I have no idea what happens to a person if they eat hoof and mouth tainted beef. Getting enough protein is a challenge I’ve unwittingly undertaken as a resident of the Isle of Seronga, the place I’ve come to love, and love to hate. All I know, is that you can’t bring beef into Seronga, past the three government check point hoof and mouth stations where you and the 50 people you’re inevitably traveling with must stop, get out of the vehicle, walk through and dip all your other shoes in some chemically water that turns your soles of your shoes white, have your bag and all possessions checked, have the tires of the vehicle sprayed with the same chemicals, get back in and be merrily on your way to the next stop.
Eggs are good, if increasingly expensive, chicken is kind of available, if you happen to be at the co-op while the freezers are working, the generator is running, and the guy has recently brought some in. You can sometimes buy fish off the street, although the dried ones are quite sketchy and smelly.
This leaves me with a few choices, one of which has recently come to include buying meat from the local butchery.
I had heard stories about listening for the gunshot that would indicate that an animal had been murdered and I could go and collect my 5 pula worth of the remains. I had seen the outside of the building, which is a sort of a garage looking establishment (similar to the post office) where I would have hesitated to take my car to for repairs at in the states. But this is Botswana, and I am hungry, and tiny bit desperate.
I was in the clinic truck (ambulance) one day when I saw the purplish hunk of meat peeking out of the plastic bag on the floor.
“What is that?” I asked the driver, knowing full well from my restaurant days at good old t-lodge that that was a hunk of fresh beef. “Nama ya kgomo,” he replied. “Do you et it?”
I paused. “Yeah. I think I do.”
So to the butchery we went.
The smell of blood wafted through the air toward the fence surrounding the butchery, and the trail of blood that stained the sand in front of the building was a tell tale sign of what was inside. Being the daughter and sister of some pretty devout hunters, I had seen many carcasses in various states of disassembly, and have even been known to help in my earlier days with the processing. I had been on the hunting expeditions, I had held (although never shot) the riffles, I had helped reload the shells and even carved the meat from bones.
Very prominently in my memory is the yelping and gasping that would occur from my siblings and I on cool fall evenings as the garage door would slowly roll up to reveal a dead deer hanging from the rafters of the garage illuminated by the headlights of the minivan, it’s tongue flopped lifelessly out of its mouth frozen in its last moment. I had seen the pools of blood on the floor, the dead glassy eyes, and mortal bullet hole. I had touched the stiff limbs, peeled the hide from the carcass, and stroked the strange velvety nose that would never take another breath.
As with most things of my former life however, it didn’t quite prepare me for this.
Several rows of what can only appropriately be described as meat hooks (as that’s what they are) line the room, with various quadrants of the animal hanging from them, cut in such a way as to be unidentifiable. There is blood everywhere, and flies, and heat, and smell. I had been what I now understand to be blessed that every animal I had encountered had been pre-gutted, not so in this case, as the innards were everywhere, and they were for sale! Large chunks of fat that you would have been hard pressed to find on the animal’s body as it’s bones protruded out of it’s body while it was alive are everywhere, and they are cheaper than the rest of the meat. The floor may have been concrete at one point, but sand has mixed with blood and formed a strange paste on the ground. The butchery has not been spared in Seronga’s eternal quest for water, and thus has access to none. No sinks, no refrigeration, no sanitation, no problem!
The people from the village ask for various cuts of meat in various amounts of pula, all of which is handled and delivered to them with the same hands. Hunks are cut and hung haphazardly from the hook on the meat scale. Plastic bags to carry your purchase are extra, and many people walk out with a bloody mass dangling from their fingers. I’ve been told the trick is to listen for a gunshot and get their early, for the best pieces of meat, which lucky for me, are different in the eyes of Americans as opposed to Batswana.
It was midafternoon, in the heat of the day when we arrived. I gagged at the smell and winced at the sight ahead of me. I asked for a piece with "less fat" and hoped for the best. I paid the extra 50 theibe for a plastic bag and was on my way. I still haven't had the courage to eat it..... would you? but it's on the docket for tonight's dinner. If you don't hear from me again, you know what happened! ;-)
No comments:
Post a Comment