Pig

This is a piece I wrote reflecting on a trip I took to Ecuador in 2011.

This was a fat pig. One might even say obese. Its body, nearly immobile, had grown too heavy for its legs. Lying in the sun in odd tranquility, the pig looked at his surroundings like a newborn baby – everything was interesting. 

Small piles of sand gathered on the pig’s snout, as its head sporadically nodded in what seemed either to be an itch or affirmation of our presence. There was dirt all over. Mud actually. And although it couldn’t be found in the entire coastal village, grass somehow found its way atop the pig’s earlobes. 

As the many children of Estero de Platano walked by, they would throw small sticks and stones at the pig, but nothing seemed to be of bother. The pig simply lay there, soaking in the light, touching the ocean breeze, happy to be alive. 

* * *

I was awakened the following morning at 6am morning by a shrieking squeal. Shortly after, two young girls entered my bedroom and grabbed my hand. No more than five years old, both girls were cladded in torn white t-shirts that extended beyond their knees. They were eager to start. They had been waiting for months. 

There was no time to put on shoes, but none were needed. It wasn’t a far walk to the beach where the execution would take place. Many people were already gathered, anxiously waiting, chattering, and gossiping. Nobody, it appeared, was affected by the meagre hours of sleep we had gotten or the countless Pilsners consumed at the Discoteca the evening before.

A small circle formed around the pig about fifty yards from the ocean. Sand grains stung the back of my calves as the strong coastal wind howled from my behind. As people greeted me with Spanish I could not follow, I simply responded with “Buenos dias,” which proved to be an appropriate response to whatever they were saying.  The pig was darting side to side, ten feet in each direction, with palpable fear. The people stared with anticipation. 

The pig began to retreat. It knew exactly what was coming: a herd of humans yearning for a killing. Its final moments were spent in helpless curiosity. Why? There was no real explanation. The pig was a pig. That’s all that mattered. 

The squealing grew louder and louder, paining my eyes to watch. But I, the guest of honor, could not leave the show, and it was only starting. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. “Crack the skull. That’s the first step,” an older Ecuadorian said to me in broken English. This was an unlucky day for the pig – a botched execution. Normally, the skull is fractured to knock the pig unconscious, but the pig was far from it, as it hopped around trying to escape the nightmare.

The wooden club was about three feet long with faded white tape wrapped around the bottom. The man raised it up and swung down with brutal force. He looked up to the crowd after each swing, pausing for a moment to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Each blow was harder, crushing down with more pressure, whacking the top of the skull between the pig’s ears. 

The pain was visibly excruciating; the skull was repeatedly broken, each time sending splintering fractures down to the jaw. Tears must have been flowing through its veins. They were flowing through mine. 

Next step: stop the heart. The executioner forgot his machete at his house, so a pocketknife would suffice. A machete makes a perfect tool to puncture the heart, since its long and sharp edge can reach the atrium with one fluid stab. But the pocketknife was small, rusty, and dull. As the pig flipped on its back, the man grabbed its neck to hold the body still. The jab was clean, but the knife wasn’t long enough. Another stab, and another, until there were five open wounds on the left side of the pig’s stomach. It was a warzone. Each penetration made a soft slapping sound like a flipping pancake hitting the stovetop. Each moan of the pig sizzled and hissed, but was suppressed by the noise of the crowd. Everyone was cheering. But, the pig’s heart wouldn’t stop. 

The pig was supposed to be long dead, but its body rose and fell with the slow breaths of its leaking lungs. The pig made desperate attempts to crawl away from his murderer, now a shirtless beast coated in thick blood. The crowd of witnesses grew uneasy. Usually these executions only take a few minutes; nearly a half hour had gone by. 

Two additional men stepped in the circle in attempt to finish the job. The butcher motioned to them and they crouched, placing their hands on the pig’s abdomen. Together, six hands pressed down, slowly oozing blood from the slices on the pig’s side. A woman gave a large cup to one of the men, who held it against the pig’s side and collected the blood – it was a thick, dark red stew. The pig continued to squirm on its side, its head thrusting in the sand and eyes looking toward the sea.  

Rope appeared, and the men began to tie the pig’s front and hind legs together. Handcuffed for a crime it did not commit, the pig rocked back and forth, cradling itself in a nest of torment. 

The fire was ready; the black smoke rising from the wood beneath could be seen for miles. Yet, the pig wasn’t finished; its body was disfigured and broken, but its heart still beat: a slow, desperate pulse.  The final moments were upon us; the men picked the pig up and swung it back in forth. “Uno, dos, tres,” the men counted with each swing until they flung the swine to their right, smiling with delight as it landed on the open flames. 

The pig squirmed around on the fire for several seconds. Its arms and legs, still tied by a now burning rope, kicked up and down. Its entire body moved uncontrollably, convulsing in spasms and seizure-like motions.  

