So this weekend was a whirlwind of new experiences, most of which I think I handled like a champ. (With one exception, that I'll get into in a minute.)
When we had gone to Mame's house (the Grandmother with no nose), Mamy Samb(the girl who is my age) had asked if I would be coming back Saturday for her sister (?)'s 15th birthday party. I said of course I would, but it would depend on my family, etc, and what our plans were. I remembered that Yaay had said something about going to a neighboring village to talk about renewable resources, something something, but it turned out later that she was “too tired” and cancelled it. Imagining birthday cakes and candles, only in a cement, dingy Fatick house, I was excited. I thought the only major difference would be “Happy Birthday” sung in Wolof.
The next day I woke up at 10:00am, just because I heard kids screaming while they played, outside my window in the courtyard. I got up and walked out the door, to find cold fonde (porridge with lait caille) on the table...which had been waiting for me since 7:00am. After being teased by everyone in the house for “sleeping late” (on a Saturday...), I realized that the weekends are no exception to 5:00am prayer and breakfast by 7:00. No more partying until 5:00 in the morning and waking up at 11:30 like in Dakar...different family, different rules. Oh well.
I wrote in my blog, had lunch, then ataaya, and then I decided to go to the internet cafe. I posted some pictures and my blog, talked to Beka, and then met Modou (yes, I now know the 14 year old's name!...short for Mamadou)...and we walked together to Mame's house for the party. Hang on – the kids name's are:
Assan (the oldest – 18)
Modou (14)
Roqueille (I think that's how you spell it...at least the French way, 12)
Pende (girl “penday” 9)
Seydou (boy...the cousin who's parents lives in another town...he prefers to live with his cousins, since he's an only child...6)
Ngone (3)

Hadith (20 something?? the maid)

Ok so anyway, we started walking just as the sun was setting. After greeting everyone in the house, including Abdoullaye's youngest brother who is my age who is always in bed because he burned his legs in an accident. (His leg up to his knee is pinkish red..I can't figure out if that's how black skin looks when its badly burned, or if it's some sort of medicine he has to put on it). After looking at photos of him and his wife (who are my age) at their wedding....99% of which was his wife, all done up like a mannequin/prostitute with more makeup than I've ever seen in my life, fake-looking and white with drawn on purple eyebrows...I realized that the 2 year old son that they have was probably born before or shortly after the wedding – and probably had a lot to do with the wedding itself. People were holding the baby in the photo album not long after the wedding had taken place. Interesting.
We went out the back door to see a tent had been set up in the sand in between the houses, with a gigantic mat underneath. There were about 40 people sitting inside and standing around...this number greatly increased as the night went on. I sat in a chair that had been brought for me, even though I preferred to stand. Abdoullaye's other brother – older? - was sitting next to me dressed in full Senegalese Muslim gett-up, a sleek white boubou, a man's scarf, a Muslim head-cap, and fondling his chatelet (Muslim rosaries). He was very excited to talk to me and once he realized that I'm American, he started speaking broken English. I was really surprised and have no idea where he would have learned English, especially at his age...mid 40's. I know there are English classes in Fatick, but I'm not sure what would have provoked him to take them...except maybe his own personal interest. I like him a lot, although I forgot his name. He introduced himself as Gillay (I think), and was very nice, joking with me and making sure I was comfortable.
My family showed up after a while in style, the only people who drove up in a car. I'm starting to think the Sow's have some sort of elevated status in Fatick, but I'm not sure. They informed me that “il faut manger un peu”, meaning we would go home to have dinner and then return. I would learn later that unlike in the States, even if you miss a meal by more than 4 or 5 hours and it's fast approaching the next meal anyway, they still prefer to eat the meal....even if you're having “lunch” at 5:30 at night. So we all piled into the car and drove home. We ate ciep bu jen, I changed clothes (although I wish I would have had the sense to wear my Senegalese clothing again), and returned to the party.
By this time the tent was packed...girls sitting crammed together on one side, boys on the other, drummers in the back, and the marabou at the other end overseeing everything. I found Abdoullaye's brother again, who motioned for me to sit by him outside the tent...but just then, Mamy Samb came over and excitedly pulled me down the center isle, toward the Marabou. “Il faut saluer le marabou d'abord,” she said, and I had a fleeting thought that I was about to see the Marabou about converting to Islam...but of course this wasn't the case, although someone teased me later about it (it actually didn't occur to me that she was kidding at first). I took off my sandals first, and placed them on the sand, and followed Mamy Samb.
