Years later, he started what has now become one of Europe's highly successful dance clubs. Called 'Chibuku', Jameson's club is located in Liverpool in the United Kingdom and celebrated its tenth anniversary this year. 

Unknown to all the happy men at the beer garden, any time soon this clinic they have relied on for the past seven years to cure their blue Mondays will be shut down. By degrees, the government is laying doom at the door of liquor outlets.

Town hall has notified the leaseholder, a company called Dici.com, that it is terminating the lease agreement. An alcohol levy has been introduced and a bill designed to drastically reduce trading hours for Chibuku trade is wending its way through parliament. Over time, the punitive regulatory regime will trim the financial benefits of brewing Chibuku. When that happens, Botswana Breweries Limited would have to stop churning out cartons by the warehouse load for a declining market.