Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Kill the pig! Cut his throat!
We were walking up the road to Bath when we met the pig hunters. H had stopped to rhapsodize for a few minutes on the quality of road, the precision of the grade, the challenge of building into a tropical slope, the well-built stone bridges across myriad streams that ran downslope towards the Rio Grande valley, a few hundred feet below. Indulging his obesession wasn't particularly tiresome for me - we were in a beautiful place, ferns and vines cresting and tangling, jewel-dewed from the misty dawn, as sun and clouds sworled above us. We'd watched
the sun come up from our hut, a cloudy haze of brightening grey, and now, two hours later, the day was warming, the ramparts of the John Crow mountains visible, clouds still sometimes blurring the peaks.
Peter was cooking up a late breakfast of boiled green bananas and saltfish, and we'd gone for a morning saunter up-valley. I was scanning for food - bright-red pear-shaped happles hidden under broad leaves, a soft-grained watery sweetness to the white flesh, guava ripening from hard green to a lush yellow, pink-red on the inside, with yellow seeds, tart grenadillas, under bright green leaves of vines. H was rapturing about the road as only career civil engineers can.
Two men came around the road's curve behind us, with a lean straggle of dogs, a motley knee-high pack of terriers, short-haired, ribs showing. We'd had one such dog, growing up, a stray that my parents had adopted , while living in a small town in Malaysia, working for CUSO (the Canadian equivalent of the Peace Corps). They'd named her Chiku, because she was white with patches of brown, brown like the Chiku fruit, And she and Raimau (the cat) had shared M's pregancy, given brith in the summer, a few months before I was born. Chiku had flushed out two cobras that had decided to live under the house, distracted the deadly coil-weaves of quick death with her barks and feints while H set up the death-blow from behind, with a bamboo shaft. And they'd brought her back with them to Canada, where she'd affectionately tolerated my toddlerhood, let me brace against her as I learned to walk, stood guard maternally at the tops of stairs as a wandered. I'd been struck at how similar to Chiku, the local dogs were, until H pointed out that they were another colonial vestige, terriers brought over by the Brits, that had outlasted the sunset of the British Empire.
Ahh, but where were we? Ruminations on pets and history aside, we were being approached by two men with spears. Actually, we didn't yet know that they had spears - they were each carrying long, rough-hewn sticks, the upright end wrapped in cloth. "You stay at de Lodge?" one asked, after the usual pleasantries. "Yeah. Dis a beautiful place. Where you going?". According to the Rough Guide to Jamaica, the road disappeared within a mile or two, but we'd run across several references to a path that continued on, up to Corn Puss Gap, and then back down to Bath. We'd initially planned to bush/blaze that trail, instead of the Cunha Cunha Pass, so we were still curious about it.
"We goin huntin. For bush pig." I was immediately engaged - "How you hunt pig?", I asked. "De dogs find de pigs, and den dey chase one. When de pig get stuck, das when we kill 'im". Both men were lean, wiry strong. They weren't as open and friendly as most of the people we met, but it's likely that what they were doing wasn't completely legal. This being a National Park and all. Although the pigs were invasives, brought over by the Europeans. So I personally had no objections. Hell, I wanted to come along.
"When de pig trapped, him get angry. Das when its dangerous. Mebbe he come running, try to bite, or wid 'im tusk. Das when we spear 'im..." As he acted it out, holding the spear at the base, pointing straight out, short low jabs. Ok, I still wanted to come along, but was definitely going to hold back for the pig-killing bit. Maybe climb a tree, and take pictures...
"So how you make de spear?" I asked. They were still wrapped in cloth. "You take de point from a machet', an' wrap it tight to de shaf'". Easy enough. And a pretty vicious weapon. I'd been curious about what weapons the Maroons had used, in their battles against the British. The trails into this valley offered excellent opportunities for ambush, dense clustered steep slopes where a well-timed attack would decimate even a well-armed expedition, and the bush would allow the Maroons to fade out of sight within seconds. Bows and arrows , in combination with guerrilla tactics, would be devastating, but spears like these ones would be adequate. I would let the Brits blunder in far enough, for their retreat to be a long one. then study their expeditionary pattern for long enough to find the weak spots. And then once I'd slaughtered them, would put up a pretty little barrier of bamboo and corpses, to greet the next incursion...
I wanted to go with them, but all my gear was back at the cabin. And we were going to do a waterfall hike with Peter, after breakfast. I asked him about the pig hunters, as we ate - "Dey took my bes' dog dis morning, tief 'im from me yard!". As it turned out, those particular pig hunters hadn't - we ran into them that evening - they'd killed no pigs, but we had successfully found a waterfall. I was disappointed, because I really was looking forward to grilling up a hunk of fresh wild pig. And I felt sorry for the dogs, who looked scrawnier than ever. But Peter's dog wasn't part of the pack -
"So why is dis dog dat dem tief so special?", I asked him that evening. We'd already established that some other group of pig hunters had stolen his dog. "Because I train 'im. And I feed 'im up good. I gots de bes' dogs, 'cause I feed 'em all de time.". There was, arguably, some merit, to hunting with hungry dogs. But Peter clearly knew what he was doing, had, according to his accounts, once killed two pigs on one hunt, alone, and carried them both back to town, would bush up to and over the ridge of the John Crow Mountains, through trailless realms where one could wander lost for days...
