Holy S--- I'm in Africa moments

So many times I find myself having these “Holy Shit, am I really in Africa?” moments.  From walking the 3 blocks from my house in Bamako to the main road, looking at the goat and sheep yard where they sell the animals.  Watching people carry chickens upside down by the feet while maneuvering their moto through the insane traffic of Bamako.  Another example deserves some more explanation:

It’s Friday, 23 September.  It is the day after Malian Independence day.  Still recuperating from a nasty upper respiratory infection, I pretty much sat on my ass all day, learning how to do “The Stare,” an art that my Peace Corps friends here told me that I was sure to master before I left Mali.  Basically, you are so bored and/or non-committal that you stare off into space looking at absolutely nothing.  Adding to the excitement of Doneguebougou today was the oppressive heat: it was fucking hot out today.  Thus, it was ripe conditions to practice the art of The Stare.  I was just kidding about all of that staring off into space stuff.  I did some reading, both for work and to finish a book I had started the day before about some secret organization that ruled the world and wanted to buy a small nation so they could have a seat at the UN (It was called “The Business” by Iain something and was OK and brought up a couple of interesting points), some work with Maiga, and some cataloguing in the pharmacy for my upcoming, self-proclaimed and self-acclaimed take over of the medical operations here.  

So, after finishing up said work and as I started to read under the shade of one of the small trees by our house, I saw one of the helpers in the pharmacy help wash this goat (mouton) with Bafily, the local young man who helps out around The Compound.  I thought it was one of those random things  that I see everyday that I question for about a second and then dismiss it as “Oh yeah, I am in Africa.”  To me, I thought the goat was a pet, as there are freakin’goats everywhere on The Compound grounds, and they were simply giving it a wash like they would wash a dog.  Well, a few minutes later, Maiga says: “OK, time to go kill the mouton.”  I jump up like a kid at Christmas, grab my camera, and am determined to watch this whole bloody process and catch it on film.  I will spare you the gory details, but I will share some of the 38 moments that I caught for eternity on digital film.  It was a pretty gruesome site to watch, especially the actual blood-letting part.  But after they started to skin Mouton, I was instantly transplanted back to my 1st year anatomy lab, trying to make some anatomical sense to this animal: the multiple levels of fascia, a muscle here that looks and functions like the rectus abdominus, the aorta, the liver, pancreas, etc.  It was incredible.  Then watching how they used every part of the animal for cooking, except the distal part of the legs (i.e. the wrists and hooves).  They had a big pile of Mouton parts, and subsequently spread it out amongst the people at the camp: the headmaster of the school, the cook’s family, the guard’s family, a little to our village elder who helps us, and the rest (about 1/3) of the muscle and innards we kept.  

Soon after, they made a small charcoal fire, and grilled a half slab of ribs, the rump, and one of the thighs.  They then spread this spicy bouillon/salt mixture on top of it while it BBQ’d.  The smell was incredible.  I could not wait to dig into that damn Mouton.  With much aplomb and after cooking the shit out of that meat over the charcoals, they cut it up, and added a different type of salt concoction and we dug in.  It was truly THE gastronomic feat of my trip to Mali thus far.  Luckily, there were still some beers left over from the celebration the previous night .  There is nothing like eating free-range goat, freshly-killed only a few hours earlier in somewhat “sanitary” conditions, and sipping on cold beer with your friends and co-workers in the front yard of your compound in the middle of nowhere in West Africa.  “Holy Shit, I AM in Africa.”