We were invited to a Camu in Lama-Kpedah, the village in Togo where Stacie lives. The event promised to be an experience of a life time....it did not disappoint. Upon our arrival we were treated as honored guest along with Stacie. Working our way through an immense pulsating crowd filled with dancing Africans in all manner of dress from traditional to European to young men in dresses. When we inquired about this anomaly we were told, "it is ambiance." Eventually we came upon the mud hut compound of Mr. Boutuli who had insisted we attend his Camu. Happy dancing people greeted us with chouk, hugs and the Togo Handshake, which when done correctly ends with a nice snap of fingers.
Mr. Boutuli ushered us into a dark mud hut where a table was set with a meal for us African Style. He was very excited and animated explaining about the food before us, as our daughter interpreted that along with the rice, spaghetti noodles the red sauce contained meat from a creature he had caught just this morning and prepared it himself. He couldn't think of the word for it in French, but when described Stacie recognized it as Bush rat! He was very proud and happy to have us as his guests.
I helped myself to some rice and spaghetti, then Mr. Boutuli generously spooned red sauce on top and last but not least a nice big chunk of gray meat. When everyone had been served he took out a bottle of gin and poured a shot glass full then passed it around. Thinking of the looming cuisine before me I gulped down 1/2 of the gin and passed it to John. The red sauce was tasty and the rice and noodles soaked it up nicely. I summed up the courage to try the morsel of impending doom. I lifted it on my fork to my mouth and tried to bite it without success. The spongy rubbery substance thwarted any attempt to chew it. I examined it closely in the dim light I could make out tubes projecting from the spongy mass and quickly accessed the recesses of my mind for a distant memory of a certain biology class of dissection. I searched for identification of the tissue before me. Upon realization of the match: Lung Tissue. My throat instantly snapped shut and now all of the gin in the world was not going to wash that down. Time for Plan B. Outside there was a commotion that caught the attention of our gracious host. As he exited the curtain clad door of the mud hut I executed Plan B. The tiny window before me opposite of the door was open and the offensive chunk took flight. As it was arching toward it, to my horror at the exact same time a woman passed by the window. Trajectory disaster would result in a collision of the meat with her head in an "OH-NO" second. But fate was with me that day and the rubberery projectile wobbled in flight then bounced off of the edge of the window, ricocheted back into the dark room and slapped around in the corners of the inky blackness. As I listened I wondered it it was only bouncing or if it had taken on a life of its own and was making its way out of the earthen womb where we sat.
Our host returned and we followed him to the soiree and we were swept into the gyrating crowd of Africans. Finger clackers were given to Stacie and I, John was given a knife to thrust about in a heathenistic fashion, stopping every few steps to slash the ground as instructed by the surrounding men dancers. Drums pounded horns blew as the dust rose in the frenzied mass of humanity swarmed in union to the rhythm of the evening. A full moon was rising as we exited the party. We recalled our experiences as we walked the dirt path back to compound where Stacie resided in the community. The chouk that was consumed the dinner that wasn't and how much joy and enthusiasm her village had.
Mr. Boutuli ushered us into a dark mud hut where a table was set with a meal for us African Style. He was very excited and animated explaining about the food before us, as our daughter interpreted that along with the rice, spaghetti noodles the red sauce contained meat from a creature he had caught just this morning and prepared it himself. He couldn't think of the word for it in French, but when described Stacie recognized it as Bush rat! He was very proud and happy to have us as his guests.
I helped myself to some rice and spaghetti, then Mr. Boutuli generously spooned red sauce on top and last but not least a nice big chunk of gray meat. When everyone had been served he took out a bottle of gin and poured a shot glass full then passed it around. Thinking of the looming cuisine before me I gulped down 1/2 of the gin and passed it to John. The red sauce was tasty and the rice and noodles soaked it up nicely. I summed up the courage to try the morsel of impending doom. I lifted it on my fork to my mouth and tried to bite it without success. The spongy rubbery substance thwarted any attempt to chew it. I examined it closely in the dim light I could make out tubes projecting from the spongy mass and quickly accessed the recesses of my mind for a distant memory of a certain biology class of dissection. I searched for identification of the tissue before me. Upon realization of the match: Lung Tissue. My throat instantly snapped shut and now all of the gin in the world was not going to wash that down. Time for Plan B. Outside there was a commotion that caught the attention of our gracious host. As he exited the curtain clad door of the mud hut I executed Plan B. The tiny window before me opposite of the door was open and the offensive chunk took flight. As it was arching toward it, to my horror at the exact same time a woman passed by the window. Trajectory disaster would result in a collision of the meat with her head in an "OH-NO" second. But fate was with me that day and the rubberery projectile wobbled in flight then bounced off of the edge of the window, ricocheted back into the dark room and slapped around in the corners of the inky blackness. As I listened I wondered it it was only bouncing or if it had taken on a life of its own and was making its way out of the earthen womb where we sat.
Our host returned and we followed him to the soiree and we were swept into the gyrating crowd of Africans. Finger clackers were given to Stacie and I, John was given a knife to thrust about in a heathenistic fashion, stopping every few steps to slash the ground as instructed by the surrounding men dancers. Drums pounded horns blew as the dust rose in the frenzied mass of humanity swarmed in union to the rhythm of the evening. A full moon was rising as we exited the party. We recalled our experiences as we walked the dirt path back to compound where Stacie resided in the community. The chouk that was consumed the dinner that wasn't and how much joy and enthusiasm her village had.
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