I was handed a white scarf to cover my hair, of course, and knelt down in front of the Marabou, who was a man in his late 30's, very tall, in a dark maroon choup boubou. He made me put my hands out in front of me, and repeat after him some pretty complicated phrases in Arabic. I had no idea what I was reciting, and the thought came again that I could be saying anything...”Allah is great, yes I want to be a Mauride Muslim like everyone here...Cheikh Amadou Bamba is the good path...” But I'm 99% sure I was simply reciting a blessing, as one would do at a church. When he was finished blessing me, I had to touch me hands to my forehead and then my heart.
After this, I stood up, towering over everyone who was seated before me on my right and left. I had a feeling – and I was right – that they wouldn't allow me to just discretely sit back down...I was now a spectacle, everyone had been watching me with the marabou. “Danse!! Feccal!” Mamy Samb said, smiling, breathless. So I did. The drums raced through me, and I started to move...everyone laughed and clapped, I knew I looked ridiculous. So I decided to turn up the ridiculousness by doing a horrible version of mbalax...I bent over slightly at the waist, put my arms out and moved them in time to the beat, while bouncing my bent knees in and out rhythmically. As soon as I did this, the crowd went wild...screaming and stomping their feet. Laughing as if to say, “Yea, I know that was silly...I'm a toubab, and I'm here for your enjoyment,” I followed Mamy Samb down the isle toward the girl's side, where we were crammed in among everyone else on the mat.
Then the party started...the marabou, along with some other people such as Abdoullaye's older brother, spoke in rapid Wolof about the faith, Islam, Cheikh Amadou Bamba, etc. etc...I didn't understand a word of it. Then the drums began again, and everyone took turns stepping out into the center isle and dancing for everyone...as I expected, as is customary in Senegal. I knew I would have to dance again. So I pulled Roqueille out into the middle with me, and her, Mamy Samb and I danced together for everyone. Abdoullaye's brother and Yaay caught my eye and gave me a thumb's up sign, and I laughed. I knew I wasn't that good, but it didn't seem to bother me...no one expected very much, and there were some other girls that danced that weren't that good either. Some of the men, however, were amazing...they jumped around and thrashed their body, all of it, around in time to the music in such a way that looked like they were doing some kind of sporting event...it was pretty impressive. I have it on video.
After a few hours, Nescafe was passed around in colorful plastic cups, which was welcomed...except that I was really hot from dancing, and hot coffee wasn't really what I would have preferred. It tasted like drinking syrup, since there was so much sugar inside...I suppose that's normal, everything must taste like ataaya. It was good.
At about 10:30, I started getting tired...I'm now used to going to bed early and getting up early. Everyone else was too, apparently, because Yaay came and motioned for all of us to get up and leave. We piled into the car and drove off home. There hadn't been any birthday cake, nor had the birthday girl really been celebrated, except for her dance sessions...but it was still something I'll never forget.


The next morning I woke up at 6:15 and was ready by quarter to 7:00 to go to the market...which was the time that Yaay had told me to be ready the night before. She had said, very sternly, that we were going to “quitter la maison” (leave the house) BEFORE 7:00. However, when I opened the door to my bedroom, which looks out into the foyer/dining room/living room area in the front of the house, I didn't see anyone. It was dead quiet and still sort of dark.
I looked outside, and still didn't see anyone. Maybe I had missed her? But the car was still parked in the courtyard, so I was really confused. Finally, at 7:01, I went into the second living room that we never use, and knocked on her bedroom door. Her door opened, and there was Yaay, all dressed and ready to go. She asked me if Abdoullaye was back from praying yet, and I said I hadn't seen him. Apparently he was coming too. The kids then woke up one by one, and went out to the hole to use the bathroom. Breakfast was served at 7:20, and we were still sitting around at 7:45. Ngone was sicker than usual, and was whining and whimpering on Yaay's lap. Then Abdoullaye came home and poured himself some local tea. I had some too, and he teased me about not using the entire powdered milk packet...which is a TON in it. It was the same powdered milk packets that I had bought and used at WARC, and none of us had ever used an entire packet at once. I was used to using just a spoonful. He used an entire packet, until his enormous cup of tea looked nearly white. I tried dumping the entire thing into my cup, which made the tea taste a lot different...less of a bite, and more smooth. I think I'll drink it the right way from now on.
