the brewery

Tonto Brewing Supporting Education
A rowdy murmur, punctutuated with hearty laughs and chopping sound emerge from the banana plantation. A burnt smell combined with a juicy scent wave through the compound. Five of Nania’s grand children, who are on school holiday and their two aunts are making numerous trips to the well downhill. They carry jerry cans, which were formerly blue, pouring the water in a wooden trough.
The sun’s rays are starting to peep through the heavy foliage, and the dew is starting to melt. A dizzy atmosphere hangs over the hilly terrain. This is at Nania’s home in Makopo, a village deep in Rwampara, Mbarara district.
The buzzing activity continues.
Nania, smoking a pipe from his command post of banana tree trunks observes the execution; he has just finished overseeing the peeling of the ripe bananas. The bananas have been thrown into a shallow ground trough. The trough’s floor is covered by two layers. The first one is of well laid banana leaves, and on top is an equally thick layer of banana tree husks. A heap of bananas now fill this trough.
Two crossing ropes have been tied a metre crossing above the trough. On the side, Nania’s two younger sons and their friend prepare to mash the bananas. “These give support, as it becomes slippery”, explains Balaamu.
A bunch of grass has all long been laying aside. Frank, who I later learn is the youngest of Nania’s son, collects a panga. Using a cut tree branch as his base, gets down on one knee and attacks the grass, throwing the chopped pieces onto the banana heap.
Balaamu, the elder brother and Kasaija their friend, roll their trousers into shorts and holding on the ropes jump onto the heap, and vigorously start mashing it under their feet.
A grinding sound from the hut, where a trail of smoke meanderingly emerges and fades into the atmosphere, fill the compound. Another neighbor’s daughter is helping Nania’s wife to grind the sorghum, which was being fried a few minutes earlier.
All this began a week ago when Frank and Balaamu got home for holidays. They have been doing this every holiday to help their parents raise their school fees. Frank is in S.2, Balaamu and Kasaija in S.4
Bunches of specific breeds of banana were cut, put in a ground hole, and covered with soil. A small hole is left partially covered. This hole is used to smoke the bananas, which is done daily. On the third day, the soil cover is removed, the bananas exposed to the sun for about an hour, then covered again, this time with banana trunks and leaves. Two days later, they are ready for squeezing.
After about thirty minutes of an energy and technique oriented foot stumping, white bubbles start to ooze from the mashed banana-grass combination.
Traces of relief appear on everyone face. Few minutes later, a brownish juice starts to increasingly collect in every hole. Nania and Frank meanwhile have brought another wooden trough, which Nania rinsed with some herbs. “These make the beer sweeter”, he replied.
Balaamu creates a funnel, puts in grass and inserts it into a jerrycan. This acts as a sieve as for the juice. Balaamu and Kasaija continue to stump on smaller heaps of the dough. Frank sieves the juice into the jerrycan. When it’s full, he pours the juice into a wooden trough.
A few more neighbors’ come around. They pick a cup, pour in juice and sip on, chatting. A few jokes are cracked, and some update information on a variety of topics also shared
When the juice has been collected, the mash is then loosened and water is poured in. Kasaija and Balaamu start again, stumping on. This though takes a shorter time. The water removes any juice that could have remained. This is then collected and mixed with the other juice.
In a calculating mode, Nania mixes the sorghum floor and the juice in a wooden trough. Some juice is put in a jerrycan aside for drinking. The sorghum floor –juice mixture is covered for the night.
During this time, as my chemistry teacher said back when I was a student, the juice under goes a process called fermentation. By the next day, even the name has changed from juice, eshande, to tonto, its local name.
The next day it collected into jerrycans. Women enjoy the still warm tonto, while men prefer one that has spent another night.
Most of the tonto is taken to the local bars, either by bicycle or carried on the head. About one or two jerrycans stay at home. Nania and his comrades sit under the mango tree in the evening, with a gourd filled with tonto moves around.
Even Balaamu, Kasaija, Frank are joined by their peers and the talk is dominated by the usual ‘adolescent-teenager’ issues.
A jerrycan of tonto is sold at about four thousand shillings. The bar retailer sells a half litter to the patrons at two hundred shillings.
Tonto from Rwampara is sold as far as Mbarara town, Ntungamo and other neighboring towns. Its quality is highly regarded.
It’s a common sight in the evening to meet a local resident stagling back home on the effect of taking an overdose of tonto. To some people, they will drink tonto to quench the thirst, others for pleasure. It’s a must have on any get together.
By the end of holidays, Balaamu and his group will have done this about two more times, and hopefully raised enough money to meet their school fees.
Talk of tradition supporting modernisation.