Blood
stained fat saturates the earth in crusty layers. Hordes of flies cover
sections of ground like an oscillating second skin. A cocktail of rotting flesh
and mortal fear lingers low to the ground in a hazy sweat. The soggy smell finds
its way to our hard working tongues; it’s a blessing we only get fed once a day
in this slaughter house, it’s about all the appetite can stomach. The high
pitch squeal of a pig makes even the most murderous of creatures search for
their own shadow after death. It’s something so human about a pig’s squeal that
lingers on my conscience. Pigs are sensitive and intelligent creatures; they
possess characteristics that not even dogs can equal. When a pig is about to
die, it’s fully aware of the fate about to come down upon its skull. The squeal
isn’t a fearful yell but a pleading cry that’s always answered devoid of
consideration. But this is the cycle of carnivorous life, silencing the beat of
one heart to prolong the existence of another.
The first kill will forever linger in my mind.
“On a farm in Outback Australia, I run my eye down the sights on a bolt action
rifle, readying my shoulder for the recoil it’s about to cushion, the 1300
pound cow stares at me dumbfounded only ten meters away and completely oblivious
to the peril it’s in. My sights line up with the animals left eye, dark as black
marble and deeper than the furthest reaches of space. A steady exhale of my
lungs combined with a gentle squeeze of the trigger and those dark innocent eyes
see no more.” I brace myself on top of the small alley built of cinder blocks,
but this slaughter house in the outlying suburbs of Port Moresby, Papua New
Guinea have no guns or ammunition, I’m handed a sledge hammer and further explanation
isn’t required. The coworker behind me twists the pig's tail to restrain it temporarily.
There is no language barrier here as I nod my head letting him know I’m ready
for what comes next. My coworker lets go of the pig’s tail and delivers a
cracking slap to its back, the pig in its last attempt of desperation runs the
gauntlet only to be greeted by the business end of the sledge hammer being
swung between my legs. It dies quick,
there is no pain, at least that’s what I tell myself to rationalize taking the
life of another. There are some who will argue that killing is unjustifiably
wrong but there is some peace found while browsing a local grocery store for
plastic wrapped pork chops and instead of seeing a pink slab with a price tag,
I see an animal that lived a full life and had to die so that I can live on.
This
is my new job, working for a Philippino run business killing and roasting full
sized pigs over a charcoal fire. Clients come from all walks of life require our
service to provide full sized pigs to be gutted, cleaned, roasted, and
delivered to customers on aluminum foil trays. Anything from corporate
Christmas parties to holiday family gatherings. Whatever the reason may be, a
feast always ensues and the once trotting, squealing creature remains nothing
but dry bone to which even the cartilage and marrow have been sucked clean.
Jobs around the slaughter house and pig roasting compound vary from collecting
water from a nearby well to supervising the cooking of the pigs and maintaining a
steady supply of coals. Unlike my presence in South East Asia where white men
are admired, they had little skilled use for me in the business and I spent
most of my time picking chilies from the garden with the children until I was paired up with a
gentle native man named Micheal to accompany him on a journey that had the potential
to be the most dangerous car ride I will ever take. 
In
the compound we only slaughter and cook the pigs. The pigs are raised and
farmed by a Chinese man in an area called 16 mile, named appropriately for its
proximity to the center of the city. Naturally the further from the city one finds themselves, the more rugged and unmaintained the roads become and the less police
presence is seen. 16 miles on narrow roads competing with ox driven carts and commercial
shipping trucks whilst dodging pot holes and burned out cars quickly becomes
less of a Sunday drive and more of a risky adventure for the average commuter,
however we were anything but just passerby’s to the local rascals looking for a
quick fix of cash for a simple heist. All trading in this country is done with
good hard cash, the gangs of unemployed youth in the outlying suburban sprawl
know that any truck heading to the pig farm has at least $500 of cash which
paints a huge target on our truck to begin with, now throw a white man (me) in
the passenger seat and the chances of being hijacked go from probable to very
likely. 
It
was imperative that we left just after the break of dawn, no camera, no wallet,
nothing of value, one of our drivers was robber just weeks before during a late
afternoon trip. Most of the rascals spend their days getting high and drunk so
leaving early in the morning improved our odds due to the thugs still sleeping
off their hangovers. Michael my driver
was shy at first but after our first stop at a road side vendor, he saw me buying
some boa nut and mustard flower. I had no lime but he was all too honored to
share his own supply of lime to complete the drug which sparked our friendship that followed. Michael spent 28 years in the PNG military being trained by the
Australian and American Special Forces through the country’s military
partnership. He was old and leathered but I’m sure he could still kick some ass.
I’m glad we were on the same tame. I assured him I would be his security escort
for the day, Michael erupted in a great laugh and grabbed at my hand in a rough
shake to acknowledge the humour at my own fragility. Me being there was putting
both of us in more danger than necessary but he was unfazed, in fact I felt
such a sense of pride radiating from him during that day that I began to
understand the faithfulness and sense of comradery these humble tribesmen had
with each other. I knew from our short relationship together that if shit did
go down that day, he would have been the first to take a hit or a knife for me.
Our
pigs were purchased without incident and the lack of urgency in the culture was
apparent as we spent the rest of the day touring around the different villages
his family members resided. I was shown around to some religious missions he
helped build pointing out the roof he put on or the ditch he helped dig until
we finally came to rest on the bank of a beautiful clean crisp river. I’m not sure what it is about the PNG people
but I’ve never connected with any other culture so quickly in my life. I hardly
knew the ex-military sergeant for more than a few hours and yet we lay side by
side in the tuffs of grass on the river bank exchanging our deepest and darkest
secrets. We had a parallel understanding of life, a poor man helping me
understand that money doesn’t bring happiness. I was talking to a soldier who
grew up in a village where money would be used to start a fire or roll a cigarette.
If they wanted rice they would trade it for coconut, if they wanted fruit they
would pick it from the many trees, if they wanted meat they would hunt for it.
They didn’t have flat screen tv’s, five day all inclusive holidays, air Jordans but
yet they seemed to have everything needed to live comfortably without the
complicated fabric of western demeanour. The only thing more important than a
full stomach and roof over your head are the people who help you eat it and the
warmth they bring around you.
“Well, Less is more, Lucrezia: I am
Judged.
Thee Burns a truer light of God in
them”
Andrea Del Sarto’ – The Faultless
Painter.
