Despedida - Philippines

Text and photos by Jason McKenney

Sabang, Baler, Philippines

The butcher

I was awoken at 3am by the growl of thunder and the pattering of rain tapping the windows like the fingers of a hungry vampire. The darkness of the guest room flashed bright for a split second as lightning passed over outside. The butchering of the pig would be taking place soon, the pig I had picked out the day before from the small drift owned by the local farmer. As the rain fell harder and the lightning bolts repeated, the pink, human-like face of the animal resurfaced in my mind. No matter how tightly I pulled up the sheets I couldn’t help but see it. “That one,” I had said, meaning That’s the pig I want you to chop up and put over a fire so I can eat it. SO I CAN EAT IT!  Does it even know what’s coming? I bet it does.

I bet they all do.

Pig parts

At 4am there was a knock on my door. The owner of the house I was staying in, a woman named Vina, opened the door and spoke to me through the darkness. “You want to watch, Jason?” I had told her the day before to wake me up early so I could watch the slaughter take place. In for a penny, in for a pound. I wanted to experience everything I could while I was in the Philippines. During my visit I had gone fishing in the small butterfly boats used by local fishermen, swam out in the crystal clear bay while being challenged by harsh tides, eaten soup made of live worms, enjoyed some harsh local rice whiskey, taken a three-day excursion to Baguio City and back, and had generally did my best to never say “no” to any local request.

Cooking station

Until now.

I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t force myself out of bed to go see that pig lose its life, squealing and stomping, its blood being drained into a large bowl. What a tender foot I am. 

Not long after sunrise I made a visit to the house of Vinnie Rey. We walked along the narrow fence-lined dirt path to the pig butcher’s home. We found him behind his house, placing the last of the pig’s dismembered parts into one of a series of large plastic tubs. In one tub was the innards, in another the rump, ribs, and hind quarters, and in another were the protruding snout and feet. We carried the tubs back to Vinnie’s house where women and children were already gathering to help clean and prepare the animal. The site of the youngest children calmly observing the pig’s lifeless head and carrying around the hooves as if they had done it dozens of times before quickly reminded me that I’m a long way from the manicured suburbs of Southern California.

Fish is the common daily meat for the people of Sabang. Tilapia, bonita, milkfish, tuna. It’s plentiful, fresh, and straight from the sea. Pork is typically reserved for special occasions and when those occasions take place, nothing is left to waste. The skin and innards are chopped up and fried into sisig. The blood is used as gravy for a dish referred to humorously as “chocolate meat.” The feet are shaved and cleaned for pickling. Even the head is impaled on bamboo and slowly roasted over an open fire near the beach. The scene reminds me of something from Lord of the Flies. The pig’s slowly blistering face stares accusingly up at me. You did this to me, Jason. This is all your fault.

Sorry, old sport. And I won’t begrudge you giving me a bad case of the runs after I gobble you up. 

It takes hours to complete all of this pig prep. Vinnie’s sisters and nieces chop and dice and fry and clean, taking those piles of bloody pig parts and turning them into organized stations to be used for the evening’s banquet. All the hard work finally paid off once guests began arriving at the house and all the dishes were lined up on the tables like offerings to the gods: mechado, a rich pork and beef stew marinated with soy sauce and calamansi juice, pancit palabok, a rice noodle dish stir fried with chicken, pork and vegetables, the aforementioned chocolate meat or dinuguan, a pork stew made with a blood-based reduction, kaldereta, another type of beef stew, sisig, which is bits and pieces of skin, organs, and tendon all diced up and fried with fish sauce and vinegar, and on and on.

A bucket o'blood

It appeared that most of the village had showed up for the festivities. Many of them I had met during my stay and several I hadn’t. By the time night had fallen, a karaoke machine had been brought outside to be used vigorously by adults and children alike. The pile of emptied San Miguel Lite bottles continued to grow like grains in a giant hourglass marking time. I thanked the Rey family for their hospitality and everyone else for showing up and enjoying my first official despedida. My stay in the Philippines had been filled with adventure and experience, and that final celebration, a pork-laden meal shared under the stars with the locals I had grown so close to, was the perfect bow on the package.

I bet they all know what's coming.

Still, the image of that pig, forlorn eyes, destitute and weary, has come back to me often since that day. The circle of life. The animal dies to bring both nourishment and joy to the people who have raised it. From farm to table in the most direct manner possible. Somewhere in my genetic makeup that pig lives on like some sort of gift or pasalubong that I brought home with me, intermingled and ensconced in my system as a caloric stowaway. And that’s what travel can do to us. Shake us up. Make us rethink even the most basic and trivial things we do every day (like eating, sleeping, or socializing with others). So tonight when I’m relaxing after a long day of work, probably with a glass of white wine in hand, I may think briefly of that pig, and honor him with a toast.