Witness to slaughter: a delicious goat in northern Laos

Andy Hill

Working on an organic farm in northern Laos, I had the pleasure of spending quality time, playing, milking, feeding, and eating goats.

Several of us were sitting on the front porch of the dorm when an older American guy ran up to the porch. 

“Hey everybody! You gotta get down there! They’re killin’ a goat!”

In unison, we rose with embarrassed, morbid curiosity. 

Jogging down to a small clearing by the Mulberry field, we could see one of the farmers brandishing a blowtorch, going to town on the freshly-slit goat. Its body was expanded like a balloon, I supposed from all the heat of the flame.    

“What’s with the blowtorch?” I asked the American guy.

“Get all the hair off, I guess,” he said, his wide eyes fastened to the sight. 

The Laotians were happy we’d joined them. One of them had the knives, grinning from ear to ear, while several others stood around watching, hooting, and drinking whiskey Lao Lao.

The shirtless, knife-wielding farmer seemed glad to have an audience of squeamish, captivated Westerners on hand for the occasion. He had obviously done this a thousand times, working with fluid precision. The organs were hauled out one by one, and the toxic guts were separated from the edibles. When he pulled the stomach out he held it triumphantly up to the rest of us, and stepped away from the tarp the goat was lying on before flashing a demonic grin and puncturing it. The contents spewed out in a repulsive torrent of green slime. The woman standing beside me turned away and covered her mouth.

One of the Laotians proudly handed me a plastic cup of whiskey Lao Lao. I have never hesitated so much before taking a drink, but I downed its vile, jet fuel tasting contents while watching the last of the goat’s lunch drip out of the stomach. It was with Herculean resolve that I kept mine from doing the same.

The other farmers took the ribs and slid them in makeshift bamboo racks, rubbing them with some kind of spice and placing them over the fire. Everyone had a few rounds of whiskey and began to warm up to the occasion. 

The ribs were plucked off the fire and pulled apart onto a plate, passed around to all of us. I picked one up and thanked the goat aloud before biting off a chunk of its brown, slightly charred flesh. It was juicy, surprisingly tender, slightly sweet, and delicious. Goat ribs became one of my favorite foods while standing there.

Soon the goat was unrecognizable and the usable parts were placed in a large tub for the women in the kitchen to go to work on for the evening’s feast. The bottle of Lao Lao was finished and the goat’s skull was rinsed and hung in the tree with several others who had evidently gone before. Some still in a mild shock from the gory spectacle, we filtered back to the porch after thanking the farmers profusely for sharing the goat’s bounty. 

I did my nightly English lesson with the restaurant staff and farmers, and had one of the most memorable meals of my life. After an incredible amount of food, I walked back to the dormitory full and festive, glad to be alive.  

That night was spent drinking and singing songs with the guitar, and remembering and honoring the martyred animal.