Tag Archives: goats

A Dairy Story, Part II: I promise to stop writing about goats. After this.

With six litres of goats milk in my fridge, and nothing else to do after some rooftop yoga (choreography by crazy redhead swiss women, music score by neighborhood construction workers and teenage footballers..) I went home to make some serious amounts of yogurt.

my bounty..

Not having a thermometer makes things interesting, but I managed to keep the milk at a not-quite-boil, and then cool it down to about 110˚. (According to my Bulgarian yogurt-making website, this is when you can hold the tip of your finger in the milk for 15 seconds without wanting to cry. I had many burned fingertips before getting to that point.)

just below boiling point

The incubating part was easy. When it’s 100˚ out during the day, and you spend two hours heating up the kitchen to some ungodly temperature, there’s no need to worry about the fecundity of the bacteria. Just to be sure, I swathed my pots of probiotics in kitchen towels and bedsheets and left my home-made sauna for the night. (Pores cleared, toxins all sweat out.)

impromptu incubator

Because I am neurotic, I woke up the next morning to thoughts of the previous night’s project, wondering if maybe I hadn’t let the milk cool quite enough, or what if it cooled too much?? Paranoid, I got out of bed (mind you, it’s not even 6am at this point), padded my way to my kitchen that had evidently remained at elevated sauna-like temperatures all night long. I unwrapped the still-warm casseroles, and uncovered the most beautiful cultured creation ever. Paranoia, placated.

successss! (to be enjoyed daily, preferably topped with fruit and honey.)

Shady Operations in Dusty Trainstations : A Dairy Story, Part 1

I officially have a dealer. In goats milk. Two days ago I got a call from Sheick Diarra, our guide de voyage on the trip out to Kayes a few weeks ago, and worked with us throughout the training on gestational and neo-natal care for goats and sheep. He left to go back to Kayes after the training ended, but not before I not-so-subtly mentioned how great it would be to have a regular source of goats milk to satisfy the need of my burgeoning yogurt and cheese making venture. So when my phone rings and he tells me there are six litres of milk en route from almost-Senegal, I knew I had it made.

8:30am, yesterday. I leave from the office with one of our drivers, call the number Sheick gave me for a certain M. Bakari Coulibaly, who was supposed to have arrived the previous night by train, cooler of goats milk in tow. Handing my phone to the driver, Monsieur Coulibaly gives him directions to the train station, where we’re to go.

women selling dried and smoked fish

It’s not quite 9am and the markets are already packed with people: women selling avocados and potatoes, men offering any number of products or services, kids trying to hawk cell phone credit or boxes of kleenex. We get to la gare, and park in the dusty red courtyard of loading docks filled with wooden crates, tables scattered here and there, and hoards of people going about their early morning routine.

piles of shoes and other bric-a-brac

After poking around for a minute and getting some strange looks from the dockworkers – I am slightly out of place here – I call my contact person again. I pass the phone to the driver, having not a clue how exactly to negotiate my way to finding 6 litres of milk in the middle of a dusty dockyard, and something tells me the message will pass easier in Bambara. Mohammad takes the phone and starts walking towards one of the loading docks where a man is serving breakfast to a few of the other workers. He hands my phone to that man. A loud and jumbled conversation follows, and I am beginning to think that dealing in goats milk might just not be my calling. The dockworker-cum-chef hangs up, walks over to a stack of wooden crates, and pulls back a large tarp that has seen better days.

Lo and behold, there lies my glacier, a cooler full of goats milk. I quickly buy a small plastic bag from a woman across the yard, and fill it with a dozen sachets of white, creamy deliciousness. We scurry back to the pickup and bump our way out of the crowded lot, tumbling back into the chaos of early morning Bamako.

9:15am: goats milk safely in my refrigerator.

9:30am: back at my desk, ready to start the day.

The Kids Love This Stuff (A Breakfast of Champions)

To recap the past few days briefly :

Saturday night at 10:30, I got a phone call from my boss, Bara, confirming that I’d be doing a field visit the next day to the west of Mali in a city called Kayes (pronounced like ‘eye’ with a k in front). Kayes is about an 8 hour drive from Bamako, and the epicenter of small ruminant (goats and sheep) production in Mali. As has been pointed out to me, it’s rather amazing that there is an epicenter for goat and sheep production within a country; the sheer quantity of these beautiful little animals in the region is astounding. So we (myself, Judy who is here to do a training on the subject, Cheikh the researcher/expert in the field, and our driver, Boureima) set out on Sunday at around 8am.

Arrived in Kayes, we visited a few producers and more goats and sheep over the course of about 4 hours than I think I have in my entire life. And I could definitely tell you more about breeds and cross breeding and characteristics of the different breeds than you care to hear. Believe me.

I held a newborn goat (literally 3 hours old) and felt the milk in its belly, making sure it had gotten the colostrum essential in the first few hours of life. Saw a sheep that costs up to $1500 simply because it’s a handsome fellow and is quite sought after among breeders.

this one was born the day before

they were amazingly content to be in the back of the truck

Monday morning we set out back for Bamako. Judy and I are waiting at the hotel where we overnighted for Cheikh and Boureima to come back with the truck and… three female goats.. and.. two twin newborn kid goats… and… 10 litres of goats milk, freshly milked and pasteurized that morning. Right.

Needless to say, the journey back took a little longer with five live animals (and their shepherd) in the back of the pickup. We crossed the Senegal River leaving Kayes (which I haven’t seen since I swam across it in 2007!) and crossed the Niger back into Bamako about nine hours later. When I got home, I promptly bought some vinegar at my favorite little boutiki and made goat’s milk ricotta from two litres of the seven in my fridge. Yesterday, I got a starter and made a vat of yogurt.

le fleuve sénégal, kayes

Since Tuesday I’ve been translating the training in Bamako for veterinarians working with goats and sheep into French. A big problem is with aborted pregnancies and infant mortality, yet they want to amp up production in the region because the market for meat and milk is lucrative, and wide open. It’s fascinating to sit in a room spitting out information about something in which I have almost no previous experience, because at the same time I’m translating, I’m learning all sorts of crazy things. (If the membrane of a goat’s eye is light pink or white, it could mean they have stomach worms and are anemic. Measures should be taken immediately to deworm them, or the animal could die.)

From a pedagogical perspective, the week has been hugely productive. But let’s be honest here. The most important thing to remember is : nothing but a little heated goats milk with cinnamon for breakfast is positively divine. Goats milk has this reputation for smelling bad and not tasting good, which, I admit, I bought into for a long time. But I swear it is the sweetest tasting milk/yogurt/cheese I have ever had. And the fact that I know exactly where it came from, how it was produced, and under what conditions the animals were raised, makes the whole process that much better. There’s no better way to be connected to your food than to see la chèvre milking her newborn kid, and then to drink that milk, or maybe the milk from a different female goat, with my breakfast of baguette and Nescafé.

See more goats and sheep here…