It is not long before I have a chance to attend another carneo. It will be a small affair; two one-year old hogs for a family of seven. I am intend on being present on the first day since I do not wish to miss the slaughter, but as I arrive at first light one pig has already been killed. The carcass is open and its butchering has begun. Dogs sit at attention; a caracara (carrion eating bird) hovers nearby.

Obviously this family has done a carneo many times before, each member understands its role, few words are spoken but the work proceeds smoothly and without hesitation. Only the youngest child of twelve receives at times instructions or is corrected. Occasionally a voice is raised if one is in need of something urgently, but this is rare. The father, who does the butchering, is very deliberate in his motions, looks and feels before he makes a cut, at times receives advice from his children. It most reminds me of a surgery; a head surgeon with his assistants.

First the liver and gallbladder are removed and handed to the mother who immediately separates the gallbladder and throws it on the roof. The caracara swoops down. Then the digestive tract is cut from its connective tissue, once all is loose the entire tract is removed in one piece and placed in a wooden crate. The mother separates the tongue, the stomach, the larger and smaller intestines and the urinary bladder. The tongue is laid aside while all other parts are taken to the vineyard and emptied of their respective fluids, then placed in a pail with water, vinegar and lemon. Again all motions are deliberate and careful, aimed at preventing damage to any usable parts. It is like an experiential class in anatomy amidst the sounds and sights of nature.

All parts of the digestive tract are thoroughly cleaned and later scrubbed with a combination of lemon juice and flour, a process which removes the inner lining and leaves the surfaces smooth and clean. The surgical team continues cutting and slicing until finally the hog’s insides look like a butcher store; a piece of cane is placed between the outer edges of the ribcage and the hog is hoisted onto a thick branch in a nearby tree. The younger son slings a stone at the caracara and hits its target right on. With a cry the bird moves from the scene. By now it has had its fill. 

It is time for the second pig to be slaughtered but not before we all receive a small shot of mostella, a sweet wine, in celebration. Tables are cleaned, knives are sharpened and clean rags are provided before the pig is hauled from its pen. It has a piece of iron threaded through its nose, which serves as a holding pin and steering device; it cries in distress and the sow, its mother, which now has three other piglets to care for, responds; it rears up on the fence, tries to climb over but fails, then snorts loudly. The hog is lead to a wooden table where its feet are tied, its snout bound with a piece of rope, then, with one quick motion it is laid on the table, turned on its side and a sharp knife inserted into the jugular vein. Briefly it struggles but within minutes the fight is over and the animal lifeless. The mother catches its blood in a pail, constantly stirring to prevent coagulation; subsequently it is strained through a sieve so that only the ‘pure’ form remains which will serve as the basis for blood sausage, to be made today. Then the pig’s skin is cleaned with scalding hot water and with the use of a canning lid all hair is removed, the paws are washed and the nails clipped with tools from the toolbox. The same process of butchering follows with only one difference; this hog, from the same litter as the previous one, is considerably smaller and with less weight. It alerts the mother to look for its cause; disease or parasites. The reason is soon apparent; something that feels like an additional vein is found in the intestines. Everybody is made to feel and look, since this is a parasite and everyone should know its appearance. The intestines and everything related to this bodypart are destroyed in the fire. It is a disappointment, good food which cannot be used. 

When the pig is hoisted to drain I decide to go home. Although the experience of the two carneos does not make me a vegetarian, hardly an option in Argentina, I cannot look at it as only a food processing event. Seeing the pig struggle for its life, its mother rear in defense, the presence of scavenging birds and the ultimate power that rested in this case with us humans, all make me pause and think of the utter fallibility of life. One expat who happened upon a similar experience told me how the butchers at the carneo he attended briefly said thanks to the animal just after its slaughter. I have not observed the same, but certainly I have seen a quiet waiting till all signs of life subsided before butchering, I have seen an awareness that all things come at a price, for some higher than for others.   I see a certain reverence in the way one deals with food; one does not waste a scrap. My supermarket experience provided me with only 1/10^th of the full story.