The chauffer, Modou, then woke up, sleepy eyed and groggy ... apparently he had spent the night in order to be up at the right time to drive us. Yes, they have their own private sept-place and driver. We piled in the car together eventually, after 8:00, and left. The road was bumpy and full of potholes, and after about 45 minutes, we entered Kaolac. It looked like a slightly bigger version of Fatick, white cement stores and buildings everywhere, sandy roads, people milling about everywhere, goats, donkeys, etc. We stopped off at a house, and a woman in a bright pink, peach, flowery boubou (looked like a moo moo) got into the car. I knew immediately that it was Yaay's sister...same voice, same face, same gestures, only a slightly different nose...and her sister was a much larger woman. They got pretty enthusiastic in the car with each other, and the men in front were silent as a result. No one could get a word in edgewise...at one point as I was dozing off, Maga (?) let out a deafening, screeching laugh like a train squealing to a halt...and I was torn from my sleep.
We continued on through the dry landscape toward the center of Senegal, close to Mali. The sun became blisteringly hot. Then suddenly we were there, we saw large white buses which had come from Dakar, Pikine, etc, to transport people to the market. Apparently this was a huge deal. We descended from the car to see plenty of tents, people, animals being bought and sold and dragged around by ropes, fruits, vegetables, cooking wares, shoes, clothes, and restaurants...meaning some women cooking, with a few benches under a tent. I followed Yaay and her sister through the maze of tents, while Abdoullaye apparently preferred to go his own separate way. Modou stayed by the car. I felt bad for him later...buying some arachides (peanuts), mille (millet) and corn would take much longer than I would have ever anticipated.
As we walked through the 'isles', people passing by were worse, in regard to looking at me, than I have ever experienced. I assume white people in this market is a rare thing...I even got the impression it has never happened, but instinct tells me it must have. Young boys who were driving donkey carts turned all the way around to look at me, men shouted at me, people followed me, women carrying vegetables or peanuts or baggies of bissap juice came up to me and asked my name in Wolof – and when I actually answered them, screamed with delight and slapped me high five. Eventually Yaay or her sister had to tell them to leave us alone.
After searching for at least half an hour with everyone who was selling peanuts, Yaay began to complain that the price was too high. Apparently since it's almost Easter and close to l'hivernage, or the rainy season, all the last of the stock/harvest becomes ridiculously expensive. She was looking for 20 kilos of arachides, for 450 CFA a kilo. They were asking for 600-800 CFA.
As we were walking around, I saw a meat stand...a table where men were hacking fresh meat with machetes, and pieces of animal was dangling from the bar above. Two small goats, under a year old, a brownish and white one and a gray and white one, stood silently, tied together at their ankles, accepting their fate. Horrified, I asked Yaay if they were “les prochains d'etre tues??” (the next to be killed). She nonchalantly replied that they were. About an hour later we passed by the same meat stand, to see their skinned and roasted heads on the table, eyeballs bluish and staring, mouths open. They had been gutted and their meat was now hanging above them. My stomach turned and I had to look away.
Finally we found a stand off to the side, with a blanket laid out on the ground. Piles of corn, millet, and peanuts were on top. Yaay and her sister plunged their hand into the peanuts and turned over handfuls with their fingers, checking the quality. They decided the quality was good, and after haggling for a while, got the price they wanted for them. But it wasn't that simple.
I knew we'd be there a while when they all motioned for me to sit down. I sat down on the concrete step in the shade, while I watched Yaay and her sister haggle and discuss in rapid Wolof with the man there. I must admit...most people at the market, especially those selling agricultural products, were women, and I was surprised to see a man.
To be honest, however, for the 45 minutes we were sitting there behind his tarp on the cement step, I sort of blanked out...two months ago I would have been jittery and restless and seriously annoyed...but I guess I developed an extremely high tolerance and patience now. I have no idea what was taking so long...I suppose they were still contemplating if they wanted to give them the price. But my sitting there was an open opportunity for everyone passing by to come over and talk to me. This is fine, but tiring after a while. It always goes the same way, simple salutations, which delights everyone when I get it right. Then they move on to something really complicated, which I don't get, but they persist...just because I know how to say “I'm American, My name is Danielle, I don't want to buy anything,” doesn't mean I am fluent in Wolof. They don't seem to understand this...so it turns into a lot of laughing, smiling and “degguma”.
