Where there’s smoke, there’s fire - but no fire department

First off, I apologize for the long hiatus from posting.  I have been battling a chest cold for what seems to have been a week and half, not to mention I have of course been taking care of my ever present responsibilities at school.  The illness appears to have been vanquished now, though, so J. Spence should be back and better than ever.

The topic of my Comeback Post has to do with a quite harrowing experience I underwent two nights ago that should also give my developed-world readers an idea of exactly what I deal with sometimes here.  One of my goals since the beginning of 2012, if not a fully fledged resolution, is to begin branching out in culinary consumption.  In typical guy fashion, I found myself surviving on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and other fast meals that did not require much time, effort, or provident thinking.  Quick and easy was the order of the day.

I realized, though, that even though I am in the Peace Corps, I might as well build my cooking connoisseurship while here in Africa, so as to spice things up a bit (hope you enjoyed that one Mom) and make things a bit more interesting.  Plus, I can’t honestly carry the moniker Cosmopolitan, if my diet resembles that of a hobo.

It was with that ethos that I have been venturing out recently, creating concoctions such as huevos rancheros, guacamole, homemade tortillas, tacos, and Chinese rice - all with quite reasonable success if I do say so myself.  Having confined my cooking mostly to the Tex-Mex I know and love, however, I figured it was high time that I make a culinary ode to that Southern influence that also informs Texas culture.  That’s right, I committed to taking on Colonel Sanders himself by making up a batch of fried chicken.

It all began well enough, with the mixing of ingredients and dredging of the various chicken parts.  I also found a deep pot, filled it about 1/3 of the way with sunflower oil, and turned the burner on high so as to heat the oil.  Now the recipe said nothing about what temperature to bring the oil to, and having never heated such large quantities of oil before, I figured I should leave it on for a good while before throwing my now de-feathered friends in.  Now, I’m not a complete ignoramus, so I stayed close by just to keep any eye on things.  Very quickly, the oil began popping such that globs of it were leaping up into the air, but given this was so early, I figured that surely it was not yet time to begin cooking.  Sure enough, the eruptions subsided after about 3 minutes and the oil continued to heat in peace.

I made a point of waving my hand over the pot every so often to try to get a rough estimate of the temperature, but again, I really had no idea what that temperature was supposed to be.  I guess I figured that when the oil got to a good boil would be go-time.  Unfortunately, that moment never arrived.  All of a sudden, as I was standing next to the stove, the oil burst into flames, as if someone had just opened a cigarette lighter next to an open gas line.  The result was a quite significant flame. 

My immediate reaction was to turn off the stove, which I realized later was quite superfluous, given that the breaker switch flipped as soon as the fire started.  I had hoped that simply turning off the stove would be enough for the flame to die down, but it instead continued to grow and reach higher and higher.   At that point, my thought was to get the fire extinguisher – which would have been all well and good, had we actually had one.  I was then rudely jolted back into the reality that I am in South Africa where fire extinguishers are not standard components of every household. 

Having no professional means of putting out the fire myself, I started to go over alternatives.  I knew from having it beaten into my head in primary school, that pouring water on grease fires only makes it worse, so luckily I never even considered that option.  I did however realize that despite the stove being off, the burner was still quite hot and would be for some time, which would fuel the fire for a good while.  By this time, the flames were bordering on inferno-status, so I just barely, with pot holders, managed to move the pot to one of the other burners to reduce the heat being supplied.  It was this act that probably prevented the rest of the house from eventually catching on fire.

Like I said before, despite my best efforts, the flames continued to rise until the flames were licking the ceiling.  The heat was so intense that the glass on the wall clock above the stove actually broke apart and fell down.  Now, normally in the case of a fire, one of the things they tell you is to try to smother it so as to prevent air from feeding it.  Because the fire was so big, though, I was unable to just place the top of the pot over it to extinguish the flames.  The best I could do was gingerly toss the cover on to the pot, making sure that I didn’t knock over the pot and spread the fire wherever the oil spilled.  As it happened, the top came to rest upside down on the pot, not completely sealing the oil off, but at least serving to limit the fire’s oxygen supply somewhat. 

It was at this point that I realized that I was having trouble breathing because of smoke, so I managed to get a rag, dampen it with water, and put it over my mouth to guard from the fumes.  I also kept low to the ground, remembering that that’s where the oxygen is since smoke rises.  I can’t tell you how appreciative I was and am for the basic fire education that is an integral component of any American schoolchild’s upbringing.  Had I not had that, things probably would have turned out a whole lot differently.

At around this time, I was beginning to think that the house really was going to burn, so I got outside and did the only thing I knew in the situation – dial 9-1-1.  I remembered that during our training they told us that emergency numbers were different in South Africa, but I had no idea what those numbers were at this moment, and I was not about to go rummaging through my room to try to find them.  Miraculously, when I dialed 9-1-1 on my BlackBerry, the call was immediately listed on the screen as “Emergency Call”.  When I related the whole ordeal later on to some local friends, they were also shocked that 9-1-1 had worked as they had no idea there was that functionality here. (Apparently, the new cell phone networks have adopted international standards.  Had I used a landline, I wouldn’t have had the same success).

