Yesterday afternoon we went to the Rabat American School for the official American party–the sort of party guarded by police and where you have to show your passport and pass through a metal detector to get in. What, you never get to go to parties like this? Sorry, your loss. Makes one feel very special.
It was a great party. The American school grounds are spacious. Round an enormous field were stands set up where you could buy ice cream or chips (real cheetos!) or hamburgers or hotdogs with real, sour, wonderful, enticing dill pickles (and no I was not piggy with the dill pickles–that is a rumour). Best of all, if you’re in the 12-14 age set, they actually had ROOT BEER. Or Dr. Pepper. The kids were ecstatic, because they love root beer, and oddly enough you can only get it in the US. We were planning to bring home a few extra cans, but sadly, they ran out quite early.
You could play softball or ultimate Frisbee. You could swim in the amazing pool they have there, an enormous expanse of sparkling turquoise water, and get sunburned for your trouble. Why, you ask, haven’t we joined this pool and so we could go every day, and I will tell you: $500 is why. Apparently that beautiful pool sits mostly empty most of the time. Not yesterday however; it was jam packed full. Lifeguards were stationed every 5 feet or so.
We passed an awfully pleasant afternoon, watching other people’s toddlers toddling about in floppy sun hats, watching other people’s children tumbling into the pool with bright floaties on their skinny upper arms, watching my own children diving, or plunging into the deep end and “climbing up the wall like Spiderman,” or holding their breath the longest and spitting the farthest, which was frowned upon by the lifeguards. Later we sat in the shade and the cool ocean breezes, and I had a real Diet Coke (instead of the locally-sold Coca Light which has a different flavor) and we chatted with friends and watched people play softball.
Celebrating American Independence Day is always interesting overseas. We went to a couple of the embassy parties in Mauritania, with varying degrees of enjoyment. (There was the year they served us plebs leftovers from the party the night before, which was for the dignitaries, and I got food poisoning) But I remember the year we celebrated in the middle of the Sahara desert, the only Americans for miles around.
We had decided to learn Hassiniya by spending a month in a Moorish village. Unfortunately because of schooling, that month had to be July. Sun and sand had conspired to turn the village into a furnace, and the constant wind and sandstorms left me feeling like a piece of bronze being polished in a kiln. But that’s another topic.
We arrived late in the evening on July 3rd. Our host, a single man, went off to get dinner. I expected him to return with a platter of couscous made by a neighbour. Instead, he returned with a very vocal goat. I could hear it protesting the length of the street.
The children went off to watch the slaughter. They kept running back to tell me details. Ilsa, who was then 5, announced at the top of her very healthy lungs, “I’M GLAD I’M NOT A GOAT! I NEVER WANT TO BE A GOAT!” Well ok then. Abel came to show me on his own little person exactly where they cut the large hole through which they pulled out all the intestines. Elliot (7) was very mature and held the flashlight steady for the men.
I sat in the starlight on a very thin pad spread over the sharp rocks of the courtyard, drinking sweet mint tea and practicing my Hassiniya, while 2 men peeled off the skin (goat skins are used to store water), chopped up the meat, and emptied out the intestines then tied them into little bundles, which they dropped into a pot of boiling water.
All this took some time, so it was about midnight before a platter of boiled goat–organs, intestines, and a few chunks of meat–was set before us. The kids had passed out at this point. We tried to wake them up, but they cried, so we let them sleep and did our best to eat, although swallowing twisty, rubbery intestines without gagging is a skill I still need to hone. Soon, it was cleared away and a plate of the coarse Mauritanian couscous was set before us, with a pitcher of rancid goat butter to pour on if we liked, to add a bit of flavor. Afterwards, we just lay down where we were, fully clothed, and fell asleep.
“It’s July 4th,” I thought on waking up 5 hours later, which is when the sun in all its strength poured forth over the wall and into my eyes. No blueberry and strawberry desserts that year, no flag-imprinted paper plates and cold drinks. Instead, we had tepid water and unripe dates, which have a curiously woody texture that makes you feel like you’ve just wiped out the inside of your mouth with a Kleenex, and glass after glass of mint tea. It was a different sort of holiday, but certainly memorable.
