Joe McBride visita Cuba (in english) (Marzo 2004)A member of the familyA journal entry from Cuba
My wife is from Taguasco, Cuba, the last town at the end of the Cuban Central Expressway known as La Autopista. Built by the Russians, this underused six- to eight-lane highway is big enough to land a bomber. This massive artery connects the “sugar bowl” of Cuba to Havana. Huge palm trees accentuate the tobacco and sugar cane fields all along the way. Taguasco is about 1,600 people strong and every bit a small town. In December 2003, for our family vacation, we went to Cuba. We met, it seemed, everyone in Taguasco and enjoyed the company of my in-laws. Thanks to my wife’s Uncle Titi, we feasted on fresh beef daily because one of the cows from his farm had a “mysterious accident.” Titi has good connections with local government officials and was able to keep a significant portion of the meat. In Cuba, cows are for tourism. Thus, killing a cow carries a harsher penalty than killing a person. At the bottom of the ethics food chain is the pig. Roasting a pig is like baking a cake for a birthday party. It is done for every major celebration. In December, we were celebrating my and our 3-year-old daughter’s first trip to Taguasco as the newest members of the family. And as the male guest of honor, I got to kill the pig. Honestly, I had been nervous about this ceremony since my wife hinted that it would be a good chance to bond with my in-laws. Bond? Who was I to break the bond that has held together the chain of masculinity that runs through generations of Cuban families? My only experience as a killer involved a small bird that I clipped in the wing with my BB gun when I was 8. I had to end its suffering with two blows to the head because the first did not work. I swear I wasn’t traumatized. The idea had novelty, though. What better way to reconnect to the hunter/gatherer history that we all share? And in Cuba, I began to realize just how far removed I am from it. Remnants of an agricultural past seeped through the cracks of the foundations of my urban, metrosexual lifestyle. Amazingly, it was in Cuba that I found out what the well-known phrases “squeal like a pig” and “wring your neck” actually mean. Who would have known that you could kill a chicken by whipping it around by its neck like a towel? Have you ever noticed, too, that many monster movies—Alien, for instance— involve creatures that squeal like pigs? But that world is the norm in Cuba. My wife has two uncles who farm alongside her grandfather. They built their modest homes from palm trees, while her mom lives in a comfortable cement home.
One day during our vacation we met with my wife’s other uncle, Pipi, and his second wife at their home in Siguaney. They live in a small shack with no indoor plumbing. Empty Coke and juice cans adorned a small shelf in the living room, contrasting with the antique porcelain figurines you might find in an American home. There was also a large poster hanging on the wall of a girl who looked like she was posing for a pin-up—in her bra and jean shorts, leaning on a banana tree. To my shock, I learned that it was Pipi’s daughter from a previous marriage. The photo was taken for her quinceñera. Then there were the pigs. We were brought out back to see two pigs. One was very fat, gray and pregnant. She apparently was practically a member of the family. We petted her. This was not my pig. The other pig looked like Babe from the movie of the same name. Strident and confident, he moved about his cell expressing complete comfort and security. He looked like the kind of pig that you could make your best friend—go on fishing trips with you, sleep at the foot of your bed, fetch your slippers, scare off intruders. At six months old and 70 pounds, he was not the fat smelly blob of a beast that I had expected to cleanse the earth of. He was cute and pink with spots of whitish-gray hair. His eyes were large and affectionate as he greeted me with a sniff of my hand. Mine, I thought, will be the last eyes this pig will see. Short on sleep, I awoke early on the morning of the family celebration to face an action that I felt numb to. After a breakfast of several cups of coffee, I was ushered to the event on the back of a motorcycle, the third-world equivalent of a chauffered limo ride. The roads quietly turned from smooth cement-paved to pothole-laden to rock, the bike slowing accordingly. We stopped in front of Pipi’s house. Pipi and Titi appeared wearing straw sombreros, with no shirts covering their large bellies. Their smiles contrasted brightly with their bronzed skin. It was the uncles’ job to ready the pig. I was more concerned with acquainting myself with the tool that I would use. The knife was a rusty homemade model with an eight-inch blade and a worn wooden handle. I was assured that it was sharp, and I calmly adjusted it in my grip—blade up to blade down—searching for the right position. The pig was brought out before I had decided. It squealed in pain as it was pulled by its squiggly tail. It was then unsympathetically lifted by an ear and wrestled to its back by the two 200-pound uncles. The pig, caught off guard, awkwardly twisted and rolled. But she was no match for them. Or for me. Minutes later, it was all over. For all my anticipation, my part was brief and final. The thing had to be done without feeling, through complete disconnection. To have either enjoyed or cringed from it would have been an inappropriate—and personally disastrous—display of emotions. Like the other members of my Cuban family, I did it simply as a matter of survival. Reprinted from Sombrilla Magazine
Fall 2004, the University of Texas at San Antonio |
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