Finally the guy began to fill our sacs with peanuts...and I was made to count the cupfuls up till 50. Then we started to walk away, putting the bags on a donkey cart to bring to the car. Before that, I asked where I could buy some bissap or buiy...the sun was hot and I hadn't drank anything all day. Yaay's sister ended up buying me a plastic bottle of bissap from a girl, who was about 10 years old, who was selling them out of a small cooler for 50 CFA. I chugged it, and then after the three of us were finished, we returned the bottles to the girl. Everything gets recycled here, as far as bottles and glasses. Whenever we buy Coca Cola, which usually comes in a glass bottle, we have to pay a deposit and we get that money back if we return the bottle the next day or right after, which ever comes first.
We went back to the car, where we sat under a tree with some other people who were sitting as well. I assumed they were waiting for other people to come fill up the white buses back to other regions of Senegal, before they could leave. Most public transportation is like that here. After about 20 minutes of writing in her notebook, Yaay suddenly stood up, distressed, and demanded that we return to the peanut guy. She told me, after speaking in rapid Wolof to her sister, that she had accidentally paid double what she was supposed to. I followed her back into the market, cringing, knowing this was going to be an awkward – and probably prolonged – process to get her money back.
We weaved back through all the stands, back toward the man who sold the peanuts. We all were invited to sit back down on the cement step. For the next half an hour, Yaay discussed, and sometimes yelled, with the peanut guy. I heard “jafe jafe” and “ligeey” (problems/difficulties...work). I assumed the guy was trying to tell Yaay that work was hard for him, and basically trying to convince Yaay to just leave the extra money with him. She wouldn't hear of it, but she began by sympathizing with him, agreeing with him, “Degg la, Degg la, Degg la, Degg la” (It's true, It's true, etc, etc). The peanut man suddenly stood up and turned to me, crying out in French, “Si tu veux acheter un ane, tu ne peux pas vendre un ane!” (If you want to buy a donkey, you can't sell a donkey!) I assumed this meant, “You can't buy what you don't have/can't sell”...meaning he didn't want to sell the peanuts for less than he paid for them, he was saying he had to make a profit. It was a rhetorical question, to bring me into the conversation to gain external sympathy...But then Yaay pleaded her own case, telling him what the peanuts were for – I heard her explain in Wolof about Case Foyer and the women's group, the mutuelle, and how these peanuts were going to help women in micro credit projects. Eventually this softened him up, and we left. She explained to me that he successfully “reimbursed her”.
On the way back, we went into a small tent and sat down around a table. It was obviously a restaurant, and I got excited that we were going to eat. But a woman came in and after chatting with us, she cleaned up the table and no food came. I realized after a few minutes that we were there to buy 'l'huile d'arachide', peanut oil. It's supposedly really expensive, especially this stuff, which is made with the traditional method. She filled up two and a half 10-litre plastic jugs with an empty wine bottle, transferring the oil from a huge bucket to the jugs, which we carried back to the car. On the way, we haggled for another 15 minutes with a man for tomatoes.
When we returned, Modou helped us transfer the sacs off the cart and onto the ground next to the car. Since Abdoullaye wasn't back yet from whatever he was doing, we sat under the tree again with the other people. They asked Yaay questions about me, asking who I was, and unfortunately Yaay told them “Degg na Wolof” and I laughed and said “Tuuti rekk,” (“She understands Wolof,” “Only a little”). The man next to me took one of the plentiful colored plastic teapots and washed his feet and face, spitting out the water from his mouth through his teeth.
For the next hour and a half we sat under the tree, time creeping by, waiting for Abdoullaye. Yaay called him several times, and said he was just taking his time. She tried to tell him to wait for another week, because the prices were too high, but he wouldn't listen.
Finally, Abdoullaye approached in his black nylon track suit...a sight to see among all the traditional clothing. I asked him if he was hot, “Danga tang?” and obviously he was, he was wiping the sweat from his face, and said, “Yes, but I wear this to prevent the dust from getting on my skin.” He then wiped his finger on my arm, for I was wearing a tank top, to demonstrate his point; a ton of red dust came off on his finger.
