Microbrewed Adventures (28 page)

I can still recall the clean aftertaste and the desire to always have just one more swig. The stuff grew on me. I must admit, it grew rather slowly, but one
does develop a taste for the unique. It doesn't come easy. But when you've acquired it…well, perhaps you will find out for yourself someday.

Richard and I polished off our two liters and some of the others' liters as well. We left, and as I climbed into the cab I couldn't help but notice a sign high on the building next door to the beer garden: “Mushumbo Surgery, M-W-F, 1–4
P.M
.” Hmmmmmmmm, I wondered if the beer garden was open before noon?

“Let's go Richard,” I said. “I need a Castle now.”

 

THE TRAIN PULLED INTO VICTORIA FALLS STATION
at 7
A.M
. I'd had a reasonable night's rest and was pleasantly recollecting my two and a half weeks' experiences. My plane would leave the next day. I know I'll be back someday.
Gemütlichkeit. Hari Yemadzisahwira
. Or, like I said, “Relax. Don't worry. Have a homebrew.”

 

POSTNOTE:
REENTERING THE UNITED STATES
,
I walked up to immigrations at New York City's JFK Airport wearily holding my passport after 30 hours of traveling. The official looked up at me in surprise, startling me.

“Hey aren't you Charlie Papazian?”

“Well, how the haeeellll did you know who I am? I haven't even given you my passport yet,” I drawled sleepily.

“I'm an American Homebrewers Association member,” he proudly proclaimed. “I read all your articles in
Zymurgy
magazine. Where have you been lately—on this trip?”

Half astonished as well as half asleep, I replied, “I'm returning from the beer gardens of Bulawayo.” And left it at that. It didn't seem to surprise the homebrewing immigration officer—I've come to learn homebrewers' passions can never be too outrageous.

Two year later I continued my African beer adventures to have…

The Last Beer in Swakapmund

T
HERE IS NO AROMA
as tantalizing and sensual as that of the Atlantic Ocean at Swakapmund, Namibia. The cold, Antarctic Benguela current graces the coast of this southwestern African country, creating a unique microclimate so very different from that of the interior. Nearby, the largest sand dunes in the world rise 1,000 feet. There, on the average day, temperatures soar above 100 degrees F and drop to near freezing in the evening. Only one slim mile to the west of these magnificent dunes, the Atlantic brings cold water along the coast creating, they say, the oldest desert in the world. Ask around and it hasn't rained here in recent memory. In Swakapmund, an outpost oasis on the coast, the climate is in the 60s and 70s during the day and damn chilly during the evening. A fog rolls in every morning and what vegetation has evolved drinks the morning dew. But I am not a vegetarian, nor was I about to drink mountain dew.

The ocean aroma—to me it is as intoxicating as the perfectly brewed Namibian-brewed German-style lager I tremendously enjoy. This one special evening, I slowly walked the beach. The sun was setting over the south Atlantic. The sky was nothing memorable—no clouds, no glory. But the smell, the wonderful sweet and tantalizing aroma of the cold sea—that is what was
wonderful. It reminded me of my months exploring the northwest coast of North America in the 1970s, along the cold seas and among the remote wilderness islands of British Columbia. Here in Swakapmund the aroma is similar, but its presence of here and now is ever so much more sweet.

Thirsty landscape, Swakapmund

Did you know that the sound of the sea is a function of its temperature? I've never read anything about this, but I know it for sure! The sound of tropical ocean waters crashing on a beach is so distinctly different from that of cold water crashing on this southwest African sand. I know that this sound is indicative of so much more living in these cold waters. My mind drifted earlier over a quenching draft of the local Reinheitsgebot-style Windhoek Lager (am I in Germany or Africa?). I contemplated the sound of the drip and the spray of hot sparge water versus cold water and the sound that is every poured beer. If you listen to your beer, it speaks to you about its personality—if you take the time to listen.

