The soup born at the foot of Kilimanjaro

It was an evening at the foot of Kilimanjaro, when the scents begin to rise from the earth.

At that time, Karine and Jeff were on a long journey by lorry, from Toulouse to Cape Town, with their two eldest children. Their third child would be born on the road. For several years, their life was built this way, along tracks and borders, through campsites and encounters.

As at the end of every day, they had parked their bush truck and set up a temporary camp, out of sight and not far from a watering hole. All their attention was focused on a delicate task: transferring water from one jerrycan to another. Dinner time was approaching and the soup had to be made for the whole little family, already growing impatient in the back of the vehicle.

And all of a sudden, their field of vision was blocked by… a pair of enormous feet.

Karine and Jeff dared to look up and discovered a Maasai man of impressive height, standing tall, dressed in the traditional red robe. Just as surprised as they were, he nevertheless seemed amused by the little bustle around their makeshift camp kitchen.

Our travellers held their breath. They had travelled the world enough to know they were living one of those moments you never forget.

The man began to speak in a language neither of them understood. He grew animated, his hands following his words, full of a wish to share.

But what was he trying to say?

It was then that a child poked their head out of the vehicle. The Maasai man in turn came closer to see what was going on inside. A few seconds later, something had already shifted. The children had done what they do so well: they had made the encounter simple.

After a few gestures, some smiles, then laughter, the distance gradually fell away. And the little French family found itself warmly invited to share the Maasai family’s meal, at the foot of Kilimanjaro.

That evening, the bowl of soup did not taste the same.
The evening was magical.

Two families who did not speak the same language came together around the same meal. The children laughed together. Gestures replaced words. The soup, already generous with its vegetables mingled with banana, took on everything that was happening around it.

Karine and Jeff left with that memory.

Years later, back in France, they tried to recapture something of it in the kitchen. The sweetness of the vegetables. The roundness of the banana. The spices. The coriander. A certain creaminess. And above all that balance, impossible to separate from the evening spent at the foot of Kilimanjaro. It would take time, trials, adjustments.

Then one day, after a last spoonful, they looked at each other.
The recipe was there.

The Kilimanjaro Soup was born.