precarious residency: Goats

We got goats. When Fili arrived on the the back of a motorcycle, her legs tied together, her big eyes patiently looking out at the world from a horizontal vantage, we all gasped at how tiny and cute she was. We'd put in an order via text message for two female goats, but Malawi is very Forrest Gump, of course: you never know what you're going to get. Our intention is to breed them and get even more goats - which Dyton, our goat-procurer knew - so I assumed he'd bring us adult goats (nannys). But as soon as we saw Fili, we were pleased. She looks exactly like Bambi, tan with a black stripe down her spine, and she eagerly ate fodder from our hands. Adorable.

Fili.

"I'm coming with the other one," Dyton instructed, and roared off on his motorbike. He was long in returning. The kids kept peering out the fence, hoping to hear him pulling up. Over lunch we eagerly discussed what the second goat might be like.

A cow, as it turned out. Kili is an adult goat, a white nanny with black spots, like a mini-Holstein. Giant by comparison to Fili, and initially really loud. She stridently protested the motorcycling and immediately began leaping around, trying to escape. It looked like she was doing Parkour, running up the side of the tree trunk in their pen, pushing off of it, flying through the air with a Chuck Norris-style roundhouse kick. She cried ferociously, bleeting, bleeting, bleeting - so much that I started to blush, worried about the neighbors. (The Dutch neighbors. The Malawian neighbors wouldn't even notice.) We later realized she was probably in heat that day, in addition to the stress of the relocation.

Kili.

Within a few hours, the goats found a weak spot in their fence and slipped out. Unfortunately, this happened while Matthew and I were on our first date in about a year, so Auntie Sarah had to deal with it. We only learned about it when she cryptically texted: "Where's your rope?"

At this point in the date we were still content with the knowledge our goats were contained.

Five screaming children and three grimacing adults eventually caught them. Sarah had to lug a heavy, struggling Kili in her arms back to the pen, while our spastic dog Max lost his mind. We ended our date a bit early.

That was the low point. Everything has calmed down since. Kili stopped being horny and loud. We've figured out how to feed and house them. Their shelter is being reinforced to accommodate the force of Kili's headbutts, which is just a thing goats like to do - and why not? It's fun to peer over the fence to watch them quietly chewing their cuds. Goats: "Something we couldn't do in Saint Paul."

Here's the thing: there's not much to do around here on weekends. You can bike and go for walks. Matthew plays squash every Friday with someone. You could theoretically get drinks at a few spots in town. But otherwise, your homestead is your fun.

Which suits Matthew and me just fine. We like doing projects. The work of it is the point. We don't live on a farm in Minnesota, so this is our chance to scratch the homesteading itch and give our kids some experiences with animal husbandry and to learn the African way of doing things. They're in love with all these animals, in any case. Thea & Lev's feet have never been as dirty as they are every evening, absolutely caked with red clay from the day's twists and turns. Just now Lev ran into the house yelling, "Mom! There's a trumpeter hornbill in the papaya tree!" Plus... monkeys! Giant bugs! Dogs! Chickens! Guinea fowl! (These are coming soon.) Two martial arts-inclined goats named Kili & Fili!