Right behind Abdoullaye, Modou was dragging a large white ram. He had horns but they weren't so long. My heart skipped a beat as I watched this, for the last hour I had been listening to another young ram crying in distress who was tied to a car nearby, with less than a foot leeway. Now we would have one of our own to bring home. They tied the ram to the wheel of our car, where it was obviously upset. It cried in low grunts, lowering its neck to the ground whenever Modou jumped over it on top of the car to put the sacs of peanuts on top. It jumped from side to side, calling to the other sheep nearby. This launched a whole conversation with Yaay, her sister, a nearby woman and man for whom Yaay translated into Wolof, about Americans' problem with all things unpleasant – especially where our meat comes from. Eventually I also had to explain to Abdoullaye, who did not understand how someone who eats meat can't handle the animal where the meat comes from, getting killed. He said that he doesn't eat meat that he doesn't know where it came from, “It's cheaper to buy the animal itself. You get more meat for your money, and you know where the meat comes from...in the djibiteries, sometimes the meat comes from an animal who has been sick or hit by a car. This way I know this ram is healthy, and I know the meat will be good.” Although I was a bit confused, because Yaay had told me that the government has regulations and standards for food, as well as meat. How can the djibiteries sell bad meat like that, like from sick animals, if there are regulations? Maybe it's not as effective as the FDA in the States. I guess Abdoullaye has a point in this case; killing this ram was the safest way to eat meat.
I was trying to explain that in America, since we have so many regulations about meat being clean and sterilized – and also since meat has become industrialized, a businesses in every efficient, regulated sense – it is no longer permitted to buy an animal, bring it home, and slaughter it for your family. It may have been allowed in the past, when the majority of Americans were farmers...and this may still happen on farms where people have livestock. But if I, in the Chicago suburbs, were to bring home a sheep and slice its throat in our backyard...I'm pretty sure the neighbors would think I had lost my mind, and would most likely call the police.
I tried to describe “petting zoos,” where because Americans are so detached from the reality of what livestock is used for...the missing link from a cow to a hamburger doesn't exist...they pay to go into a park. This is a nostalgic mock representation of a farm, where the animals live there permanently and are never slaughtered for meat. It is a place where Americans can pretend they are connected to a more hands-on reality, pretend to understand that the hot dog they just had at the food court, comes from this pig they see before them in its pen. The truth of the matter is, however, that we understand nothing. The vast majority of Americans cannot conceptualize this fact; pigs and cows and sheep are cute animals that live on farms, and you can go see them for a small entrance fee. It is a very sterile, friendly, sugar-coated reality...and not at all the truth.
The unpleasant truth is that murder is the missing link. It is bloody and unpleasant, one that Americans have forgotten in our fake, created haven of plastic and sprinklers and supermarkets. When they asked me how we know what we're eating, I said, “Each packet of meat that we buy at the supermarket has a ticket/sticker on it, that says “Beef” “Chicken” “Pork.” This is as close as we come to what actually happened in a factory somewhere across the country, to an animal who has most of the time spent its life in a factory...or sold from a farm where the average consumer has never seen.
I asked if children cry here the first time they see an animal getting slaughtered, and they said sometimes. But most of the time they are so young the first time, they just take it in without judging it. It is a fact of life for children here. I asked if they keep children from seeing an animal getting killed at any point, as in, “You can see it for the first time when you're old enough to handle it,” but they said no. “As soon as they're born,” was the way they put it. They are told that God put animals on this earth for human consumption, so it's perfectly allowed. This explanation is somehow sufficient for children to understand. Roqueille and Pende told me that the pretty large hole in the front courtyard that I preferred not to think about, was indeed, filled with blood whenever they slaughter a goat/sheep. “There's a lot of blood during Tabaski,” they explained, which is a Muslim holiday which requires everyone to kill a goat.
I asked Abdoullaye and Yaay if they ever feel sorry for the animal. They shrugged, and tried to tell me that sheep and goats don't feel it when they're killed. I stared at them incredulously and said, “QUOI?? Bien sur ils le sentent!” (What? Of course they feel it). They shook their heads at me, and said that God wills it, so the animals like being slaughtered (Abdoullaye said this). It was the answer I was expecting, so I asked why the animals cry and act like they're distressed if they aren't really. Abdoullaye said that me thinking the animals are distressed and scared, is simply my human projection...that I really have no way of reading their emotions, and I don't know for sure. It's just what I think, because it's me that feels bad for them. I thought this was ridiculous; to me, it was more than obvious that the poor ram who was still pawing and prancing nervously in between grunts, suspected that something was about to happen to it.
I tried to explain that my parents are veterinarians, and so for my entire life, I've been taught to be nice to animals; to respect them, to be gentle when I touch them, to sympathize with them, to care for them, to keep them clean and satisfied...and that I've helped my parents care for sick animals. To prevent them from dying...and this has been my only experience with them. Animals as pets. Animals that live with people, animals that sleep with me on my bed, animals that come to me when I'm sad, animals that like to be touched and played with, animals that seem to have a soul, that seem to speak through their eyes. Animals that have seemed to be my friend....was it really just an illusion, a human projection? Was it really just because it was me that gave them food?