I was in search of Namibian oysters! I found them, but not before a slow walk down the beach, wrapped warmly in my Bar Harbor Brewing Company sweatshirt. A few Windhoek Lagers, a dozen oysters and assorted other sea creatures were my dinner at the Tugboat, recommended for its seafood.

But I digress. Before this small feast I encountered a busload of Africans on the beach. They were a spectacle, a sight to remember for the rest of my life. The sea was ice cold, beautiful and crashing. These men and women were in business suits and dresses. They were rolling their leggings as fast and as far up as they could, but it was never enough as they laughed and played in the foaming surf. All adults, they smiled the grins of the planet's children. They were making Alice in Wonderland's Cheshire cat envious.

These were their first glorious minutes of ocean “baptism.” I recalled my first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean, my first mountain climbed and several other special firsts of my life. I continued to watch as they scooped water into their mouths, tasting the salt of the sea for the first time in their lives. Others were busy gathering gallons of ocean and sand into containers. I grinned to myself and was warmed inside as I imagined this little bit of sea taken back to relatives perhaps 500 miles inland, to marvel at the taste of the Atlantic ocean. I've seen oceans a thousand mornings of my life, but this is a sight that is still a marvel even to me, the Atlantic stretching out to the western horizon. The people danced in the glimmer of the setting sun, unable to judge how far the crashing waves thrust their tongues onto the sand. Soaked in their business suits, they laughed, and to be sure loved every minute of the experience.

I asked, “Where are you from?”

“From Botswana. This is the first time we've ever seen the ocean.”

You know there are special moments in everyone's lives. This was one for me. I don't quite know why, but I was overcome with a deep emotion, simply watching these children of our planet taking in the great gray-blue sea crashing wildly on this distant coast. I was there. For the moment it seemed I knew that I would be there forever in my mind, watching these 30 people, silhouetted by the setting sun in their suits and dresses as the children we will always be.

After dinner, I walked halfway down the beach, then broke into a light jog as I headed back into town. It was very cool; the ocean dampness was still invigorating and fresh. I glanced up in awe, knowing that just beyond my sight were sand dunes and one of the driest deserts in the world.

But deserts are for exploring, and that would be tomorrow. That night I was in search of one last beer before retiring. The town looked dreadfully quiet. One last beer? In the desert? That evening I had little faith in fate as I dwelled on sarcastic thoughts.

The streets were empty, deserted, dead. I methodically crisscrossed the small grid of city center streets. I was about to give up when, at the last moment, I found the warm glow of incandescent lights. As I approached the artificial twilight, my heart jumped. I had arrived at the doorsteps of “the Last Western Pub.” I walked in. There were a few people still there.

My thirst overcame any small talk I may have had in reserve. “Is the draft Tafel or Windhoek Lager?” I asked. “It's all the same and brewed right here in Swakapmund,” answered the owner in a German-accented English. I knew the brewery was three blocks down the street and that it brewed all the country's draft beer, but didn't quite believe it was all the same. So I argued. “Are you sure about that?” “Come around the bar and see for yourself,” he said. So I strolled past a young lady and mentioned in an overconfident four-Windhoek state, “He doesn't know that beer is my business and I'm working late.”

But I was wrong. He proved his point. And one thing led to another, and I'll be damned!! He nonchalantly added to the conversation, “Well, we have a microbrewery just around the corner. We're Namibia's first and Swakapmund's first. Maybe you can help us…”

How do I find these places? This country is small but not that small. There are great distances between places and people. The previous day I was encountering black rhinos, giraffes, zebras, oryx, kudus, gemsboks, spring-boks (great name for a beer, eh?), dikdiks, lions, ostriches and trees stranger than your weirdest dreams—just 500 kilometers to the north. There was a lot
of strange desert and sand between there and here. I needed another Windhoek Lager. I was in a small state of serendipitous shock. I kept asking myself over and over, “How do I find these places?” I had just been wandering aimlessly, and what the…I walked down an alley and eventually wound up at the Swakapmund Brauhaus by way of the Last Western Pub.

