Jess does da ‘Roon

This morning I was doing a bit of sport and as I “power walked” /really slowly jogged by a little boy, he started running past me. He was wearing beige shorts and a light yellow sweatshirt. He was holding a beautiful yellow flower and spinning it in front of him as he ran through the wind. The colors were so …sweet… in the essence of the word. Like the feel of “buttercup” on your tongue.

I’m trying to start a routine of dancing everyday. I play some random song, from bouncing Indian beats to sensuous R&B, and let loose. Lately I’ve been lamenting not going to occasions where I get to dance more. Then I realized that I didn’t need an occsaion to move my body. I consider it therapy and it makes me feel sexy to just shake and rattle it all out.

Watermelon is in season here and this afternoon was hot and sunny. I bought a big slice and smeared my face with red juices on my veranda, dripping puddles all over.

In response to the back lash from my last post (where I got drunk and tortured a chicken) I think I need to offer… some sort of apology/clarification/refocus. I should have been more blatant about how unfair it was to the chicken, perhaps. I admit to having no experience. I wanted the knife sharp, I tried really. It wasn’t as if I really think I did it wrong. And it didn’t go on eternally. But it wasn’t exactly the most pleasant time for that chicken (it was hell. the chicken was terribly in pain. let me not minimize it).
I also agree that I have no moral high ground to condemn people for eating meat. Fact. I don’t really think anyone does, and I hated it when vegans would scold me for something in the States. So sorry for coming off in that regard. I just feel glad that I was able to know more about what it takes for me to eat meat. (I’m a Women Studies major, I can rip that particular statement apart just as well as anyone else. I know that me being “glad to know” comes at the death of another creature. Nonetheless, I do feel lucky. Many don’t have the experience or think about it twice)
I don’t think the chicken cared that I tried to reassure it and that we offered a prayer. I also don’t really think it excuses the brutality of the death. I was trying to describe more of my coping process there. No the chicken did not offer itself up, we did not have some Native American communion experience of souls meeting or anything magical.
I’m slightly amused at the high number of responses I’ve gotten to this post as opposed to any other post I’ve done. Apparently I was insanely mistaken for thinking I might’ve come across as a bleeding heart when I must’ve looked much more like a drunken chicken sadist. I felt the need to respond to some of the comments mainly because I think people take animal cruelty seriously, which is justified. And I wanted to climb off my high chicken and say that this is just my experience. This is what I did. This is how I experienced it. These are my impressions. You don’t have to agree. I appreciate the criticism.

Disclaimer: the following can be slightly graphic and/or boring if you’ve done many animal killings.

I realize I’ve never watched anything bigger than a spider die.  Even a mouse, I usually look away. But I’m willing to eat anything, in the sense of even animals I have no imagination of what it’s like to witness their death.

With that in mind, Kim and I decided to kill a chicken.  Here there are easy ways to have someone else kill and clean it for you if you’ll pay them less than a dollar.  But I just wanted to know the process, being the suburban little princess I was, I didn’t grow up on a farm killing my food.  I know many Americans have this same experience of disassociating the pink piece of meat kept tightly packed in glistening plastic and squeaky styrofoam from the bloody feather and biology class organs of the real chicken.

We went to the market and went to the chicken section.  Smelly and dim, I stumbled my way down the tight aisle of fowls.  On both sides, white chickens of different sizes were lifted and held to reveal vulnerable flesh – wounded and pecked at.  We chose a fluffy medium size one and put it in a bag to carry home.

For 3 days we kept it, avoiding naming it (Although Kim kept calling it “Sir Chicken” which I discouraged). We made up a story about it having a terrible life and us mercy killing it in order to make us feel better.

On the day of slaughter, Kim and I divided tasks.  We chose to do the deed behind my house next to a small corn farm, where the fewest Cameroonians would happen by to watch.  Emboldened by a bit of alcohol, I stepped forward to kill it.  Since I’m not skilled at whipping the neck to break it, we dug a hole to let the blood flow out of its throat.  I stepped on its feet and wings wearing my flip flops and held its neck back.  The knife wasn’t sharp enough, even though I’d taken it to the shoe repair guy to grind it sharp.  It took awhile.  I held it in my hands for what seemed like too long.  As I floundered with the dying bird, my older neighbor woman sang out, “Let me go softly…” at the perfect moment.  She was watching and I suppose they sing this song at funerals.  I purred, “It’s OK, It’s OK” after the chicken lay motionless on the ground.  Kim and I remembered we wanted to say a little prayer/ceremony.  We thanked the chicken for its life.

We dipped it in boiling water to loosen the feathers and then plucked it.  Not nearly as gruesome as I thought it’d be.  Quickly it went from a slain creature to meat.  Kim, with guidance from another more experienced PCV, cleaned it.  I think biology classes helped make this less shocking.

Then we cut it up into normal-looking pieces and washed it.  It was here that the flesh/guts/blood smell kicked in and my resolve broke down.  I had to go and sit down.

After cooking with veggies in some broth, the meal was amazing.  I didn’t feel the guilt I often feel as a quasi-vegetarian who sometimes eats meat.  I’d known this chicken and gone through its death.

I’d do it again if I had to.  But holding a creature as the life escapes is a powerful experience that gets forgotten in the word “slaughter”.  If I sound like a bleeding heart hippie, maybe it’s not untrue but the first encounter with killing something is rare and a special confrontation with self, morality, and life.  It’s a shame more Americans aren’t responsible for what it takes to satisfy their immense cravings for meat.

I would like to give a short nod to the Bean Natzi of Yaounde. 

Those of you who have been to the Peace Corps transit house in Yaounde understand the magical nature of this surly man.  In the mornings there’s a man who makes puff puff (fried dough) and beans.  But he’s very particular about how you partake of his goods.  Today I went out and he demanded the money before giving my food. Then I wanted 100f (25cents) of beans and 50f of puff puff… an uneven ratio. No go. Then he wanted me to wait for my change, even though he gave the man behind me his change. Sometimes he takes the person behind you if you can’t figure out what you’re doing fast enough.  Or he just barks at you in French. 

I would like to give you the nod, Bean Natzi, because your gruffness is severe and consistent.  And yet your goods stay in high demand.