The short rains in Western Kenya lasted exactly 30 days in 1996, coinciding with my senior research project for university. I typed up my notes every afternoon to the racket of the weaver birds outside my window. While I explored the roles of women and men in child health, these weaver birds were the epitome of child endangerment. The newly hatched chicks constantly fell to their deaths from mom’s hanging nests design, littering the ground around the trees outside my room. My short-term “accommodation” was a one bedroom attached by a door to the local bar. (Before I arrived, I suspected it was used for “very short couple’s excursions,” rather than a tourist bed and breakfast.)
Every morning I woke to the blasting music of the new Congolese rhumba hits and the sound of sweeping by the bar maids on the other side of the door. Most nights I would sit outside the bar in a thatched banda and order my ugali and fish and a Tusker and chat with anyone. Kenyans are friendly in general, and Kenyan men are particularly friendly to American women (for better or for worse), so I was never eating alone.
One evening a young Kenyan woman joined me. Esther was close to my age and spoke perfect English and had fabulously red braids. It turned out that Esther’s uncle was the Agricultural Extension Agent and lived next door with his wife and young son. They had sent her over to introduce herself and to invite me over for dinner. I recall drinking more Tusker than usual that evening (someone else must have been buying), so by the time we were summoned next door I was a bit stumbly in the dark.
As a civil servant drawing a salary and living in a very inexpensive area, her uncle was solidly well off. The uncle, Esther, and I sat on his overstuffed couches and talked while his wife finished cooking in the kitchen. To my silent horror, the uncle generously poured me a tall glass of straight vodka. Luckily, my research skills picked up in university were equally accompanied by a large set of drinking skills, and I slowly drank it down.
When dinner was ready, I was in dire need of food to soak up the vodka I had been politely consuming. The various food dishes were uncovered on the table one by one, and I oohed and ahhed in gratitude and appreciation. But then, the last dish, the main event, the main delicacy, was uncovered and placed directly in front of me: baked quails. A dozen tiny plucked birds about the size of my noisy weaver birds, with their little broken necks and their little beak-y heads bent to the side, lined up on a platter. I saw bulging dead eyes. I saw little birdy feet. And I dug right in. Because I was a guest, and alcohol gives you courage. And they were delicious.
In the years since my research, deaths of young children dropped significantly in Kenya, weaver birds as a species seem to be thriving, and I have since noticed quails appearing on some menus in my travels in East and Southern Africa. Quails were traditionally caught in the bush, but now more people are raising them for restaurants. If you are lucky to see them on a menu, I highly recommend them, and I have found that they pair better with beer than vodka. Happy eating!