To make a long, sad story short, Swakapmund is a desert oasis for Germans and Namibians. The owners of the Last Western Pub had the beer lover's dream—“let's brew our own beer.” Their aspirations were noble, but like so many others in undeveloped microbrewery countries, they have been royally ripped off. They spent $40,000 on one of the worst pieces of equipment I've ever seen in all my born-again days as a brewer. I could have done better with $1,000. Needless to say, they were searching for solutions, having shut down the brewery for lack of anything that tasted like beer. “We just want to make three or four barrels of beer a week—quality beer—and we're prepared to find a solution.” I told them part of the solution was to scrap most of the system they had. It was worthless as an asset.

And to their credit, not only were they selling the super-quality local beer made by Windhoek, but as well a selection of more than 50 great beers from Europe, and I was drinking it—free. I thought to myself, two hours ago I was heading back to my hotel depressed, discouraged and thirsty. Now I was being asked if I knew of any homebrewers who might wish to spend six months, all expenses paid, to fix their brewery to make three hectoliters a week. Their biggest asset was Swakapmund's one and only license (other than that owned by the Windhoek Brewing Company) to brew and sell beer. And if that was not enough, they were on good terms with the Windhoek Brewing Company and allowed to buy ingredients from the brewery. I told them their goal was not unreasonable and soon departed, binged and light headed.

Before I left, my eyes glanced up at a sign in back of the bar. It said, “Remember when they said sex was safe and flying was dangerous.” This was the motto and business card of Rui, the person I had jumped off a mountain
paragliding with in Rio de Janeiro only four weeks earlier. It is truly an amazing, serendipitous world.

What goes around keeps going around and comes around again and again. Remember this. Always. Sometimes I don't remember, but it comes around anyway. They say the fog rolls in here in the morning. In the morning I would be heading east across the desert.

M
ANY OF MY
adventures are an ongoing regionalized collection of experiences with a common theme. Then there are other adventures that just happen. Time and place, reason and cadence are neither logical nor consistent. That is often the nature of having microbrewed adventures: you simply happen to encounter them with no reason for a beginning nor hint at finality. Russia, Asia and Fiji happened to happen…

 

AS DID
Grenada in April 1994. I was among twelve intrepid beer enthusiasts who'd checked their day's luggage at the airport on the small Caribbean island of Grenada. Amongst our belongings was a five-gallon keg of homemade American pale ale. Our enthusiasm and the morning were leading us to a day of sailing and camaraderie in the Grenadine Islands. But there was one problem.

We had forgotten to consider that Grenada was one country and we were entering another. Unfortunately, St. Vincent customs would not allow our keg into their country. We even promised to buy at least six cases of their beer! They smiled and assured us that they'd take good care of our beer so that we could return with it to Grenada. But then there was another problem we discovered later.

Having legitimately cleared Grenada customs with our beers earlier in the week, we were to find another shift on duty upon our return from St. Vincent.
Sadly, the opportunity to enjoy our last remaining keg of beer was lost. Our beer became a beer without a country.

 

FORTUNATELY
,
all the other beers I've ever encountered have been proudly hosted by the pride of a brewer and their country. Here are a few more adventures to thirst over. Pour yourself another and read on.

The Hope of Global Warming
Lessons from the Baltic Sea

I
N LATE OCTOBER
1995
I took a two-week journey, leading a People-to-People Program delegation of brewers to St. Petersburg and overland through Estonia to Latvia. This ongoing program is sponsored by a 50-plus-year-old organization established by President Eisenhower to promote goodwill between nations through the interactions of ordinary citizens. We were a group of ten adventurers from the United States, Canada and Belgium observing the beer culture and brewing community. Ours was a mission of informational exchange. For me, it was a visitation to the roots of beer culture and the challenges every brewer confronts.

“Why Russia and the Baltic countries?” was an often asked question. The very question begs the quest, at least for nine others and me.

