I’m not a big fan of bugs. It’s not because they’re creepy or gross (though they certainly can be), it’s mainly because they eat my vegetables and sting me all the live long day. My mortal enemy, the mosquito, is a bug. But some are good, like ladybugs, who eat other bugs. And the honey bee is amazing and the bumblebee is adorable. But termites, well, termites are in a class by themselves.
I wrote this other post over here about them, so I won’t go into all the helpful things they do. Instead, this post is about the glory that is the omajowa (oh-ma-yo-va), the giant edible mushroom that these tiny termites grow this time of year.
“Omajowa” is Herero for “mushroom” and is the name most Namibians use for these things. In Latin, it’sTermitomyces schimperi. In German, Termitenpilz. In English, extraordinary. A termite mound will sprout only once a year, if at all, but often with legions of these fungi, enough to feed the foraging folks who find them, and their family, all for free. Only rain is needed. And those crazy little termites. They actually cultivate them, in an underground fungus garden from which they feed. And for some reason, between December and February, the fungus gets out of control and shoots skyward.
So when a “weather expert” told us shortly after New Year’s that the rain was gone – what we got til then was all we were going to get – I wanted to punch him. Instead, with memories of last year’s long days of drought and the realization that we hadn’t found a single omajowa this year, I cried. No joke. I take the rainy season just that seriously. But someone took pity on us, and after three dry and depressing weeks the rain came back, and that is when I found this:
It may not look like much, but after a few years of rainy seasons in this country, I’ve learned to pick out white blobs at the bottom of termite mounds, no matter how obscure they might be. If you want mushrooms, you learn. And that wee white bit at the bottom left of the mound, turned out to be this little dude, not even open yet:
All in all, we found 13 mushrooms on this mound. I was so terribly excited that I ripped my shirt on the acacia trees while running back and forth from mound to car – first to get my camera, then to put it back and get a shovel, then back to get the camera again, then once more to load the booty. Due to my bumbling, I’m afraid Jay ended up doing most of the work. He didn’t seem to mind though, omajowa are worth it.
Since we had more work to do on the farm, lunch had to wait, but still I searched for mushrooms. The hunt is half the fun – your senses, along with your heartbeat, pick up a notch knowing that they could be lurking around any corner. So about an hour later, when more were spotted, we scooped them up in triumph.
But these aren’t just pick-and-run mushrooms; you have to carefully wiggle them out. Beneath the ground is a chunky, yet fragile, stem that’s perfect for battering and frying. And bonus points if you get the tail, too. It’s too hard to be palatable, but it’s weird and, therefore, worthy of acknowledgement.
The rain has continued on and off since then, at least enough to keep the mushrooms growing. When we found the record for this year, 25 on one mound, we had to lay some of them out to dry. Two meals a day of mushrooms (incomprehensibly, Jay draws the line at breakfast) was not enough to eat them all before they expired. The all-time record though, was a couple of years ago. One mound, 36 mushrooms.
And here’s probably the biggest I’ve ever found:
So the termites have confirmed their spot on my acceptable bug list, and though they would improve their rating should they start eating mosquitoes, there they will remain as long as they keep making mushrooms. Because without the omajowa, life in Namibia just wouldn’t be as much fun.