Leche de cabra

Sometimes you just feel like having a tasty glass of freshly squeezed goat’s milk. Fortunately when those cravings arise, there is a lofty group of entrepreneurs in my town whose job it is to provide just that service. Armed with the tools of the trade—a package of Styrofoam cups strapped to the waist and an Indian Jonesesque bullwhip—these “goat men” walk door to door around town leading a pair of tethered goats each, selling milk by the glassful. To ensure freshness, each glass is milked to order right in front of your eyes.

Upon first seeing one, I asked my host mom why goat’s milk is so popular in a town where no one has their own goats. The answer was simple—people like the milk but hate the uncontrollable goats. She relayed a story about a relative that used to own a goat that was constantly jumping on the couch and kitchen table and bothering the younger children (I’m not quite sure why the goat was being kept inside the house) as definitive proof that goats are nothing but trouble. And I believe her.

For this reason, the goat men carry whips. I have yet to see one of them actually lay the whip to the backside of one of the goats, but they crack it fiercely and often in the air. I wonder if the whip cracking is just a manly show in what otherwise could be considered somewhat of a girly profession, or if indeed the ominous sound instills the fear of God into the mischievous goats. Regardless, I am amused.