Unfortunately, the small comfort I was hoping to gain from getting in touch with some emergency professionals was not to be.  After dialing 9-1-1, it took a good 30 seconds of ringing before an operator picked up.  I told the young woman on the line what was going on, and her response was “Umm, so what is happening again?”  I repeated myself, doing the best I could to remain calm, as I saw the light from the fire streaming through my kitchen windows.  Upon retelling the crisis, the operator said that she would contact the fire brigade for me. 

I was then put on hold for a good 3 minutes.  Let me tell you right now, Kenny G is not that soothing when his saxophone attempts to make harmony with the crackle of burning oil.   Finally, the elevator music stopped, only for the operator to come back on the line and tell me that the fire brigade in Warrenton wasn’t picking up, nor was the one in the other town closest to me.

To my South African readers, this might seem par for the course, but as many of my non-jaded followers can imagine, I was in disbelief.  I knew that South African services left something to be desired, but I could not believe that the fire department just couldn’t be bothered to pick up the phone.  It was at this moment, that I began contemplating how I was going to break the news to the lady I was living with (who was out of town by the way) that I had burned down her house in pursuit of fried chicken. 

Snap back to the operator, who informed me that in the absence of the fire brigade, she would send a police car.  I’m sure she thought she was being very diligent by at least sending some emergency personnel.  I, however, was not as impressed, thinking, “Great.  Maybe they can handcuff the fire into submission.”  Giving myself over to an unpleasant fatalism, I went far enough back into the house to take one last look at the fire, and to my relief, it seemed that the flames were finally starting to die down a bit.  Not completely out of the woods, though, I waited painfully for the police to arrive, hoping that maybe just maybe, they could offer some other advice on how to prevent the house from becoming an ash heap.

After 10 minutes, the police had still not arrived, so I dialed 9-1-1 again to see just what the hell was going on.  When the operator answered, and I angrily told her the police had still not arrived, her response was “Sir, it is a busy time of the year and there are other people with emergencies, too.  Please be patient.”  To which, I responded, “Ma’am, my house is on fire.  Please do not tell me to be patient!”  Again, I could not believe that an emergency operator, would actually tell someone to be patient while their house burned.  I can just imagine the dialogue when someone calls to report their house is being broken into:

OPERATOR (picking the phone up on the 20th ring after taking time to finish her tea): “Hello, what is your emergency?”

CALLER: “A burglar just broke through my window and is now in my house!”

OPERATOR: “Oh, shame, but no need to be hysterical, ma’am.  There’s a lot of crime in South Africa, you know.  But, I’ll tell you what. I’ll see if I can’t get someone to stop by in about 30 minutes.  Of course, that’s if the police are not on break.  If they are, you might just want to politely ask the burglar to leave.  I’m sure he’ll be reasonable.”

Anyways, the police finally arrived and Constable Groenwald came in to take a look at things.  By that time, thank God, the fire had gone out.  In its wake it had left a burned pot, a broken clock, a scorched wall, and several rooms blackened with soot as a result of the smoke (which is going to take me days to clean).  The constable understood my concern at the services, or rather lack thereof, but said there was not really much more he could do except say he was glad that it didn’t turn out worse.  He confirmed that many times when a house catches on fire, the people just have to watch it burn to the ground.

In conclusion, while I many times jokingly display a Texas and American chauvinism, I really do enjoy and appreciate other countries (I mean, I AM in the Peace Corps).  But that being said, this issue of safety services is one area where I can honestly say that America is just plain better.  Even in Texas, which is not a state known for its vast array of government services, it would be unthinkable for a town the size of Warrenton to have no fire support, and certainly not a fire brigade that just chooses not to pick up the phone.  Even in the most podunk of areas, there is a volunteer fire department, organized by concerned citizens, that at least offers some assistance.  It is difficult to describe the fear and frustration I felt watching the fire, knowing that there was no one to help and that I was completely on my own.  It also saddens me to think of the people here in South Africa that are hurt and killed, and the property that is destroyed, because of this lack of what we in America consider to be basic services.  TIA, I guess.

So the next time you dial 9-1-1 from your landline and the operator comes on immediately, then instantaneously sends a fire truck, police car, and ambulance, all of which arrive within 5 minutes, meanwhile the trained operator is calming you and telling you what to do in the situation, just please sing a Te Deum that you live in a country where someone is looking out for you.  (If you are a United States citizen, you are free to play Lee Greenwood’s “I’m Proud to Be an American”.)

South African Word of the Day

spoor – the track of a wagon or motor vehicle

There’s no spoor in the dirt road, so it’s obvious that the fire brigade has not been here to put out the fire.