Meat in Maasailand

The boys and I, along with a couple of other men and their sons, spent Friday night and Saturday at the home of one of our security guards. We were invited there to participate in a “goat roast”, a privilege during which a goat is slaughtered, roasted, and shared among the participants. I entered into this activity with a measure of anxiety, as it has been many years since I lived on the farm and experienced the “reality” of the omnivorous diet. Even then, though I always enjoyed the eating part, the killing and dressing duties performed on the animal troubled me deeply. I dreaded deer season, during which my dad would dust off the old Winchester and head to the forest to pick off an unsuspecting buck. Its gutted carcass would hang in our garage awaiting a trip to the butcher, who would make it more appetizing. I still remember the carnage of a sheep slaughter, the story written in blood and crystallized by the frigid Wisconsin winter, a constant reminder of the source of that season’s lamb chops. As most “civilized” individuals, I prefer my meat clean, packaged, and odorless – nicely chilled and ready for cooking. No such luck at this affair, I’m afraid!

I guess that is one feature of African life that strikes me with the most potency. That which I take for granted, and allow to be submerged from my consciousness, is out in the open here. No illusions of refinement – just the facts. In order to eat meat, animals must die. Did I really have any doubts about that? It is funny how attached to those illusions I actually am!

I was so proud of my boys – my young men – who faced the harshness of this reality with a grim determination. Not without emotion, but with a desire to know the truth, to not live under that illusion anymore. They courteously received the graciously offered goat meat, as fresh as it gets, without any sign of revulsion or distaste. Despite their natural Western misgivings, they accepted what was offered as a genuine gift, given by a people who have very little. They are letting Africa in, letting its truth seep into their world. It’s transforming them, broadening them. They – we – will  never be quite the same!

The Maasai families we visited live in the valley below RVA in fairly traditional dwellings, although our hosts, due to their slightly improved income as guards, had recently built upgraded homes. Their original houses were stick and mud (or cow dung) affairs, built by their wives, and serving as home to their entire families, which included calves and goat kids. As we entered, ducking to avoid the low ceilings, we were struck by the heavy smoke that suffused the air, coming from an open fire in the center of the floor.  Our host’s wife was there, squatting before the fire, cooking chapatis for her husband’s guests while she breastfed her baby. A stunning perspective on the stay-at-home mom!

Their new homes were constructions of corrugated tin, and were relatively luxurious by comparison to their counterparts. We shared chai and meals in these humble structures, of which our hosts were obviously proud. One home even sported a small black and white television, powered by a car battery that was recharged daily by a small solar panel on the roof.

What was on TV? American Idol!

And it was not much improved!!