Slaughtered Goats At Sunrise - Part One

The road over the mountains from Rustaq to Al Hamra, Oman.

In the small mountain village of Al Hail we awoke before dawn and I lay still in the chill darkness as Badr, my host, donned his traditional garb of dishdash and kumma and slipped out quietly for prayer at the small village mosque. It was the first day of Eid Al Adha, the Feast of Sacrifice, commemorating Abraham's (Ibrahim) obedience to God (Allah), my 12 year old son and I were honoured to have been invited to share it. I tried to snooze a bit more but the anticipation of the day made me rise and wake my son. We cleaned ourselves, folded up the mattresses and blankets and waited for prayers to finish while female voices floated out from open windows.

Sipping sweet tea after harees.

Breakfast, brought to us where we'd slept, was a traditional Eid dish of harees, a sort of porridge made with wheat and shredded chicken, a lightly spiced dipping sauce and some incredibly sweet, milky tea. There were no eating implements, you just scooped up some harees with your fingers, dipped it in the source and tried to get it in your mouth with the minimal amount of spillage.

Not long after, while waiting for Badr outside his house, a Land Cruiser pickup pulled up and the boisterous Arabs in the cab yelled for me to join them for morning coffee. I hopped on the back, thinking it would only be a few moments and that we'd soon be back to join our host, but it ended up with us spending a good portion of the morning away. Their front-room, or Majlis, was painted lime green with rifles hanging on the wall, including an ancient lever-action model and a Czech made .22. At one end a television played Makka Pakka, lending a sense of the surreal. Coffee was typically Arab, served in small china cups and strong, bitter and spiced with cardamom. Seeing as the sun was still not yet above the horizon the kick was welcome.

The green majlis, where guests are entertained, complete with rifles and sword.

I drank the obligatory 3 cups,then wiggled the empty cup side-to-side to indicate I was satisfied. The hosts smiled appreciatively at my display of local custom. To counterpoint the coffee they served sweet jelly-like Halwa and the obligatory fresh fruit, Halwa is a very Omani dish traditionally made by the men and is delicious. Little did I know it then, but by midday I would be so loaded on caffeine and sugar from repeated invitations to coffee and halwa that I'd feel quite jittery.

Coffee over, we soon were standing beneath a scrubby thorn tree looking at two tethered goats, the Udhiyah. Everybody pitched in an gently forced the first goat to the ground, holding its legs to prevent it kicking. The knife came closer, a slight pause, and with a deft and purposeful cut the neck was severed, red blood spurted drenching the parched rocky ground.

No more than a single, swift stroke.

Death was swift, no cruelty to the sacrificial animal being tolerated. It was as an humane death as I have witnessed. Within minutes a second goat, a fine ram with marvelously curved horns, was prostrate and its lifeblood staining the stones. The mood was light yet respectful, this was a sacred act of worship, of thanksgiving, a celebration of life rather then death.

Skin was cut away from the rear legs and an incision made in the hocks. Then, one by one, the dead animals were gently picked up and carried to the tree, ropes threaded through the cut in the hocks and then hoisted to hang swaying in the newly risen sun. The heads were removed to drain the blood, but soon the business of butchering commenced, aided by knives one could shave with.

Bloodstains on Ismael's fine new dishdash.

Grandfather and grandson prepare the rope for the second goat.

A knife as sharp as any razor.

Starting to strip the hide.

The village did not take part as a single community, rather each family or group of families offered their own animal, mainly goats but also cows for those who could afford it. While trying to find where Badr was carrying out his Eid obligations I was good naturedly bushwhacked into joining a group about to dismember a cow. To keep the meat clean it had been placed on a large sheet of marine grade plywood while the excised meat was washed in a trough and placed on a large blue tarpaulin.

Young and old pitch in to help.

I have watched cows being butchered before, but never have I seen an entire carcass reduced to individual chunks in the space of 40 minutes. The speed and accuracy of their butchering was impressive. In one large piece they removed the entrails and loaded it onto a wheelbarrow, the smaller boys roping my son in to help them push it far away from the main activity where they would clean out the stomach contents and later return the tripe for washing.

Removing the entrails, washing pan in the background.

Cleaving the bones takes dexterity, there are many hands in striking distance.

My son was fascinated to see the larger pieces of meat quiver as the severed nerves fired spasms of contraction into the muscles.
Finally the cow was cut up, a scale was produced and the meat weighed and divided into three portions, one for the family one for friends and relatives and for the poor.

