Back at It

Well, dear readers, whoever you might be, it’s been a while. The country of Chile has experienced some turmoil, of the literally earth-shaking kind, leaving millions without homes, electricity, water, etc and me without Internet. So I try not to complain, but nonetheless offer this situation up as an explanation for my absence from the realm of telecommunications.

Freedom from the computer, however, has provided me with free time for various adventures, world-experiences, and book-reading. The latter has provided me with much food for thought, niblets of which may arrive here shortly. In the mean time, however, I intend to make good on my promise of photos and stories.

So here you go. A dramatic image, somewhat less pleasant than the standard fare here. Here’s the story: around a week ago, while reading in the sunshine in Reñihue, various friends cruised by in the tractor, yelling for me to hop aboard. Without knowing much about the destination, I climbed to a perch on toasty metal. Soon enough, we’d reach the farthest field, home to a small herd of cattle—one of which had a sad future in store. With one guy on horseback and three others running about with ropes, and after several minutes of yelps, false starts, and moments of drama, they managed to separate a small cow from the rest. Tying one rope around its neck and another around its back foot, they affixed the now-nervous cow to the fence before Herman, a skilled cow-killer, swooped in with a foot-long knife to deliver a decisive stab in the heart.

For the next fifteen minutes, we watched the cow bleed to death. I have a policy again being the sissy vegetarian; I don’t think my dietary choices should liberate me from understanding this element of life. Nonetheless, my face inevitably assumed a look of shock throughout this proceeding—which, of course, the seasoned farmhands found highly entertaining. “Humane” is a relative term, hard to judge. This cow’s death was neither painless nor instantaneous: the amount of blood that poured out of its chest as the cow groaned and slowly crumpled to the ground illustrated the amount of life that has to leave an animal before it completely dies. Part of me wished to put this animal out of its misery sooner. Another part recognized that death celebrated as such, with a dozen people watching and waiting to enjoy their month’s meat, creates an immediacy and a respect that even the most “humane” process of slaughterhouse slaughter will never approach.

The next day, I walked out to the quincho (the outdoor barbeque area) to this sights. Shocking, needless to say, for a young vegetarian, even with a strong stomach. For all of my reluctance to face up to this charring artifact, so recently attached to a grass-eating bovine, I understand theoretically that eating meat in this way is the right way to do it. Nonetheless, I offer up this photo as proof that theoretical understanding does not always produce outright genuine enthusiasm about such customs. I, for one, still find this a little hard to stomach.