By LOREN WAGNER
Editor's note: Loren Wagner, now a senior at Traverse City West High School, went to Tanzania this summer with National Geographic Student Expeditions. This is a graphic account of a meal she had there.
After an eight-hour hike, the hot, equatorial sun was beginning to set in scorched, drought-strickened Tanzania as a group of 21 other students and I walked into the Maasai village, or boma.
Almost immediately we witnessed two baby-faced men carrying a goat from their truck. The men had driven more than two hours to find a suitable goat. The boma was honoring us, the "Wazungu" or white people, by slaughtering this goat.
The slaughter and the subsequent meal had a profound effect on me.
As one of the Maasai held the goat on a rope leash, the other grabbed its legs and threw it onto a prepared bed of twigs and leaves. The leash was then detached and the goat's head was jostled in such a way so that it was looking up towards the sky. Its plaintive "baa's" never ceased until they were muffled by the strong, roughened Maasai hand that firmly covered the mouth and nose of the goat. The only sounds from the goat came as its feet struggled to break loose from the grip. Its dark brown eyes darted back and forth in an unruly manner, widening as it looked for an escape. The goat was fighting, trying to kick free, but the young Maasai warriors were skillfully holding the goat down as it began to suffocate.
The eyes eventually softened and closed as the goat started to lose consciousness. Slowly, the legs stopped kicking and the last movement was a twitching that came moments before the goat died.
Nothing was said during the killing, the only discernable sound was the crying of some students.
The skinning and preparation of the goat began and when the Maasai asked for volunteers, I stepped forward. After quick instructions I was cutting, tugging and removing the coarse skin from the warm chest.
Once the task of removing the skin was completed, a vein was cut and fresh blood flowed into a cup. The Maasai passed the cup around to my group so each of us could drink. Many refused but I knew that I would dishonor my hosts and the killing of the goat if I declined their gesture. By the time the small, green, plastic coffee cup reached me, the blood had begun to coagulate. I raised and then held the cup to my lips, but the taste was so intense that within seconds I quickly pulled it away from my mouth. My lips were covered with the warm, fresh blood of the ceremonious kill, the iron taste engulfing my taste buds. I tried swallowing only what I licked from my lips. I felt the blood flowing down my throat as I gagged.
Relieved that I could somehow tolerate the blood, I suddenly saw the Maasai cut the kidney from the goat. I knew it was the highest honor given to anybody; the chance to eat raw goat kidney, but I wasn't sure I could stomach it after barely making it through the blood ritual.
Slowly the young Maasai men made their way around to everyone, confronted with a few "yes's" and many more "no's", and then they came to me. As one of the men thrust his knife and the dangling kidney in my face I felt as though I had no choice. I accepted and he sliced off a piece before moving to the next person. I studied my kidney piece for only a minute when I realized I had the biggest piece. I bit in all at once and threw up a little in my mouth.
As I attempted to swallow the kidney, which curiously had the consistency of thick yet easy to chew pieces of apple in a baked apple pie, the overwhelming iron taste made me gag again. As the only female who accepted the kidney I was encouraged by my non-eating friends who shouted, "Just swallow!" And so I did.
Never before had I felt such an intense sense of accomplishment. For me it was not only a sign of respect for the Maasai, but also a way to thank them for their hospitality. I was there to learn and observe the people and culture of Tanzania, and I was given a firsthand chance to experience it for myself.
I made the most of my opportunity, but there was a part of me that just didn't feel right. I felt guilty. The killing seemed wrong, even inhumane. It was the first time I was seeing what I ate; the exact animal.
I thought of hunting, a popular sport in northern Michigan where I live, yet this was more personal to me. Although I don't hunt, hunting gets right to the point without the animal suffering too much. Hunting is done at a distance -- but I watched this goat die within arm's reach. I saw it being hauled towards its death spot, struggle for life, twitch as it lost consciousness and take its last full breath.
As I replayed the ceremony in my head I knew I should be thankful; I had received the highest honor the Maasai could give. They killed a goat for us, even during their drought, when animals were all the more precious.
I came to realize that what I had witnessed was real. There were no artificial hormones, no torturing of the animal, this was as humane as it got. Unlike hunting, which is often done for sport, this animal was killed for survival. Every single part of this goat was to be used, the precise reason it was suffocated and its throat not slit was to save the blood. Nothing would go to waste.
In my culture uneaten food is easily discarded but here such an act would be considered taboo, disrespectful to the goat and culturally unacceptable.
For dinner that night we ate the chewy and not particularly enjoyable goat, this time cooked over a fire. While we ate, our group leaders discussed the meat market in America and as we compared it to the Maasai food process I began to feel less guilty.
Although I saw an animal die in front of me, I also witnessed how much this animal was valued and used in its death by the Maasai community. By evening's end I had gone from guilt to a sense of liberation. This goat was never abused and it roamed freely without being forced to live in harsh conditions.
We had witnessed its death but in its death came a new beginning, one where its hide would be used for blankets, sinew for jewelry that the Maasai women could sell at the market, bone for building and tools, and hair for fabrics.
I was changed that day and given an opportunity to view many things differently in my life. Africa and the death of that goat taught me the value of an animal that to most of us seems inconsequential but to cultures like the Maasai is a means for survival.