Portioning off the bounty.

Throughout the morning small children, dressed in their finest clothes for the auspicious day, came to watch while their older siblings joined in, bloody to the elbows but proud to be part of such a significant ritual . I doubt these kids have ever seen meat in polystyrene trays covered in clingwrap, this was normal life and I envied them. Unlike our city children they are connected to the cycle of life and death and have no illusions about where there food comes from. My son, to all intents and purposes a modern city boy, witnessed the entire process and was pleased that he'd added this to his, already long, list of life experiences.

The morning's ritual done, we all trooped back to the green room house where, over a fire, slivers of liver were gently steaming amongst chunks of succulent fat and small pieces of prime meat. The family matriarch was doing the cooking and I, a stranger, was given the rare glimpse of the internal workings of the family. She was soon squatting next to the steaming pot, feeding twigs into the fire and tossing spoons of spices into the bubbling mass. The aroma of stewing meat, woodsmoke and spices made my stomache gurgle and I suddenly realised how hungry I was. She kept passing me choice tidbits and asking her son to translate my opinion on whether the spices were right or if more salt was needed. My judgement was futile as it all tasted wonderful to me.

Mukli cooking on the fire, respect for their tradition prevented me from photographing Ismael's mother.

While waiting for the food, I was shown the rear of the house where stacked rows of hollowed out palm trunks served as beehives. The father was, apparently, renowned for his mountain honey which, so they told me, had found it's way into various government ministries far away in Muscat.

Hollowed out date palm trunks waiting to be turned into beehives like those stacked behind.

We waited in the green room and soon a platter was brought from the fire, piled high with fragrant meat and liver, the father of the family proudly poured his honey, a dark oozing treasure, over the meat. Being careful to use only our right hands and to eat only from our side of the platter, my son and I tucked in.

Children in new clothes, my son among them on the left, watch in anticipation as their grandfather pours honey over the Mukli.

I was constantly offered succulent bits of the liver, being an honored guest, and as I love liver, and this was some of the best I'd eaten, I was pleased when I could ease back and let my straining stomach take a break.

It was barely eight in the morning.

After Mukli, time to take it easy before the rest of the day's toil.

Acknowledgement: My heartfelt thanks to the people of the village for their generous hospitality and friendliness and allowing us a glimpse into the life of a Muslim.

Craig
sunburnt ... and in need of a shave

Kayaks in Khor Al Najd

When someone says 'Fjord' it's normal to think somewhere cold and ice-bound, but there's a shattered land at the tip of the Arabian peninsula riven by deep fjords where no snow falls and the sun scorches mercilessly all year round.
It's called The Musandam.



On a breezeless, sultry November day I found myself paddling on mirrored-water bound by towering ridges that tumbled rock-strewn into the deep. Ahead and behind, good friends dipped and pulled their paddles, scattering glittering droplets like diamonds carelessly discarded. From each boat, like a spiderweb in the dawn, a fishing line caught the light as the lures dragging behind bobbed and curtsied to unseen fish.



My kayak sliced effortlessly through the smooth surface and tossed tiny rippled wakes that caught the sun. All was silent, the loudest sound the gentle splash of the paddle and the buzzing of my ears. Each paddle-stroke a measured dose of calm that coursed through my veins and progressively dissolved the stress and annoyances of city life. I let out a deep peaceful sigh.



As the sun climbed so did the temperature and the humidity with it, no breeze stirred to cool us. In local fashion I tied a ghutra around my head to shield it from the sun and cast a shadow for my eyes, leaving a tail at the back to protect my neck. All my fellow paddlers were riding dedicated fishing kayaks piled high with camping gear and assorted fishing tackle. My kayak, a skin-on-frame Kodiak, was the odd one out, but by far the most stable and comfortable of them all. My camping gear was all stowed below deck and I'd jury-rigged a fishing rod holder to allow me to troll for whatever predatory fish cruised below the surface.

I spied something floating ahead and paddled closer, the stench of death and decay assailed my nostrils as I pulled closer. The corpse of a turtle drifted aimlessly in the stillness.



The water was crystalline and when the depths rose to within 20 feet of the surface we could clearly make out coral formations and sandy stretches.
The convoy broke up at times as some when closer to shore and cast into the shallows with plugs, reeling them in quickly so they jigged and jittered across the surface. At one point, trolling close to the shore, but where it still dropped off steeply, I heard then felt the splash and plunge of a garfish as it went for my lure, but to no avail. The fish remained elusive all day.




