I can't tell you how many villages I've wandered in to out in the bush where I see the natives treating their livestock better than they treat their children. When asked about it, they readily say, "Because it's easy to have another kid...do you know how hard it was for me to get that pig?" So anytime a proud pig owner agrees to part with his four-legged prize for a village feast, you know it's going to be a special occasion.
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One of the kids in our camp came of age to start kindergargen in the village. For several years, he'd heard his older brother bragging about how much he enjoyed school, so of course, he was terribly excited for that first big day. We all pitched in to make sure he had all the supplies he needed and encouraged him in every possible way to try and set him off on the right foot toward getting an education, which is rare in a place where the literacy rate hovers around a high of about ten percent.
Lo and behold, about half way through that very first day, we looked up the trail and saw several of the village elders and the director of the little school leading our little academic-to-be back toward camp, and none of them looked any too happy. Apparently, Tato had gotten bored about half way through reciting the alphabet and decided to pick up a length of bamboo and take a few spirited whacks at the Chief's prize pig as he strolled it by the schoolyard. The village elders told us that Tato's punishment was a two-day epulsion.
Two days later, we all gathered around Tato and told him, in no uncertain terms, "Do not whack that pig , or they'll kick you out of school for good." In hindsight, that was probably the wrong approach to take.
About half way through his second day of school, once again, up the trail from the village came a commission of elders leading Tato by the scruff of the neck, and dragging a limping pig. Apparently, deciding he had little interest in an academic career, Tato rationalized that if beating a pig would get him sent home for two days, then killing a pig would get him kicked out for good. Even though he didn't actually beat the pig to death, he did inflict enough damage with his bamboo staff so that the Chief declared the animal ruined.
It took several hours of tense negotiations, but three things were decided. First, we agreed on a price and I purchsed the brutalized pig. Second, Tato was assured that if he ever did any more damage to local livestock, he'd have to go to school six days a week instead of five. And third, we declared the coming weekend to be a special occasion to be highlighted by our new friend Porky, in all his crispy-skinned, mouth-watering, oven-baked glory.
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When I was growing up, my grandparents were farmers and ranchers, so I wasn't a novice at seeing farm animals whittled up into bits and pieces that ultimately ended up baked or fried and put on a plate with corn-on-the-cob and country gravy. So when the guys came rolling up with Porky in a wheel barrow, I thought I had a pretty good idea what was coming next. I was wrong.
First it was explained to me that since I purchased and donated the pig for the feast, I would be the honored guest at the event. Sure that sounds all fine and dandy, but in the bush, being the honored guest means much more than sitting at the head of the table...there are responsibilities that go along with the title. Here's how they explained it to me...
"Since you so bought the pig and are so graciously sharing it with the village, then it is your honor to drown it before it can be butchered."
"Whoa...hold your horses guys...what do you mean drown it?" I mean I'd heard some strange thigs since coming to live in the bamboo wonderland, but drowning a pig was definitely a new one to me.
Even though most of the villages had been evangelized by missionaries over the last century, and practiced some form of Christianity, they also held true to many of the old customs of Pachamama...Mother Earth...and still practiced many of the rituals. I was told that it would bring very bad juju on the entire village if a pig was butchered to be eaten, unless it was drowned first. Since I was the benefactor who donated the pig, it was my honor and responsibility to do the deed.
Now listen, I'm no expert on native customs, but I did know enough to feel pretty certain that stomping on their beliefs in Pachamama was not a smart move to make, or I might find myself buried up to my neck in an anthill for bringing bad juju to the village. So all I could say was, "Let's dunk that bad boy." Sorry Porky. It's you or me, and you're headed to the adobe oven anyway.
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In my usual gringo naivete, I thought I could handle the gruesome task in short order. So, while several natives held Porky by the hind legs, I grabbed the other end, waded about knee deep into the river, and plunged him under. Since our crew worked on an underwater gold dredge on regular days, and I spent five or six hours a day as a diver, drowning is one of those things that I always had in the back of my mind as being a bad thing. So pig or not, I was agonizing over what was happing to poor Porky.
After a few minutes, Porky ceased his squirming and kicking, and I said, "Okay...it's done." Wrong again muchacho.
Immediately one of the young villagers waded in next to me and said, "If you don't tickle that pig, it won't drown." I didn't even have the words to respond to something like that, so I just stood there and waited to be further educated in the ways of the jungle.
The young man reached under the water, smiled up at me and said, "Watch." He then proceeded to reach up under Porky's front legs, and yes, he actually tickled that pig.
Sure enough, Porky jerked and squirmed, and then blew out a long stream of bubbles before finally giving up the pig ghost for good.
"See," my native friend said, "A pig will hold back his breath and try to make you think he's dead, so if you don't tickle him, he won't drown."
Live and learn. Live and learn, my friends.
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