Puerto Escondido, Mexico: Surfing From The Heart (cont.)

The afternoon spent with the Maasai is equally, if not more, memorable.  We enter camp after the initial game drive around noon; and seated in two rows of folding chairs under a sparse tree canopy, we pass around digital cameras that, not coincidentally, contain nearly identical pictures.  Nonetheless, these pictures keep us preoccupied until a rhythmic chanting, interspersed with various whoops and growls, draws near, and we look to see some 20 Maasai warriors in full dress kicking up a cloud of dust as they hop and shuffle along the path to the campground.  With rapt attention we watch this conga line of warriors snake its way toward us until coming to a brief stop in front of us in a loose circular formation.  The circle begins squeezing tighter as they continue hopping and chanting, looking much like a professional basketball team during pre-game introductions.  The circle unlocks, spreading into a half-circle, and as they face us, each warrior takes a turn stepping forward and executing a series of jumps with the knees pumping up towards the chest—the higher the jump, the louder the cries from the other warriors.  Then each of us is invited to test our vertical leap for the crowd. Not surprisingly, we are woefully bad in comparison. 

Afterward, we thank them profusely for sharing their dance, using exaggerated hand gestures and beaming smiles.  Simon, the head warrior, remains with a couple of warriors to hang out and answer questions, while the others recede back down the road toward their village.  For an hour or so we discuss a broad swath of topics ranging from the general: family life, religion, and education to the more nuanced: male and female circumcision, the pros and cons of tourism, and sexual practices.  As the questions are coming to an end, I inquire about the two goats obliviously chomping on grass, standing near us, tethered to a tree trunk. 

“The goats?  The goats are dinner,” states Simon matter-of-factly.

I am a meat eater, and I have eaten goat meat before.  That said, I have never watched the same goat that I am about to eat be killed and cooked in front of my eyes.  For that matter, outside of fish and the odd lobster, I have never seen any animal killed and prepared prior to my consumption of it.  So when the Maasai un-tether the goats, lead them over to the side of the shelter, and begin a sacrificial prayer, I watch with equal parts horror and intrigue.  The prayer finished, each goat is forced on its’ side; and as one warrior cuts off the air supply with a sturdy forearm to the neck, another secures its’ bucking haunches as it futilely attempts to escape. 

Half of our group crowds around to watch; others turn away to distance themselves from the slaughtering.  I have turned my back, needing a moment’s peace to make sense of my uneasiness.  I decide that if I eat meat on a consistent basis, then it is hypocritical of me to have moral objections stemming from my proximity to the slaughter.  I further sell myself on the point by internalizing that the Maasai, a goat-herding people, do not often eat meat, and we should feel honored by their gesture of friendship and cross-cultural shared experience.  It is still not easy to watch.

I turn around to see a Rambo-esque knife flourishing in the hand of a kneeling warrior. The warrior makes about a six-inch incision in the dead goat’s neck, and follows with another incision perpendicular to the first to open up the wound.  A second warrior takes the goat by its back legs and lifts it off the ground to pool the blood in the neck area.  My mouth already fully agape, I can only stare speechlessly at what happens next.  The kneeling warrior bends his face toward the open neck and draws his lips to the crimson pool.  After a few voluminous gulps, he cranes his neck upwards and flashes a maniacal grin to his onlookers, blood covering his teeth and dripping down his chin.  If I had not been playing soccer and eating lunch with this guy earlier in the day, I might have felt compelled to hoof it across the savannah and try my luck with the lions. 

Blank stares are pasted on each person’s face, and yet no words issue forth.  Simon breaks the silence by explaining that goat blood is a delicacy for the Maasai and is believed to bring good luck to those who drink it.  He and the other warriors present proceed to kneel down and indulge themselves.

It is only appropriate, given the bizarre nature of the situation, that Mark, a member of our group (and certified medical doctor) inquires at this point if he can try.  Simon happily moves aside; and as Dr. Mark gets down on his knees, one of the others group members asks concernedly, “Can’t you get a parasite or infection from doing that?”  Dr. Mark looks up, responds, “Possibly,” and bends to take a drink. 

When he arises without keeling over, many of the others are encouraged that it is safe to follow and take their turns one by one.  Many of us are still hesitant; but looking around at my friends and their goat-blood goatees, my curiosity gets the best of me.  I lean down over the top of the pooled blood to witness my nervously excited reflection peering up at me in crimson anticipation; finally I go in for the plunge.  The blood is warm, viscous, and not especially palatable; and after slurping the equivalent of a half shot, I shoot back to a standing position.  I reach for the nearest water bottle to chase away the taste in my mouth, before I throw up.  After guzzling half a bottle, I take a few deep breaths and realize I will be okay.  Simon pats me on the back in congratulations, as if to affirm that my safari experience is now truly complete.

For the rest of the safari the experience stuck with me, and I could not stop fixating on the evening's ritual and the fact that I drank goat blood.  I know that I will never be one of the Maasai; I will never wear the red robes and sashes, carry a spear or club, or herd goats for a living.  I realize there are aspects of their culture that I will never agree with (like female genital mutation).  I realize that next week another group of expectant tourists will come barging into their village with silly questions and naïve perceptions, which the Maasai will attend to with patience and good humor.  But I also realize that in the act of sharing a goat’s blood we traversed, in a slurp, an immense cultural gap, and for one bloody moment the differences that defined us evaporated into the gentle savannah breeze.  It was a good feeling.

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