About killing a goat, a million degrees and a little bit crazy Argentinians.

Tonight we are having goat for dinner. The two Argentinians around, at the Danish Refugee Council's compound where I stay (and btw have a feast enjoying the wireless Internet connection, the excellent company, and the real showers - no bucket showers or pit latrines!) have finally got around to find someone else to dig the hole in the ground where the goast is to be roasted.

They also managed to find someone else to go to Yei Town and buy it: Me. I allways seem to come in handy in situations like this. I think these guys will do anything to avoid the market in town. With good reason. It was a million degrees, flies all over, the air ranting of dried fish, and a lot of bargaining had to be done, before we could tie the goat, charcoal and matoke leaves on the back of the car.

We bought the goat from these guys above. Young lads, all with impressive tribal scars in the foreheads, and an interesting approach to bargaining; 'You buy all the goats!', they told me. Whereas I tried to get out of it with as few as possible and to the least embarrasing khawadiya price.

Then I watched the goat being killed. F...! With a slow knife. The goat cried. Didn't seem to bother any, so I thought nothing more of it, but felt a little happy that I grew up on a farm. But as one of the guys said; 'It is very fresh in this way!'.

Inshal'allah!

Comments

[The 27th Comrade]

It is Insha'allah Bukran Malish! :o)

[Ishtar]

Lol, I always dreamed of growing up on a farm, but I wasn't thinking of getting tougher during slaughter... I had a friend who came to Niger, and he took a series of 6 pictures through the whole slow process. Not really my cup of tea, but the meat is great!