Animals Are Passing From Our Lives

So my three week trip to the northern edge of Namibia came to an end on Saturday, after I had collected 26 interviews, several omapokolo, and perhaps 100 photographs. The north surprised me in a number of ways, but I was most struck by the great tall Makalani palm trees that grew everywhere near eeshana filled with water from the seasonal flooding earlier in the year. Now Namibia has passed into its winter, and though temperatures here in Windhoek dip down near freezing overnight, in the north the air remains pleasantly mild and dry. The endless flat landscape also presents a contrast to hilly Windhoek, but the comparative surplus of people in the north, crowded as it is with countless villages that spill off the main highways along sandy roads, makes the “rural” north feel surprisingly more congested than Namibia’s only urban center.

But enough with my faux-imperial word paintings. What I really want to write is that, on my second Sunday staying at the Mahapu homestead in Omusheshe, I slaughtered a goat. I didn’t have to do it; but the opportunity was offered to me and I could not say no. I had never killed a mammal before, and of course until last year I had lived as a strict vegetarian for some five years. But the midday saw me with knife in hand, waiting for my opportunity. The goat (pictured above) was tied to a tree. He seemed to understand that he was soon going to die, and he was very afraid, baying loudly for help. For some reason I had the thought that I should comfort him. I walked over and stroked the fur on the top of his head and neck, and told him that I was sorry for what was about to happen to him. But the truth was I did not know what was about to happen to him.

Three boys staying at the homestead came and untied him from the tree. He was dragged over to the center of a small courtyard and forced to lie down on his side. Then someone explained what was going to happen: because the goat was an uncastrated male, they would have to cut off his penis and testicles before he died. The reason for this, I was told, was that otherwise he would start pissing all over the place when the knife went through his neck. The logic of this order still does not entirely make sense to me, but the boys seemed sure of the need to do it in this way. I was told not to start cutting his throat until his genitals had been removed.

So it turns out that goats don’t like to have their balls cut off. As soon as the knife starts removing the penis they scream quite loudly. It took the boys 30 seconds to remove the genitals entirely, and then I was told to begin killing him. I repeated to him (but really to myself) the words that I had heard my friend Rachel say before we killed two chickens earlier in the year: “I am sorry my friend but you are not mine.” Then I started cutting.

I would have thought that one could kill a goat very quickly by slicing his throat open, but the truth of the matter is that it takes a long time, no matter how deeply you cut. I would guess I was cutting for at least one minute, maybe two, before my knife could go no further. And still, STILL, the goat could be heard trying to get air into his lungs which were quickly filling with blood. I distinctly remember looking at his eyes while this was happening. He looked quite dead but the breathing sounds continued for a good 30 seconds more before they finally lessened and then stopped altogether. Once he had stopped breathing, one of the boys, who was holding my camera, asked me to smile next to the goat’s dead body. I refused, saying, “No, this is serious. This is not a joke.” My hands, arms, and part of my face were covered with the blood that had spurted out as I had cut through his neck.

Then we started taking the goat apart piece by piece. In villages such as Omusheshe, every part of a slaughtered goat is used: the brain, stomach, intestines, heart, kidneys, liver and more are all eaten. The skin is used to make blankets, mats, rugs, or wall coverings. The testicles are used to make the handle for a tool. Nothing is wasted. We took about 20 minutes to skin the goat, hack off his limbs, saw off his head entirely, and empty out his bowels. Finally, when we were nearly finished, and the goat was laying in bloody pieces in front of us, I joked, “Maybe we should take him to the vet to see if they can save his life.” The boys laughed, though one of the youngest then said, very seriously, “I think he is now in heaven.”

I moved away from the carcas. As I stepped back, I accidentally landed on the paw of a dog who had been watching us. He squealed in pain. I apologized profusely to him.