After a few hours we rounded a point that opened the fjord up to the east, and the Indian Ocean, and exposed us to a stiff breeze that we'd been shielded from so far. With relish I paddled into the stiff chop and felt my boat hug and caress the incoming swell. The fishing kayaks, loaded and top heavy as they were, did not fare so well and it wasn't long before the party decided to turn around and cruise back into more sheltered waters. I decided to stretch my legs and ease the numbness of my butt, so paddled ahead and pulled onto a small rocky shelf. The water was so inviting that I donned mask and fins and snorkeled around looking at the coral and bright reef fish, triggers, parrots, angels, puffers and surgeons.




The rest of the afternoon was spent idling along, casting the occasional line and swimming every now and then, until we reached a wide pebble beach that was to be our base camp for the evening. Kayaks were pulled ashore, tents were rigged, firewood was gathered and frozen water bottles hacked up with knives to provide ice for the day's end G&T. As the setting sun painted the opposite shore in roseate hues we casted towards the drop-offs, placed patient fingers gingerly on the taught lines and waited, drinking in the immensity and the silence.





This part of the world is prime scorpion country, aqrab in Arabic, but I decided that on such an evening I would not be sleeping in a tent but under the canopy of the northern constellations and so made my camp just above the high water mark on a large tarpaulin. A million dollar view for the price of some sweat.



At last the fish started biting and we soon had fresh Sheri scaled, gutted and waiting for the coals. There are few meals more satisfying then fresh caught fish grilled over an open fire right at the shoreline. We, big men all, with a day's paddling behind us, ate 'til replete.

There was no moon that evening and water was black velvet in the night, some went swimming and the phosphorescence sparkled green in the inky dark. Slipping quietly away from the swimmers I quietly eased my kayak into the brine and paddled out. It was pure magic, each paddle stroke a splash of vivid green, fading fast, and a tiny luminous wake trailing behind. The water was so clear and the phosphorescence so strong that I could clearly see green comet trails below the surface as spooked fish darted away from the looming shadow of my boat. After a few minutes I shipped paddles and simply drifted in the depth of the dark and the quiet murmur of soft voices, the only light a gentle glow from the fire on-shore and the occasional phosphor-flare of darting fish below.

Late into the night we sat in the cool water and chatted as the wheel of heaven swam it's great arc over us, the stars matched by the sparking water from a moving hand or shrugged shoulder. By the time my head hit my pillow I was asleep, neither cold nor scorpion would be able to wake me.

I drifted up from fathomless sleep and became dimly aware of the smell of dawn woodsmoke and the stirring of the camp around me. Coffee! Then breakfast made over the open fire and the packing of camping gear. Since our landing the day before, the tide had dropped and risen and dropped again and so the kayaks had to be manhandled to the water before we pushed out from shore to start the day's journey back to our launch point of the prior day.



We were in no hurry, and again we loafed along dragging our lures, casting along the shore and snorkeling here and there. Like the day before the water was clear and every now and then, even from the cockpit of my kayak, the shape of a large stingray could was discernible against the buff sand.





A tuna, silvered flanks shining, breached ahead like a small dolphin, eliciting excited shouts and a flurry of paddling to position the lures. But despite criss-crossing the area they refused to have a go, although more than once we saw one come closer to investigate.

It was over all too soon, my kayak dismantled, packed into its bags and loaded into the rear of the LandCruiser. A second fishing kayak lashed to the roof rack and cinched down against the jostling of the steep, rutted track that would take us over the pass to Khasab where we would stop at one of the many small roadside Biryani joints for plates piled high with chicken and rice, washed down with icy soft drinks. Then the border crossing and the long drive across the desert to home.

And to Buurman, Anton, Nic, Jacques and the not-so-light-anymore laaities: Dankie Manne!



Afterword: I did not take the picture below, it was taken by a fellow paddler named Jacques Bezuidenhout when I handed him my camera and asked him to shoot a few of me. I just did some post-processing for black and white. Seeing as I'm usually behind the camera it's nice to get shot of myself now and then. Thanks Jacques, it's a great image.



After the Afterword: All the images in this post were shot with my $70 Nikon D100 mentioned in this post. It's not the camera, folks, it's your eye!

Craig
sunburnt ... and in need of a shave.