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On the Thursday evening, rather than heading out with the boys for their walk in the bush, I was instead guided to the car, where I was told tonight’s dinner was waiting; ‘Menu’ as we later called him, was tried onto the back seat of the truck, scared and confused as we came towards him. My heart went out to the goat as I knew what was about to come, and as we rode over to the village, we joked and light heartedly said our goodbyes, but deep down I had an uncomfortable feeling knowing what was going to happen. A ball of nervous energy and excitement, I arrived at the village with Menu in tow. After many greetings, warm smiles and some bad Mar on my behalf, it was time to prepare supper, and so say our last goodbyes to the goat. It happened very quickly as they held its mouth and nose to suffocate it with as much respect as possible; with each animal they kill they find new leaves for it to lay it on as their way on honouring its life. After checking the goat’s pulse to ensure it was dead, one of the elders began skinning the neck, creating a pocket, or ‘bowl’ half attached to the muscle. Before I agreed to this homestay, I was advised that I must graciously accept anything I was offered – including goat blood; in the Maasai society, it is only elders and warriors who are allowed to enjoy this delicacy, and so to be offered any would be a great honour. That is exactly what happened. With a quick slit of the throat, the hot thick blood came pouring out into the makeshift ‘bowl’ below, as two elders on their knees gulped down mouthfuls. Then it was my turn. It all happened so quickly and I was in shock having naively thought the blood would have been poured into a cup, not drunk directly from the source. The blood continued to gush from the animals neck, threatening to overflow, and as I was ushered to my knees and asked to drink. Gratefully, there was little time to comprehend what I was about to do. Leaning down with my face almost to the floor, the loose skin between my fingers, a rush of revulsion and excitement flowed through me. Ignoring my churning stomach, I brought my lips to the fury skin and drank. It was hot and uncomfortably thick as it coated my tongue, but to my surprise I drank with ease. I received a little chuckle from the elders and a pat on the back from James – I expect in disbelief as I was later told most girls run from the blood! Having watched part of Ross’s own goat experience, I knew that the raw kidney was next. Creating a small slit by the spine of the goat, Dominic reached in, felt around for a second, pulled out one kidney, slit it in two, and handed me half. By this point my stomach was not too happy, and despite the entire bottle of water I’d drunk, the iron-y taste of blood would not leave my mouth. Before I could think about it, I threw the kidney into my mouth. The kidney less enjoyable, and I definitely struggled swallowing it with it tasting and feeling like warm bloody jelly. I caught James’ eye as I turned away and slightly gagged, as he urgently told me to ‘swallow it’ with amused eyes. After both kidneys were removed and eaten, the skinning of the goat continued, and I was really given time to reflect on what I had just seen and done. What stood out to me was the overwhelming sense of gratitude and respect I felt towards the animal, and to my surprise, and despite my predispositions, I understood that this was not a cruel or nonchalant experience – it was one of great appreciation and love. For this community, who only eat meat once every couple of weeks, it is so clear how grateful they are of these creatures, and how much pride they take in respecting the animal. They suffocate the animal first so that it can die in relative peace, avoiding blood being spilt. By drinking the blood not a single drop of its life I wasted. Yet it was the encompassing atmosphere and their appraisal of the animals sacrifice that really showed their love. As many more hunks of were eaten, including roasted liver, boiled neck, and what I have named ‘neck soup’, the light faded fast, and so the elders and I settled down for an evening of language barriers, star gazing, and many more plates of goat. By this point, my churning stomach had had enough for one day, and so I managed to use the excuse of having a small appetite to not being ‘a big strong Maasai warrior!’ They found this rather amusing and let me off the second plate of goat. The rest of the evening was relatively peaceful, as they told me their stories of the stars and I told them about England. They were surprised to hear how ‘old’ women tend to marry, and they explained their traditions on dowry’s and having many wives. Rather amusingly, one of the toddlers joined us around the fire, however every time I came over to him he instantly hid in his father’s arms – he definitely did not understand what a Mzungu was yet! The night ended as I was shown to my boma, with the bleating goats, and meowing kittens filling the evening silence, and the lingering smell of goat which followed me everywhere.
*** I think what struck me the most about this experience is how infrequently I consider where our food comes from. Having that animal sit right there, next to me in the car as we named and befriended him was a hard reality to be happy with considering our knowledge of his not so long future. I had never seen such a large animal be killed, and knowing that he would be dying for me was a perspective I had never had to consider in such a personal way. By buying meat from the supermarket, we as the consumer are removed from the reality of where that meat has come from, and therefore the process of how it arrives so perfectly clean and packaged. It is so easy to bypass the thought of each individual animal, and moreover that it has died for our consumption. Ross made a very interesting point after his stay at the village. He explained he believes that all meat should be labelled directly after its animal – so ‘cow’ instead of ‘beef’, and ‘pig’ instead of ‘pork’. Arguably, by using a word other than the name of the animal’s species, it removes the association and detaches the consumer from the reality of where the meat has come from. Maybe by implementing changes such as this into Western society, people would be more grateful, and so less wasteful of what food we do have. I know from my experience that by raising and tending to their livestock that it makes the communities here wholly grateful for the meat they do eat, and I think that is something we should all be more thankful for.
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AuthorMy name is Jemima Shepherd, and I am passionate about wildlife, conservation and global warming, which is partly why I have started this blog; I hope to share what I learn on this site, along with some of my favourite experiences along the way. ArchivesCategories |