s e a   s l u g s

There are flood and drouth/ Over the eyes and in the mouth,/ Dead water and dead sand/ Contending for the upper hand./ The parched eviscerate soil/ Gapes at the vanity of toil,/ Laughs without mirth./ This is the death of earth.
T S Eliot, Little Gidding, Four Quartets

We met a Zanzibari businessman in Mahoot who exported sea slugs to China. He invited us into his reed enclosure, and we watched in morbid fascination as bucket-loads of the creatures were emptied into a pot over fire. Two men on either end stirred the seething mass with long poles, as they boiled in pre-export madness.

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