Mexico and Mistletoe and Mali
IIt must be said that I’m no stranger to fresh food, or being close to the source of my food. But when the Tubabs of a certain Malian village decide that they cannot, in good conscience, eat yet another bowl of rice and less than mediocre sauce, you’d better watch out. Particularly when the resident vegetarian is inordinately upset with the roosters that wander into the concession yard and squawk at all hours and attack the chickens. And we happen to have purchased a chicken.
So, after a morning of teaching health education volunteers basic gardening techniques, the mob of village Americans decided that we needed a reminder of home. And so decided to make tacos. Of course. Which meant traversing the market in search of corn, tomatoes, onions, garlic, flour, salt, beans, and fruit. I cooked a gigantic pot of beans over a fire (hours) and recreated a salsa with all the freshness of home – corn, tomatoes, garlic, onions, hot peppers (burning hands and all, because why would I think to wear gloves in Mali when I wouldn’t in the US?), lime, and carrot thinnings from the garden that were an almost cilantro substitute. Two other PCTs fried up some tortillas over the gas stove that were possibly more like pitas, but were delicious empty calories nevertheless.
I killed a chicken. With a dull knife. And proceeded to not eat any of it because I’ve become completely vegetarian since coming here (I’ve seen the meat having in the market). But having eaten chicken at one point in my life, I think it’s important to be able to kill anything that you’re willing to eat, so I feel as though I’ve made up for all of those delicious chicken breasts I’ve devoured without realizing how lucky I was. And this life experience was done in a skirt and large earrings.
Also, fire-roasted corn smeared with lime and hot peppers and fruit salad. Halfway through the cooking process, the heavens opened up and let forth a deluge Noah would have been proud of. So we all sprinted into our teachers’ hut with grills and pots to finish the process. The rain let up just in time for us to venture out to wolf down our tacos. The best damn meal I’ve had in Mali. Which gives me hope for site when I can actually cook for myself. No more sauce. Or rice.
And as soon as the tacos had been eaten (dissected and eaten by the resident Malians, who refused to eat them composed), the skies opened up again, making the roads impassable for another hour. Which afforded us the perfect opportunity to sit in the dark concession, watch the sky brighten up with apocalyptic light every few minutes, and sing Christmas carols.
On the 4th of August.
Welcome to Mali.
Sarah George
Bev Henderson-George