Latvian farmhouse brewer

We landed in St. Petersburg, a city of 6 million harbored at the same latitude as Anchorage, Alaska, greeted by October's gray skies. As we boarded our tour bus we noted a ragged group of six or seven men bundled against the cold, their tattered luggage by their side. As if by magic, horns and drums emerged, and then there was music. Jet-lagged and awed, we all stared through the bus windows. Somehow they knew. The first notes of their refrain were unmistakable as they completed a rousing version of
The Star Spangled Banner
. We were in Russia for 20 minutes, and something told me that this trip was going to be different. Or was it?

By order of the Russian Empress, Catherine II, the Stephan Razin Brewery was founded in St. Petersburg in 1795. Many breweries throughout Eastern Europe and Russia similarly enjoyed several eras of a proud and productive history. But now this brewery, on their 200th anniversary, was struggling to continue in a country where economic reform was burdened with unbearable taxation and other difficulties. The Soviet system had not been kind to breweries interested in quality.

Perhaps the most devastating blow to the brewing industry in the 20th century was what many refer to as Gorbachev's “June Revolution.” To all beer drinkers in the former Soviet Union, Gorbachev will not be remembered for
glasnost or perestroika, but rather for the low-alcohol decree he instituted on June 1, 1980. Overnight, the brewing industry was in ruins. A form of prohibition had been installed. Gorbachev destroyed so many economic infrastructures and so many lives without coming close to solving the real problems of alcoholism. This was the beginning of the end for any respect he had developed among many Russians.

But times have changed. The Baltic Republics are now sovereign nations, and Russia is struggling with its transition. We observed varying degrees of progress across the former Soviet Union. We also learned of more than 150 microbreweries built in the last three years—built for reasons other than what Americans might assume.

It was interesting for me to observe here what I had seen in other developing lands: the health of the brewing industry and the quality of their products seem to have a direct correlation with the economic health of a country. Severe excise taxes are often an indication of naive government repression of business and/or foolishness within a government. Surely they are a measure of government awareness and intelligence. There are lessons here that don't need to be repeated.

For me, it soon became obvious that ours was a unique opportunity to observe an emerging economy and examine the principles upon which beer culture evolves: the brewing community, consumer patterns and the politics of alcohol. Sometimes we become so mired in the complexity of our own developed nations that we lose sight of the real reason why the brewing community and beer culture exist. The opportunities to observe the remnants of the past, the struggles of the present and the hopes of the future are rare in this rapidly changing world. Those that exist are fleeting. We were travelers in fortunate times.

Everywhere we visited, we observed an active revival of beer cultures. There was a time when beer was a proud part of these lives. Now the struggle to catch up with the rest of the beer world was in full swing. Today's standards of international beer quality are at various stages of being realized. They are what one strives for as a brewer. First you discover what the standards are and then you attempt to achieve them with whatever resources are available. All brewers know these dynamics between the abundance and scarcity of resources.

Though the ideals were admirable, it was sometimes discomforting for me to see where the road to “progress” could lead. Modern equipment, efficiency of labor force, technically “cleaner” beer, longer shelf life, wider distribution and markets and profitability—yes, certainly these are some of the elements of growth, progress and quality.

But I grew very fond of many of the beers naturally brewed from what today's “experts” could refer to as “low-quality” ingredients. A tankard of microbrewed country beer served from brewer-crafted wooden barrels, naturally carbonated and gravity dispensed, became an adventure we looked forward to each day. This fresh beer was an important and essential tradition that millions had enjoyed. Yes, of course, the beer lasted only one week before spoiling, but that is the character and nature of heritage any beer culture has as its foundation. The best-tasting fruit is picked ripe and directly from the tree. This is a truth that is rarely experienced in the days of modernization and marketplace dynamics. Will these perfectly made country-fresh beers be forgotten at the expense of clean, pasteurized and stable beer brewed with high-yield hop harvests, disease-resistant malted barley, purified yeast and treated water?

