Sunday, July 22, 2012

1 Daladala + 1 Kuku + 1 semi-Vegetarian = 1 Identity Crisis


I knew from the start that being a vegetarian in Africa would not go without many explanations of why and how. My host-family said they many past volunteers that have housed also were vegetarian, but my mama took no care to hide her disappointment that I would rather not eat meat, especially chicken which was her favorite meat to prepare. My sister bragged about how well her mama prepares chicken and how sad she was I wouldn't try any of the dishes. After the first week of consuming beans as my main source of protein, a source that was provided about once every other day if I was lucky, I decided to transition to a bit more protein-rich diet of pescetarianism. Fish is readily available at local restaurants and my family was glad to take a step closer to their normal diets with having fish once or twice a week. I continued with this diet for about a month, during which I sat through several hour-long lectures by my brother who explained the more natural methods of raising chickens in TZ compared to the US and their support of local farmers who do not use steroids and only feed their chickens seeds and grass. One Sunday afternoon, after sitting through another one of these lectures, I agreed to eating chicken. Right away my brother told his daughter, who told mama, to which her face lit up with joy and she went out to buy a chicken to cook for dinner that same night.

Since my first consumption of the bird, I have eaten it four other times when I have felt confident the bird was allowed to roam about and eat things that a bird would naturally eat. Things changed a bit last night when I visited a friend of the family and he gave me a chicken as a departure gift. As I waited to leave his home, he scrounged his place for a box. I thought, “Why does he need a box? Wouldn't a bag suffice?” After a period of time he came back with a box from the neighbor. Then he disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a knife. I was only half-paying attention and thought he was trying to cut the flaps off of the box. He disappeared again then returned with hemp string- okay, so he couldn't cut the flaps off so instead he would tie the box. The logic didn't make sense but my mind was distracted with the day's events. My friend disappeared again and when he returned he carried a live chicken. Wait...WHAT?! I looked closely at the box and realized he had been cutting air holes in the sides, and the string, as you can guess, was to keep the lid closed. I couldn't help but laugh and ask if it was normal to take a live chicken on the daladala. He laughed only once, slightly confused by my surprise but reassured me it was no big deal. He then proceeded to hold the chicken down, close the flaps and tie the box. Before I could think about what was happening any further, we were out the door and headed towards the road. A crowded daladala came and I was ushered on and handed the tied box with the precious chicken sitting inside. Immediately I imagined the chicken getting disturbed, fluttering in the box, breaking the string and flying around inside this moving vehicle, causing a commotion that the locals would forever remember as the crazy mzungu with the kuku (chicken). I nervously stood with my upper body bent in the cramped daladala, cautiously eying the people around me, trying to gauge their reaction when the chaos should erupt. I was surprised when the daladala reached my station and the string remained securely tied. But I had only felt the chicken shift once in its box., maybe it died from stress, I reasoned. The step out of the van made the box shift a bit again, reassuring me that the bird survived. I walked to my home and opened the kitchen door where mama was preparing dinner. She turned, saw the box I was holding and burst into laughter at the irony of the scene and the events she knew just happened: Mary rode with a chicken on the daladala, a chicken which was destined to be dinner. I joined in her laughter, confused at the events that had happened so quickly. When the laughs finally subsided she cut the string on the box and used it to tie the bird to the leg of the counter where it stayed throughout the night. This morning I watched its slaughter and am anticipating the plucking and cleaning process to happen later today. Then, the body will go into my homemade chicken-noodle soup.

I think I have to temporarily remove my identification as vegetarian.

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