Last night, this guy who lives with us, a homestay brother, I think, told me to get up in the morning about 9 o’clock. It is Sunday, and I have no school. He is 29 I’ve learned. I have no idea what his name is, it is his wife who seems to understand my logic the best when I try to communicate with symbols and gestures – if this, then this type things.

This morning, at breakfast, I ate with the whole family. He told me we were going to see grandfather. Yesterday we planted potatoes together, and he cut my hair. So I figured this was all just pretty natural. But when we got into the car, only him and the old quiet man who shakes got in.

First thing we did was drive that man home, and it was just me and the brother who’s name I don’t know. We drove out into the country and stopped at what seemed to be some kind of estate. We parked in the grass on the other side of the small country road, next to a cemetery. We greeted some men, about 60 years old or so, and stood around for a while before going into the compound. There was a cement wall with a gate, and some home buildings inside of that. There were also some livestock, maybe 15 sheep, 4 cows and a horse. Lots of for the animals to move around in, but everything seemed like it has once been industrial, old cement lots, that kind of thing.

I met some more people, all around my age. We all shook hands. The handshakes seemed perfunctory, like it was more important to touch everyone than to communicate the strength of your grip. After some more standing around, my brother said, “Sheep” and then slit his throat with his finger.

The six fifty-sometings and six twenty-somethings all gathered round as one of the sheep was brought out of the pen. We were quiet, so was the sheep, though visibly perturbed. Others bleeted in the background, a dog barked, and everyone began to squat down on their heels. Three of the youngest men there began to tie him down. When the oldest man there began to chant, we were all squatting. He finished, and they slit the sheep’s throat.

The animal twitched continuously. It made sneezing gurgles from the open windpipe. Each time one of the three would cut the gash deeper. It twitched and kicked far longer than I thought a creature in its state would last. Blood is far redder, with a greater consistency to paint than I ever imagined.

We then mosied on out to the cemetery and what seemed like a spring cleaning began. Men used pitch forks and rakes to clean away thorny brush and dead grass from burial mounds. My brother pointed to a grave – “grandfather” he said, and then “grandmother” to another one. Even just before we left, when I managed to ask who lives here, he still replied, “grandfather.”

We came back into the compound to find some of the young guys with blow torches systematically burning off hair and then scraping it off with knives, rinse wash repeat. I kept pointing to different body parts, “eye?” “food.” “ears?” “food.” “tongue?” “food.” One of the brother said, “testicles! Food!” Of course, I don’t know the words for testes, so to make his point he grabbed his crotch.

I should take this time to say that there were never really any introductions. I shook hands with everyone, but no one really asked who I was. I don’t know if it had been established, or just wasn’t important.

Later one, after the animal had been dismembered, and we were all sitting around a gigantic caldron, watching the meat boil in water, a younger guy came around. Something was wrong with his speech – I don’t know how anyone could understand him, he spoke almost entirely in hard consonants and vowels, no m’s or n’s, just ch’s followed by e’s with swallowed k’s. He seemed to make up for this by talking a lot, he joked, everyone laughed, and he was the only one to really ask me about who I was and where I was from. Even when I left, he was the only one of the young guys to shake my hand. I’m pretty sure he asked if I would come back. I told him I definitely would.

We all stood around for a long time. Sometimes we’d take a break, have some tea and bread, a fried dough with no sugar, and then get back to standing by the fire. At one point my brother and I retired to the car to have a nap.

When we awoke, we found the meat had all been cut into twenty or so piles, with the head sitting prominently in one. The women, at this point, had tied up the entrails into knotty ropes and boiled those too, along with some spaghetti. We all prepared large metal bowls with spaghetti in the bottom and some sauce, and meat, and then walked it out to the cemetery in long trains of young men.

Out in the cemetery we came upon 50 or so men and women, ages 60 through maybe 80. They were all sitting without shoes on a long line of blankets. As I passed by the women all along the foot of the blankets I could hear them saying, “volunteer,” “America.” As we made our way to the head of the table, the first place got the head of the sheep, and more parts were distributed down the line.

I was surprised to see no empty space at the table. It seems, outdoor eating was not for anyone under 60? I think I learned later that the reason my father didn’t go was because he is only 52, so it didn’t make sense for him to come and serve. But that could totally be wrong. With only three days of language study, anything is really possible. In fact, he might not even be related to these people. See, their word for “older brother” is a term used for any male older than any other male. I got a laugh when one of the young guys asked my age, 24, and offered his, 22, and I pointed to myself and said, “old brother!” This is all well and good, but it makes it difficult to determine family lineage.

After we distributed the meat and pasta outside, the young bucks and I took a plate inside. As second oldest at my table, I got a pretty meaty bone. The youngest’s bone was almost bare! I was also treated to two pieces of knotted up intestines. We all ate with our hands. Raw onions were around, the cleanse our pallets and open our nostrils. We had been snacking on different parts of the animal all day, so this eating time was really just for show.

Earlier, I had snacked on hot fat, a meaty section from next to the skin (the fat between the meat and the skin being especially good), some liver (with onions, of course) and some fried fat. It was only the fried fat that caught me off guard. See, during the cooking and tasting time, the one guy who seemed to like cooking these specialty pieces (“delicatessen,” my brother said), always offered them to me first. This seemed natural to me, given my status as guest. What caught me off guard was when no one else wanted the fried fat. Three guys turned it down, and only one acquiesced to eat it! Then I looked around and tried to offer my piece to the other guys, and they started to laugh. Then one grabbed his crotch. I didn’t deem it polite to take something and then not eat it. So, the answer is yes, I have now eaten sheep testicle.

After we ate, and we ate rather fast, we went out to the cemetery blanket and cleaned up the meal from the old people. I don’t understand. Maybe they ate really fast too. Had they been snacking all day like us young ones? My brother late said, “tradition” in describing the event. We helped clean, then hit the road. It was a vastly interesting moment for me. I thanked him and everyone else that I could find. Some men had tall hats on, mostly the older ones. That seems to be tradition too.

Originally Written April 5th, 2009