WARNING: This post is not for the faint hearted--skip the read if you do not like blood and guts.
When in Africa.....
That was my mentality when I ultimately decided to watch the cook crew slaughter two goats for meat. Aside from wanting to experience the cultural aspect, I felt as though it was something I had to do as a meat-eater. It seems somewhat wrong to me to choose to eat meat while turning a blind eye to how it ends up on your plate. So, I reluctantly dragged myself to the massacre location.
The group of us students stood a few feet back as the cooks led out two two little goats, one black and white and the other all white. They pulled and tugged backward on their leads as if they knew exactly what was coming to them. I stared at their faces and didn't know if I could do this.
Before I knew it, everyone was gasping as a group of cooks pushed the first goat onto its side and held it down as it squirmed and cried out. All the while, you could hear the noise of another cook sharpening large knives. This was too much. Barbaric, I thought. Then a second later it crossed my mind that I had no idea whether they did it much differently in the US either...
It took a few back and forth sawing motions of the knife at the neck of the animal before the goat took its last breath. Students shouted, some covering their eyes and others shedding tears. I had to turn away quite a few times; watching the goat go down was too horrific for me to bear. It was common practice, however, and the method in which locals obtained their meat. In other tribes, apparently, the process is even a bit different--the Maasai, for example, instead suffocate the goats so as not to spill its precious blood.
After the goat had been killed, they hung it by the neck (the head was still partially attached) to a nearby tree and began the process of skinning the goat with large knives. Students and cooks extended the legs of the now carcass to facilitate this process. Without its furry pelt, we stared at the pale, blue ghost of an animal hanging from the tree, fascia, nerves and muscle exposed. As the skinning ensued, one student caught the subtle movement of the visible jugular vein as blood still continued to flow through....
For Vicent, one of our Tanzanian program participants, this was not his first rodeo. Having done this before, he helped the whole time without batting an eye. I stood next to him in awe of the scene unfolding before me.
"Do you want to hold?" He gestured the hanging goat's leg toward me.
Not having fully recovered from the chopping of the neck yet, I wasn't too keen to hold it at the time being.
"I'm okay, thank you," I replied.
"No, here," he insisted, "you won't be able to do something like this again."
I appreciated his thoughtfulness in my having a cultural experience, and anyway, he was right. I smiled with hesitation, but he took my arm and guided it up to the goat leg. I helped in the process and held the leg there for several minutes as the cooks and veterinarian continued to slice away.
Next was the innards. With a few swift cuts of the knife, the veterinarian emptied the contents of the abdominal and thoracic cavities onto the pelt below the tree. All four stomachs, intestines, gallbladder, lungs, heart and all poured from the goat into a congealed mess on the ground.
"Anatomy lesson time!" I shouted.
With all the surgeries I have observed and dissections performed, this portion of the event didn't feel much different to me and I did not mind watching it. The only painful portion to endure was the actual act of killing the goat straightaway. The veterinarian even cut open the rumen, and inside we got to see all the grass that marked the goat's last meal. I hope that at the very least he had a good breakfast on his way out.
After the degutting, the vet hacked away with her heavy duty knife to tear off the legs. I must say, it was quite nasty even for me to hear the crisp snap of bone as she tore the legs backward. Last was the head, which she cleanly severed from its body. She picked it up and held it close to us, showing us the long tongue and neat row of incisors (I asked, and yes, goats only have incisors since they are herbivores). I looked into the goat's beady eyes up close and felt a twinge of sadness. Over on the other side of the hanging tree (which was far too close to my banda for comfort, by the way), the second goat suffered the same fate.
A couple hours later, I walked on the path to my banda and caught a whiff of food in the air. I turned towards the dining hall and saw them grilling in the back outside, and remarked on how good it smelled. I then remembered the events of earlier in the afternoon, realized just what I was staring at, and promptly ran inside my banda.
Later that night, students and staff enjoyed a large plate of goat meat. Vicent sat across from me and I looked at the lumps of gray meat waiting for consumption. I cannot say that I tried the goat meat; I did not want to admit that I was slightly mortified since I do eat meat under a regular basis, but I think that a small part of me deep down was.
All in all, while it was agonizing to observe, I am glad to have seen the ceremony to get an idea of where my food comes from but most importantly to observe the Tanzanian way of life.
Rest in peace, Snowball and Oreo.
Yorumlar