One of the first things you learn when traveling abroad is to eat whatever is given to you. It’s amazing how people’s culture, sense of self and identity, is wrapped up in the food they offer as hospitality. But who am I to talk? I’d be horrified if someone wouldn’t eat what I’d cooked especially for them.
We had been in the village since the prior evening and spent the day with the gorgeous people. They had let us know that goat would be the meal of the day, and one of our group accepted the honor of slaughtering one of them… Anson was elated at the idea. I hid till it was all over. Sensing that these wussy Americans were squeamish about the dead goat, the women of Songa taunted us with the severed goat head as they cooked, giggling as our faces turned unknown shades of green.
As dinner time loomed near, the twenty Americans were served first as an honor. A plate of traditional Malawian nsima and goat meat… with completely identifiable parts. Looking at my plate, there was quite clearly a hoof at the end of one small shin. We huddled in the small cement room that had been our quarters the night before, fleeing the heat and the watching eyes of the entire village. Perhaps here there would be some discreet way to dispose of the offending pieces?
As we laughed and attempted to eat what we could, Kim suddenly pointed to her plate. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”
We looked. And there it was – a goat penis.
I believe a dog ate that.