I glanced out the open window into the street. I noticed a donkey attached to a cart with a big white box parked out front. On the box was the word MEAT in bright red lettering. A man threw open the doors to the box, a storm cloud of flies exploded into the mid-day sunshine. In through the door of the wood and metal sheet "hotel" (aka cafe) came the meat seller. High in one hand he held the pink and white leg of beef or goat. Slung over the other arm he carried "matumbo" (intestines), like loops of carefully measured rope.
I returned to the plate before me, a plastic bowl full of potatoes and chunks of Maasai style goat meat. I steeled myself, lifted a chunk of the boiled flesh and resolved to find the meat, if it took me all day. Around me, the slurping sounds of the other eaters and my hosts, clued me that this was normal fare of the common Maasai man. Bent over their bowls, two hands and their teeth engaged in the challenge, occasionally they turned their heads and spit out offending pieces too hard to swallow. I bent my own head and engaged my mind over my senses.
Oh my, sister. God bless you.
ReplyDeleteNicely put. A challenge I remember all too well ...all too often :)
ReplyDeleteReminds me of Guatemala and the dreaded stew of wiskeel (I never did see that in print; no idea how to spell it) squash and mystery meat, heavily seasoned with cilantro. I learned to love rice and black beans, but it was a long time before I could smell cilantro without wanting to gag. Good thing the God of all strength is with you ...!
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