Not All Storm Clouds Rain...

In August, I made a purchase of a deep freezer. It's small and fits in the corner of my kitchen, allowing me the privilege of buying meat once a week --rather than having to buy it day after day.

After pricing things out, I discovered it was heaps cheaper to buy an animal and have it dressed than to buy it in the supermarket.

(I'm not ready to buy it from the outdoor market yet... the flies and blood stained wooden counters somehow throw me off.)

So I asked around and found someone who was selling pigs... and went to meet him.

Chris is a Catholic friar from Louisiana with a background in agriculture. He's been working in Mozambique for about two years and was disappointed to find out that very few Mozambicans are willing to eat pork.

However, I was not upset by this news because it meant that he had an excess of pork... and was more than willing to off load it for cheap.

How to buy a pig in Mozambique ~

Day one: Meet Chris and select the white beast for execution. Ask one of his workers to butcher it in exchange for all the offal and feet.     ---What a bargain! 

Day two: Go pick up my shaved and slaughtered pig, then notice a number of goats for sale... ask about the price of goats and a broken container. Take home my pig in nice happy sections and pile it neatly in my freezer --with the head on top staring through the zip lock bag! 



Day three: Go back for a (live) goat and the broken water container (which Chris was willing to part with for free and will be used, God willing, in an aquaponics project).

Easy. Peasy.

After buying my goat, I asked the Chris and the other Mozambican staff for name suggestions (since she was intended as a pet rather than dinner) but no one was willing to name her. But as I was about to leave another friar showed up, Andres from Spain, and he suggested I call her "Storm Cloud" since her white and grey coat resembled the stormy evening quick approaching.

I agreed that would be a good name for her... and quickly dubbed her Nebulada (or Storm Cloud in Portuguese).



We piled her on the trailer, tying her to the inside of the broken container and off we went. But instead of raining... this Storm Cloud bleated.
         ---She bleated all the way home!

Clearly... not all Storm Clouds rain.

Bonus: I'm happy to announce Nebulada is pregnant! I watch her belly expand with interest wondering if she'll be my first Mozambican delivery!
  
He he he... We'll just have to wait and see. Won't we?

Goat-midwife

We have goats. Did I ever tell you that? We have goats, chickens, a dog and a whole mess of cats hanging around the compound. It’s Old McDonald’s farm with a meow-meow here and a woof-woof there, here a baa, there a chirp e-i-e-i-o.

The funniest part is, at any given time, most of them are pregnant. It’s epidemic.

Lately, it’s been our goat that has been walking a little lower than usual. Her sagging belly and engorged udders have been expanding at such a steady rate, I imagined her exploding and leaving entrails strung up in the nearest tree.

Fortunately, she reached the end of her gestation before exploding, and delivered beside the clinic a few days ago. I’m told one of the patients saw her delivering and went to help out.

The “Goat-midwife” explained in a steady stream of Dinka how she pulled the kid free, but I didn’t understand (no translator) until she pantomimed it for me. She was very proud of her accomplishment, and had a right to be.

A handful of gawkers (me included) came to admire this black and white beauty covered in goat slime. We couldn’t help ooh-ing at how perfect she was.

The placenta was already eaten, but the umbilical cord was still attached. It dangled from the wobbly legged wee one’s belly. So cute!

The Goat-midwife stepped up to the task of getting the kid back to the compound. Picking up said slime-covered miniature, she taunted the mother goat to follow her, stopping and baa-ing every few steps.

The mother goat knew she needed to follow and didn’t hesitate but a moment. She circled the Goat-midwife, loudly protesting. At one point, I thought the midwife might get a horn jabbed in her thigh, but she seemed to know what she was doing.

In less than a minute, both mama and kid were happily resting in the chicken coop.

Woohoo! Way to go goat!



Is it silly to rejoice even when a goat gives birth? Probably, but I can’t help it.

Weird question: would it be better to call her a midgoat? Or does goat-midwife make more sense? ha ha.