11 comments
July 5, 2009 at 1:20 pm
Mary Witzl
Love your description of 4th of July in North Africa!
My husband has described similar experiences of eating freshly-killed goats and the resulting offal, in Sudan. I would not touch those intestines until I’d seen them flushed out first: I’ve seen the stuff that goats will eat.
Yesterday was our wedding anniversary. We figured if we got married on July the 4th, we’d always have fireworks… A belated Happy 4th of July to you, too!
July 5, 2009 at 1:53 pm
Robin from Israel
In a former life I used to have to attend those massive embassy parties. Such an honor to be invited, one of 76,593 people standing on line for lukewarm overboiled hot dogs. Ick.
Still, it sounds better than quickly boiled goat intestines. I had to choke down expertly prepared and highly seasoned (read: sear your mouth for a week spicy) lamb intestines once and thought I was going to lose it right at the table. I still shudder to remember.
July 5, 2009 at 1:55 pm
Jeanne A
Brings back memories of a July 4th party or two at the American Embassy in Addis. Most of our summers we did not live in Addis so we didn’t go to the Embassy. I wonder how old I was before I realize that July 4 was a holiday I should know about?????
July 5, 2009 at 6:30 pm
Karen Helm
We too enjoyed swimming and hotdogs and hamburgers. No Root Beer or Dr. Pepper though. It was our first at the embassy here. I think I like the small American crowd rather than the large one.
Yours sounded like fun though. Benjamin would have enjoyed the softball. He enjoyed volley ball here.
Hello to all.
July 6, 2009 at 3:09 am
Kim
I laughed out loud at Ilsa’s “I’M GLAD I’M NOT A GOAT. I NEVER WANT TO BE A GOAT.” Oh.my.word, that was funny.
I learned to keep tissues in my pocket whenever visiting others for a meal so I could unobtrusively spit out the bits of fat and gristle that floated in the “sauce”. Could.Not.Swallow.It. no matter how hard I tried.
When a friend came to visit from the U.S. my daughter implored him to bring a six-pack of Dr. Pepper. It was half-way through our year in Uganda and she showed great restraint and drank one per month. Not sure I could have done that (if I liked Dr. Pepper). LOL
They eat some strange parts of the cow here in Argentina, and I’m willing to try almost anything. Except morsilla (blood sausage) because the taste is just more than I can stomach. Thankfully people are not offended if you turn it down. Whew!
July 6, 2009 at 8:41 am
Kit
Glad you had a good party this year and not a goat intestine in sight, though goats do make for better stories for posterity!
July 6, 2009 at 2:06 pm
Grateful for Grace
Ok, that story of 3rd/4th in the desert just about cured me of wanting to live in an exotic place overseas. My husband thanks you.
July 6, 2009 at 5:09 pm
LIB
I’m glad you got to go to a fun party this year. But, I have to say, I’m glad for your Mar/goat adventure, too, cuz you tell the story so well.
July 6, 2009 at 7:28 pm
Beck
Ugh, that goat stomach story. YUCKY YUCKY YUCKY.
I’m shocked by how long it’s been since I’ve visited your blog – I love your writing (you’re one of my favorites!) but summer has taken my time away from me. And so I’m just telling you now how sorry – very sorry – i am to hear about your friend. How awful.
July 7, 2009 at 3:02 am
eileen
your 4th of july sounded wonderful, and I am also glad Ilsa is not a goat. Goats can’t read. July 4th was smoggy and freezing here in Santiago, as it always is. There was a party at the embassy but I didn’t think it would be fun, and so I skipped it. I’m sure there wasn’t any Dr. Pepper, but I’ll be in Seattle on Wednesday night, so I guess I can get some then! From the previous post, your kids are so much fun, I want to be a kid so I can meet them and be their age. They seem so neat!
July 7, 2009 at 1:08 pm
octamom
I just keep thinking about what amazing memories your kids will have–some blend of Americana with a huge, huge twist. And how impressed am I that you chugged down that goat to honor your hosts back in the day–you are a far better ambassador of good will than I could have been!
Glad for your 4th this year–sounds like a great time was had by all!
Blessings!