Our trip was about cultural and professional exchange. There was one message I hoped they heard from me: Don't forget your traditions and the products that make your beer culture unique from the rest of the world of beer. With these traditions there is little competition. Yes, I understand in order to be profitable in the current international beer market there is a minimum investment required to develop and maintain quality in the brewery. But with profitability and success, please don't forget your beer culture. Without it, you have nothing that can't be done anywhere else in the world.

Aspiring to be big was the common theme among the developing breweries that had resources. We visited several other breweries that were left behind in the backwaters. They produced the most interesting and complex beers. It was fresh and reminisced of tradition and a passion that they struggled to maintain in the face of market economics and distribution dynamics. Theirs was the dream and the soul to which beer drinkers will someday return.

The brewery chief at the Bauska Brewery in Latvia, Karlis Zaltitis, told us of his 43-year career as a brewer. Deported to Siberia and the stalag prison
camps during the Stalin era, he managed to persevere and return to his beloved brewing, becoming a very talented brewer. Each of us was seated in the brewery's comforting wood-walled tasting room, our hands wrapped around mugs of frothy, fresh microbrewed beer. During a small hesitation between stories we finally asked, “What kind of changes occurred after Stalin died and Khrushchev came into power?” Karlis paused and smiled thoughtfully, and through our translator he slowly said in Latvian one distinct word at a time, “The snow began to melt.” We were all momentarily silent as he grinned and his eyes clearly sparkled.

Now there is a second thaw brought to the Baltic nations by a very special kind of global warming. It promises much hope for the reemergence of a very proud beer culture.

Wagging the Tail in China

I
N
1999
there were more than 600 breweries in China. That number has more than likely shrunk dramatically, while at the same time Chinese beer production has grown from 30 million barrels in 1996 to over 200 million barrels by the year 2000. Small, dysfunctional breweries are disappearing as the transportation infrastructure improves and companies consolidate their resources to increase efficiency and profits. But at what expense?

Despite the decline of small breweries, we enjoyed beers at several brewpubs encountered on our 1999 trip through China.

Eight of us, with beer on our minds, had just finished an intensive 12-day tour of China. Our adventure had begun with a visit to the Zhongce Bejiing Beer Company, a joint venture between Japanese giant Asahi Brewing Company and the Chinese government. Vice General Manager Shuji Fukushima (speaking Japanese), Chief Engineer Youan Yan Fang (speaking Chinese) and our group (speaking English) endeavored an early-morning three-way translated discussion less than 24 hours after we had arrived from America. The experience seemed to typify the extreme and sometimes bewildering nature of our tour.

In 1999, China was on the verge of becoming the world's largest producer of beer in the world (which it has since done), yet the complexity of our experience could be likened to an intricate quest, trying to unravel and make sense of dozens of conflicting logics and traditions of language, politics, eco
nomics and the culture of food and beverage. We had all been enjoying Chinese beer in our hotel lobby upon our arrival the day before. Jamie Johnson, our delegate from Denver, observed, “All of us had sampled the brewery's products the previous evening and we agreed it was an excellent beer (considering we're discussing Chinese lagers).” We enjoyed many beers! We learned two truths: (1) A multinational love of beer was quickly developing in China, and (2) the more we spent time with the Chinese and enjoyed their beer, the easier it was to unravel the emerging Chinese passion for beer. But we had to enjoy a lot of beer just to begin unraveling.

During the trip, our group met with brewers from all over China. We learned about their world and told them about ours.

There is currently a mad dash in China—a gold rush, if you will, though the gold is beer rather than metal. Most of the huge European, North American, Asian and African multinational brewing companies are there trying to carve out their own piece of the market and profits. The statistics are all there, ranking who is the largest and who has captured market share: Anheuser-Busch, Heineken, Carlsberg, Fosters, Pabst, Interbrew, Asahi, Bass, South African Breweries, San Miguel, etc.