The sound was distinct. It wasn’t a squeal – it was a yell, a loud cry in which the pig released its final gasp. Finally, the heart went silent as the pig’s body submitted to defeat. It lay limp on the blaze, battered in dirt, smeared with blood, and charred to a crisp. 

The show was over, but the pig’s journey was not. This was when the butcher showed his true talents. The man made a deep incision around the circumference of the pig’s neck, yanked its head and detached it from the body. Holding it by one ear, he handed the pig’s head to me: a present. I stared into its eyes, unrecognizable from the fat pig I had been introduced to just the day before. I posed for a few pictures, then tossed the head aside in the sand, landing upright. A few playful children picked it up, running off with a new toy. 

Nothing was spared. All the fat and meat was placed into a bowl for cooking. The intestines, skin, and heart were all fed to the numerous roaming dogs, though it was difficult to tell which, if any, were kept as pets. The dogs brawled over each shred of intestine that lay on the sand, fighting for every last morsel of flesh. The pig’s feet were handed out to the children to play with – the shy ones, too timid to go off with the other kids. 

  The killing had been a success. Within minutes, only scraps of skin and bones were left burning beneath the fire’s coals. The pig was nowhere to be found, a forgotten part of the past – a bygone snapshot of the morning’s bustle. The village moved forward, but I stood frozen in time, my eyes fixed on the flames. 

The butcher came over to me and shook my hand. This ceremony, he explained, was all for me: the guest. I smiled with gratitude, though my teeth clenched beneath my lips. He had been feeding the pig for months, making it plump and ripe, just for me. This wasn’t just a sacrifice; this was an honor. He explained that he purchased the piglet three months ago when he learned of my visit. Slowly the pig, and the anticipation of my visit, grew together. In order for the pig to get fat, the people became skinny. I looked at the man that stood before me. His athletic body had grown frail. His hunger for his next meal was matched by the pride of his recent show of masculinity. He wiped the blood off his knife with pure satisfaction. 

Many women helped clean up the mess. Most men went to work: farmers, builders, oil workers, shopkeepers, and cooks. The kids returned home and got dressed for school. Within fifteen minutes only a few people were left. The fire died down. 

I walked toward the ocean until a wave crashed at my feet. It was 8am. I strolled along the shore of Estero, mystified by the normalcy of the day. The fishermen had set out already, and I could hear the deep laughter of the numerous women cooking in their homes. I watched a few minutes of a soccer game; it was just one of thousands played on the signature concrete slab in the center of the village, a makeshift field that doubled as a town hall by evening, dance floor by night, restaurant on the weekend, and bus stop at random. Beyond the soccer “field”, the retirees had already cracked their sunrise beers and dealt their first hands of poker. The sun was slowly creeping up beyond the horizon and pinned down by a cluster of dark clouds. I thought of the fishermen. They would be wet. The children set off to school, and the chickens, of course, were still prancing in their pens. Just another day. 

10am. It was time for a shower. It was a five-minute walk back down the beach to my temporary home. In the backyard there were two small sheds, a latrine and shower house. I stripped down and opened the door to the shed on the right. A handful of flies flew out upon my arrival. It was damp, dark, and muddy. I filled a carved-out coconut shell with lukewarm water from the bucket below me. I felt refreshed as the water splashed down languid body. There was no soap; I was in a perpetual state of filth anyway. Privacy and water were good enough. I dried and put the clothes back on. The pig was still gone, but the day was new. 

The rest of the morning was filled with conversations I didn’t understand and more observations of a culture I desperately wished to: the mystical obsessions with octopus, people with satellite televisions but no toilets, the honest acceptance of extramarital relationships, and the lack of any community leadership. I took another short walk around the village, which led me back to the morning’s event. Nobody was there, but fifty feet to my left I could see a small group of children—a few teenagers—playing with the pig’s head. I looked away with disgust and returned home. 

Noontime was lunchtime. I sat down in the kitchen, which consisted of a few plastic chairs, a wooden table and a small stovetop. A handful of villagers started to walk in the door. This lunch was a special occasion. 

I saw the butcher; he had returned to his pedestrian appearance as a farmer. He had showered too, but I could still see some blood beneath his fingernails. He walked over to the stove and was the first person to fill his ceramic bowl for lunch. Then, bowl in hand, he walked toward me and placed it on the table. The broth was thick and chunky; I couldn’t decide whether to sip or just bite. As others sat down, they waited for me to have the first taste. 

All eyes were, once again, anchored on my every move. I dipped my spoon in and took a sizeable bite. I knew immediately. The pig. The yelping squeal returned to my ears as I told everyone how delicious the stew was. It truly was delectable. Fresh as could be. I couldn’t imagine a better stew myself: spicy, flavorful, tender, and not too chewy. There was plenty to go around; many more villagers flocked to the table as we filled up on the pig we had killed just hours before. We laughed and ate. It was a fine lunch.