There's some controversy about the spelling of the ancient beverage of Celtic lands: whisky or whiskey? Wikepedia just told me that, essentially, it's with an e in Ireland, with and without in the USA, and without everywhere else. So that's why Swakopmund hosted a Whisky Festival in March 2016. This was Namibia's first whisky festival, and I suspect it was successful enough that there will be another.
Why was I there? Well, fellow PCV J. wanted to get the Vs from our region together during the school break in March. I was all for it and suggested climbing Brandberg (highest peak in Namibia, and quite near all of us), camping at Spitzkoppe (beautiful peak that requires technical climbing skills but has trails for the amateurs with lots of millenia-old rock paintings), or climbing and camping at Soussusvlei, the world-famous (trust me; other people have heard of them) dunes at more-or-less the conjunction of the Namib desert (the world's oldest) and the South Atlantic coast. M. said he had friends going camping at Erongo Mountain, and we could mooch off of them for invaluable transport assistance, and that sounded good to me, too. I've never seen any of these magnificent, meaningful sites.
 |
| Spitzkoppe's mystical beauty |
Somehow we wound up in Swakopmund, my ruddy shopping town where I go twice a month, with 9,000 other PCVs, at a whisky festival. I dunno.
It was school vacation time, you see, so every Education project volunteer in Namibia, pretty much, was at large. And Swakop is a great vacationland. Plus: whisky!
 |
| The door stayed shut at night. |
The lovely S. threw wide her narrow door and allowed about 48 of us to sleep on her floor, completely freaking out her bunny-rabbit companion, who'd only been living there a week and needed a little more time to make the adjustment before she welcomed company. However, my sleeping bag was overdue for laundering anyway, and K. brought super-tasty blueberry and cranberry breads, and S. made veggie scrambles one morning with the veg I brought from Dreamland Garden, and it's a lovely walk from Mondesa to the center of town.
 |
| Bun-rab and volunteer |
The fest itself was a bit pricey, but I think I'd do it again. The organizers dressed up the new-ish convention center elegantly in spots, with other places showing their infrastructure, which made for a nice mix. Admission came with seven tokens redeemable for whisky, which cost one to four tokens per taste. Chivas charged two for 12-year old whisky and four for 18-year old; Glenlivet charged two regardless (but ran out of 21-year old early); Bains utterly crap whisky was one token. I tried Glenlivet 18-y.o., and quite nice, and then went to the Jameson booth with J. and Y. Jameson was only pouring one whiskey (Irish 'e'), the special reserve, and for two tokens, so yay. But just as the server lifted the bottle over my glass, I asked, "How long is it aged?" and she said, "Five years." Whaaatt??! I started to say, "Oh, never mind, thanks," but decided that would be ungracious, unadventurous and self-indulgent in the bad way, so I accepted the pour and walked away. Took a sip. Winced. Took another sip. Dumped the rest into J's glass.
 |
| Africa! |
I was a bit pouty after that, with just three tokens left, and went to the mixed-whiskies booth that had Maker's Mark, several Scotches and a Japanese thing. Two tokens mostly, but the Japanese one and one of the Scotches were three. "Do you like a stronger whisky?" the pouring woman asked, and I confessed I probably rather do. "You should try the Caol Ila, then," she advised, and I agreed to it and dropped my last three tokens on the bar. She brought over the bottle and lifted to pour, then paused and said, "Do you want to smell it first?" "Sure," I answered, and she held the bottle out so I could take a sniff. And ohhhh. It was like crouching over the fireplace in my musty living room in Ireland twenty years ago, flapping a hand enthusiastically as the peat logs finally started to catch. So I asked to sniff the Japanese thing, which smelled like dirty coins. "Definitely the Caol Ila," I said, and carried it away just sniffing for about five minutes before I took a sip. Ambrosia.
The organizers did some good work: there was a trapeze artist or two, who also did that thing where they twist themselves up in a gigantic scarf hanging from the ceiling and then unwind themselves dramatically. It was fun to watch, and fun to speculate as to when people would be drunk enough to try boarding the trapeze or one of the many, many Harleys scattered about the floor.
 |
| The conference center is at The Dome, which offers enough ceiling height for people to dangle about in mid-air. |
There was also a 'sensory zone'; I watched mystified from a high, steep bleacher-style seat while a chef did something to some charcoal in a skillet. Why charcoal in the skillet? There was a chocolatier from Walvis Bay who gave me a bon bon gratis - maybe the first thing I've been given in Namibia? The worst thing about the fest was the lack of food available. The chocolates for sale, and some salamis and olives for sampling at the Pick 'n' Pay booth, was about it. I hope next year they'll ensure a supply of carbs; you shouldn't have people drinking at that rate and not give them an opportunity to shove in a sandwich from time to time.
 |
| Every cooking demo I've ever seen live seems to take forever,
and you just sit and watch getting hungrier and hungrier.
|
There were some comfy couches in one side-space, and you could go in and out with your wristband, including to an expensive little deli that closed before I broke down and bought some bread. You could buy more tokens for $10 each. Y. and J. were talking about doing so, and a woman sitting nearby offered to sell them her nine for $50, which deal they took happily. They got drunk.
 |
| Free pours from the scarf lady - Bains :-( |
 |
| Note motorcylce in background. |
No comments:
Post a Comment