Day 14/part 2: Ndiangue (Chèvre au Cimentre)

Left stranded in the middle of the road. 5kms from the lights of a small village.



Nightfall had arrived. Red was pushing the scooter. I was trying to keep up.

Counting on the kindness of strangers that passed by, a motorcycle with 2 Senegals stopped and gave us about a half liter of fuel taken from their own tank. When asked if they wanted compensation, they refused, after all that's life. "C'est la vie," he says. Life happens. In this moment they are giving a favor to us and in the future, in someway, the deed shall be returned.

The village Ndiangue was probably less than 1 km long and is concentrated on one single lane. We found the only 'hotel' in town called the Cedafi which is a national association for the education of women, teaching them to sow, draw, cook and so on. Cedafi at night becomes housing for different men who rents out the rooms and, luckily, us travelers. Our room was memorable for the collection of dead bugs inside 2 half vase shaped lamp shade attached on the wall.

We went out to eat and discovered that at 10.30PM restaurants were already closing and had finished their rations for the night. Riding back and forth this very small town and not finding a sign indicating food. We stopped and were asked by a local if we needed anything, then offered to go to his small shack extended on the facade of a 3 square meter shop. We entered the shack where in front pieces of meat, looked like goat, were hanged. Tiered in front of the meat there was long white layer of grease. We were accommodated on a small bench at the entrance of the shack and in the middle some carpet were men were lying down. With very brief exchange of words they set out to cutting half kg of meat, onions, pieces of grease and barbecued it all together on a perforated slate of metal with wood fire, turning the ingredients while it cooked with the same machete used to slice them. I was offered an 'african cigarette' and found that home cultivated tobacco actually has a darker taste to it, decisively particular.

While the fire crackled due to the grease that was dripping down and burning up good crusts on our meat, the thought came to mind on how they were going to serve our dish. Previously, Red had to get his own soda at the nearest market and then we both had the pleasure of sharing tea, from the same cup, with the rest of the guests. We're not squeamish and I'm of the thought that authenticity always adds up to the taste of certain meals. We're dining in with the locals and they eat altogether with food served on the floor by hand. I've eaten fried larva in Thailand but do worry of possible diarrhea for lack of hygiene. The sight of that one single rusted plate was not comforting but the cook tore out a piece of paper from a brown paper bag from below the slice deck, batted the dirt off, then served our meat on the paper on top of the plate.

It was the best meat we've ever eaten.

Of course the view of the paper bag in front of us gave more information than needed. There was a huge writing in print that was a little bit difficult to read to lack of light in the shack and the dirt on it. The print is a logo in writing and bears the name of a cement brand.

It was still the best meat we've ever eaten. Whether is was good cement or not, we will never know.