Woke up unusually early this morning. Two reasons for that: first of all I found out yesterday that I got the place I wanted… the amazing house at the top of the hill with the view of the whole town. The landlord is stoked and is going to make the peace corps necessary fixes. The other reason I couldn’t sleep was because I had a date to slaughter animals.
My counterpart’s youngest brother just got ordained as a priest and he gives his first mass on Saturday, so a big group of people, myself included, has volunteered to cook for what they are expecting to be 500 people. Coming from a food service background 500 isn’t that much, that is if you have adequate space, tools, refrigeration, stoves, etc. Here the story is slightly different. But what we lack in resources we make up for in numbers.
Anyway, back to the slaugher-date, today began with the scent of pig shit wafting through the air. When they told me yesterday that we would be killing 50 chickens and 3 pigs I wondered where this could possibly take place and was hoping that it wasn’t going to happen in my sister-in-law’s kitchen. Luckily, just as the community has public/communal baths they also have communal facilities for semi-sanitary end of life operations. Once I realized the shit smell was coming from the three chanchos (pigs) sequestered in one of the private slaughter rooms I began to get a bit nervous about my decision to be there.
Just a few short minutes later my sister-in-law’s dad was in there tying up the first pig to meet it’s fate. After the rope managed to find it’s way around one foot two men proceeded to drag the already squeeling pig out of the pre-death closet and over next to the floor drain. It took 4 people to hold the pig still while one stuck what he thought was the heart with a regular kitchen knife. The pig was squirming and screaming, he had missed the heart. I’m not sure if no one realized the pig wasn’t dying or that they had missed the heart, or if they just didn’t know what else to do, but they just kind of held their positions while the pig cried at the top of its lungs for a good 5 minutes (it sure felt longer). Finally a man they lovingly refer to as El Diablito arrived and quickly put the choncho out of its misery. El Diablito then entered the slaughter-closet and proceeded to kill the other two pigs in a matter of seconds without any help. Apparently his nickname stems from the fact that he is a professional butcher. But at that moment I wanted to rename him Angelito. What a difference it makes in the duration of suffering when the angel of death can quickly, and I’m sure much less painfully, kill Bacon.
After all three pigs were thoroughly dead, they were dragged to the edge of the cement slab. Then, El Diablito busted out the torch. After a quick rinse, he proceeded to singe the hair and then what seemed like two layers of blistering, bubbling flesh. After a nice even char, some brave souls went in with knives and sort of scrape-shaved the black away.
Meanwhile a group of women started letting some of the chickens out of the bags. My attention was diverted from the fire-play as I had promised myself and Ibeth that I would matar (kill) 5 chickens this day. First I watched. Then I held the chickens as another woman would slit its throat. The chicken would struggle and try to flap for a few seconds, and then I could feel parts of the body seize then relax. My hands gripped hard, the chickens’ movement was strong. Finally, I worked up the courage and announced I was ready. I took the knife and Margarita wrapped the chicken in an empty feed bag. She held it tight and showed me where to cut. I took a deep breath and cut. The first one wasn’t so bad. The third, managed to get a wing out of the bag and flap some blood in my face. By the fifth, I was relatively confident in my ability to swiftly sever the vital blood vessels.
Then commenced the dip in boiling water, peeling, and disembowelment, which lasted about 4 hours.
I didn’t help cut up the pig, but I watched as they hoisted it up in the air, removed the skin, took out the intestines and organs, broke the back and then cut away two sides of pork. All of this was a bloody process. It made me think of all the meat I have cooked and eaten or handed over to a waiter to serve to someone else, without even thinking about how the animals were killed. All the meat I have unpacked out of boxes or plastic and not had to kill myself for it to end up on the plate in front of me. How a chicken breast, or a tray full of bacon can seem like objects that conger no sensation especially after handling them over, and over and over again. It must sound so cliché, but today I thought about the sacrifice.
Also, the fact that this was a group effort, out in the open reminded me just how closed off the process usually is at home. The farmers raise the chickens indoors, slaughter them indoors, package them indoors and nobody is the wiser. Instead of hiding from the death like we do, they tackle it head-on as a team and out in the fresh air.
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