Is the right way to treat animals as what they are...potential sources of food? This ram wasn't an animal that was frightened and had thoughts, on some level...or even if this were the case, I shouldn't think about this fact or care about it. It was worth the amount we paid for it, and the amount of meat it would soon give. And if they aren't the same as domestic animals, what makes them different? What makes one worth our attention and respect, and the other worth the nutritional value it provides? In some places, including Africa, even cats are potential sources of food...as well as mangy strays, or pets.
I was mad at myself on some level...why was this such an easy concept for the people around me? Everyone laughed at my discomfort, which I laughed on the outside about as well. “Vous avez pitiee d'eux?” (Do you pity them?) They thought it was cute, like I was a child. “Why don't you go buy those goats?” They suggested when I asked about the young goats who were getting ready to be slaughtered. “Take the ram,” Yaay told me, laughing. “What would I do with a sheep?” I responded. “I'd soon have a farm, if I took every animal I felt sorry for.” Everyone thought this was funny.
“It's not normal, I admit it,” I said, angry with myself on the inside. “I'm an adult, I should be able to understand and accept reality...especially if I eat meat. My society is not normal. Reality is hidden, not spoken about, if it's unpleasant (this is true as well for issues of race, sexuality and obesity).” It shouldn't be this way...the way it is in Senegal, is normal.
Animals have lives...they are not kept in pens, they are not kept in factories. They roam free all the time, and are not even kept in a pen at night. They hang out together, mate with each other freely, care for their own babies who play like baby animals should, develop relationships with each other...behave as animals should. Their lives are not regulated like it is in the states...where it gets to an unnatural point. And when they're lives are finished, when they're old and can no longer mate/be productive...they're killed. It's truly a symbiotic relationship between humans and animals...we feed you and let you live normally, and then you feed us.
So why was I still having issues with this? Abdoullaye and Modou surrounded the ram, grabbed it and flipped it on its back in an instant. It struggled, and then gave up, laying its head on the ground. They tied its four legs together roughly so it couldn't move, and then hoisted it into the car, where it prompty pooped everywhere in the trunk. I came over and demanded they not let it sit in its own crap, to which they responded by chuckling, and then cleaning it up. I also said, “Il ne faut pas le faire mal....encore,” (Don't hurt it...yet), referring to the fact that its back end would probably be smacked by the trunk door when they closed it. They moved it in farther, and I made sure it was comfortable. Everyone thought this was really amusing, and I half exaggerated it to entertain them. But a part of me wondered if I should even be doing this, if I even should get this close, if I should pet it...it would make it that much harder in a few hours.
When they car started up and pulled away, the ram cried in the back seat for the next 20 minutes. Then when I looked back again, it had laid its head down on a bag of rice and dozed off. It slept until we got home. Then they roughly took it out, untied it's feet, and allowed Seydou and Ngone (who were really excited by the idea of having it for dinner), to drag it by its horn and its rope around the back of the house. I watched the ram waddle away stiffly, for it had been sitting in the same position for 2 hours straight. Ngone laughed and hit the ram with a stick she had found, to which I prompty got angry and took the stick away, “Deedeet,” I said. Roqueille couldn't understand what I was mad, and thought it was funny considering they were going to kill it anyway. “C'est ses derniers heures sur la Terre,” I said. (It's his last hours on this earth.) She laughed, and then told Ngone to stop hurting it.
When we went inside, I suddenly found that I had a terrible headache and felt sick. I laid down in my bed after having a late lunch (5:30) since we had been out all day, and didn't wake up again until the next morning. I woke up once at 9:00 to eat dinner...couscous, sauce, and a huge hunk of the ram. I had missed him getting slaughtered, although in my dreams I had heard some sort of screaming that sounded like a hawk getting attacked. Maybe it was the sound a sheep makes when it's throat is being slit. Who knows. I'm glad I missed it...although Abdoullaye told me that Laura – the last exchange student who had been here – asked if she could take pictures, and ended up filming the entire slaughter on her camera. I said that she must have had balls, basically, and that they shouldn't expect that from me. Sorry...I have a heart. As interesting as the process might be, I know what happens. I don't have to see it. If I saw it, I'd probably be a mess anyway, crying and blubbering...I might even vomit. I almost do so just thinking about it. So for those of you who are expecting some footage of the ram with its throat slit, kicking in protest, you will all be sadly disappointed.
But my God did it taste good. And hence my dilemma. Sigh.