Ivory Coast: An Alligator’s Tale (cont.)

A bed of grass was the only thing under the carcass, and pools of blood mixed with dirt
formed in every direction. Large tools such as machetes, knives, and sharp hammers were used to break bones, tear ligaments, and carve meat. Buckets of water stood nearby for them to occasionally rinse their hands off or to haphazardly wash a body part.

When the stomach was removed and emptied, a large pile of chewed grass was replanted in a heap; the stomach was turned inside out, and, using his bare hands, the elder man picked off the remaining blades of green. I cringed, but held my own, as this made for a great photo op.

"You going to eat that?" I asked him, pointing to the stomach lining that was now lying in a large metal bowl.

"Uh huh," they replied, grinning and knowing that they were disgusting "la blanche".

"Do you want?"

"Oh no, that’s okay, I’m fine really."

A few more minutes passed and the carcass lost any semblance of a cohesive shape, becoming small piles of parts. I decided that after I witnessed stomach being cleaned, I would retreat home to glorious canned goods and dried soup mixes, bottles of clean water and the occasional fresh fruit.

I often struggle with the idea that I’m doing something wrong by not partaking in everything the villagers do. They wash their clothes in stagnant pools of mosquito-infested and polluted water. They walk around barefoot in the jungle. They eat
less-than-sanitary meat that is often covered in swarms of flies. Am I being finicky or sensible? Are the ideals of cultural integration and personal health and safety contradictory or complimentary? Where do you draw the line without offending?

My neighbor, Brahima, who comes around most nights, is always a wealth of information; and he’s easy to talk to as he speaks French well. During the day, I keep a
small notebook close by to jot down questions or notes to ask him when he visits.

Tonight, it was the alligator.

"So, there are many alligators here?"

"Oh sure, I find them on my land, down by the river. Why?"

"I saw a man carrying one today."

"The alligators bury themselves in holes in the ground. When men go into the bush, they find their holes and cover them with grass and dirt to trap the alligator. By the next day, the alligator is dead and they bring them home," he paused. "Except the big ones. You need a gun for them. The meat is good! It’s like fish. I like to smoke mine over a fire pit all day. You want?"

"Sure, why not. You can catch them easily?"

"I’ve hired a young guy to help me in the fields, I’ll send him to catch one.” He continued, “When you cut one open, though, you must be very careful because the pancreatic fluids are lethal. It’s pure poison. Usually, the family elder cuts the pancreas out and throws it far away in the bush so no one can get near it. And when you cut open the intestines, you’ll find gravel inside. A piece for each year, so ten pieces means the alligator is ten years old."

"Gravel, Like a rock?"

He sends the "petit" to go find a piece of gravel to support his case. Sure enough, the child produces a sharp-edged piece of gravel the size of a large cherry tomato.

"They eat these?"

"I guess! I don’t know, that’s just what I heard."

In a country where half the stories you hear are myths and legends, it’s hard to decipher what is real and what is not. Passed down from generation to generation, these myths are often tangents of tales of sorcery and shamanism. Here, animals can take on hierarchical
positions in the society, and villagers wear bracelets containing traditional medicines and herbs to cure disease. It’s no surprise that the number of pieces of gravel you find in the intestines of an alligator would indicate the number of years it has lived. It would be more shocking to hear a more logical explanation.

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