Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Dead Animals

Did you know that if you grind a horse’s skull into a powder and eat it with honey you’ll be better at sports? Neither did I, until I visited the Fetish Market in the capitol of Togo, Lome, where voodoo priests set up shop to lure tourists and those disenchanted with Western medicine to buy dead animals.
I’ve had to examine my own beliefs towards animals since joining Peace Corps, namely- which animals are worthy to die, worthy to eat and worthy to live? When I came back to Togo from my sejour in America, many insects and spiders took up residence in my home. I get an uncanny amount of pleasure out of watching a hornet writhe after I spray it with insecticide. I almost rented a room in a hotel for the night after finding a giant scorpion lurking behind my bookshelf and one in my laundry basket. And while I’ve been lucky enough not to have mice in my house, I’ve spent many a night in other volunteers houses kept awake by the antics of the nocturnal rodents. One time, I grabbed a stirring spoon out of a cabinet of another volunteer’s house, and found that my fingers were enveloped in something furry- a rotting mouse corpse.
But what disturbs me most is the eating of intelligent animals that many consider family members. In the past week, I’ve been offered to eat a sauce which included a meat which the server themselves couldn’t, or wouldn’t, identify. It was just some animal they killed when walking around in the bush. It was possible to politely avoid eating to the meat, but it would have been very disrespectful for me to turn down eating the sauce. I diverted my eyes as my friend gnawed at the ribs.
At the Fetish Market in Lome, the guide swears that all the dried up animals- ranging from monkeys to chameleons- were killed by natural causes and brought in by innocent farmers looking to make a little extra money. Fat chance. The love for eating exotic animals is universal, not a barbaric practice only found in certain corners of the world. When given the opportunity to try dog meat, many of my volunteer friends accept. My rule is, if it’s endangered or once had a name, don’t eat it. I will admit I once tasted a bite of giant bush rat, agoutille, but at night I lock my dog, Tchouk, in the house for fear that my neighbors might get the hunger.