There is an unfortunate schism, in North America, between the hunters, and the greens. They'd make excellent allies, in my opinion, but the formers consider the latters a threat to their traditional way of life, and the latters consider the formers murderers of sacred Nature. Bambi started it, I think. I came to my love of nature through the greens, but prefer hunters to developers. And have gone sufficiently feral, to appreciate the hunter's aesthetic, altho I still get twitchy, wandering through wildernesses, during hunting season.
So my compromise is, death to the invasives! And uncontrolled populations! Wild pigs and bamboo inhabit the former, predator-free herds of deer in Eastern forests, the latter. Arguably humans as well, but there are ethical complications there. Point being, next time I go, I'm totally going wild pig hunting in Jamaica...
the sun come up from our hut, a cloudy haze of brightening grey, and now, two hours later, the day was warming, the ramparts of the John Crow mountains visible, clouds still sometimes blurring the peaks.
Peter was cooking up a late breakfast of boiled green bananas and saltfish, and we'd gone for a morning saunter up-valley. I was scanning for food - bright-red pear-shaped happles hidden under broad leaves, a soft-grained watery sweetness to the white flesh, guava ripening from hard green to a lush yellow, pink-red on the inside, with yellow seeds, tart grenadillas, under bright green leaves of vines. H was rapturing about the road as only career civil engineers can.
Two men came around the road's curve behind us, with a lean straggle of dogs, a motley knee-high pack of terriers, short-haired, ribs showing. We'd had one such dog, growing up, a stray that my parents had adopted , while living in a small town in Malaysia, working for CUSO (the Canadian equivalent of the Peace Corps). They'd named her Chiku, because she was white with patches of brown, brown like the Chiku fruit, And she and Raimau (the cat) had shared M's pregancy, given brith in the summer, a few months before I was born. Chiku had flushed out two cobras that had decided to live under the house, distracted the deadly coil-weaves of quick death with her barks and feints while H set up the death-blow from behind, with a bamboo shaft. And they'd brought her back with them to Canada, where she'd affectionately tolerated my toddlerhood, let me brace against her as I learned to walk, stood guard maternally at the tops of stairs as a wandered. I'd been struck at how similar to Chiku, the local dogs were, until H pointed out that they were another colonial vestige, terriers brought over by the Brits, that had outlasted the sunset of the British Empire.
Ahh, but where were we? Ruminations on pets and history aside, we were being approached by two men with spears. Actually, we didn't yet know that they had spears - they were each carrying long, rough-hewn sticks, the upright end wrapped in cloth. "You stay at de Lodge?" one asked, after the usual pleasantries. "Yeah. Dis a beautiful place. Where you going?". According to the Rough Guide to Jamaica, the road disappeared within a mile or two, but we'd run across several references to a path that continued on, up to Corn Puss Gap, and then back down to Bath. We'd initially planned to bush/blaze that trail, instead of the Cunha Cunha Pass, so we were still curious about it.
"We goin huntin. For bush pig." I was immediately engaged - "How you hunt pig?", I asked. "De dogs find de pigs, and den dey chase one. When de pig get stuck, das when we kill 'im". Both men were lean, wiry strong. They weren't as open and friendly as most of the people we met, but it's likely that what they were doing wasn't completely legal. This being a National Park and all. Although the pigs were invasives, brought over by the Europeans. So I personally had no objections. Hell, I wanted to come along.
"When de pig trapped, him get angry. Das when its dangerous. Mebbe he come running, try to bite, or wid 'im tusk. Das when we spear 'im..." As he acted it out, holding the spear at the base, pointing straight out, short low jabs. Ok, I still wanted to come along, but was definitely going to hold back for the pig-killing bit. Maybe climb a tree, and take pictures...
"So how you make de spear?" I asked. They were still wrapped in cloth. "You take de point from a machet', an' wrap it tight to de shaf'". Easy enough. And a pretty vicious weapon. I'd been curious about what weapons the Maroons had used, in their battles against the British. The trails into this valley offered excellent opportunities for ambush, dense clustered steep slopes where a well-timed attack would decimate even a well-armed expedition, and the bush would allow the Maroons to fade out of sight within seconds. Bows and arrows , in combination with guerrilla tactics, would be devastating, but spears like these ones would be adequate. I would let the Brits blunder in far enough, for their retreat to be a long one. then study their expeditionary pattern for long enough to find the weak spots. And then once I'd slaughtered them, would put up a pretty little barrier of bamboo and corpses, to greet the next incursion...
I wanted to go with them, but all my gear was back at the cabin. And we were going to do a waterfall hike with Peter, after breakfast. I asked him about the pig hunters, as we ate - "Dey took my bes' dog dis morning, tief 'im from me yard!". As it turned out, those particular pig hunters hadn't - we ran into them that evening - they'd killed no pigs, but we had successfully found a waterfall. I was disappointed, because I really was looking forward to grilling up a hunk of fresh wild pig. And I felt sorry for the dogs, who looked scrawnier than ever. But Peter's dog wasn't part of the pack -
"So why is dis dog dat dem tief so special?", I asked him that evening. We'd already established that some other group of pig hunters had stolen his dog. "Because I train 'im. And I feed 'im up good. I gots de bes' dogs, 'cause I feed 'em all de time.". There was, arguably, some merit, to hunting with hungry dogs. But Peter clearly knew what he was doing, had, according to his accounts, once killed two pigs on one hunt, alone, and carried them both back to town, would bush up to and over the ridge of the John Crow Mountains, through trailless realms where one could wander lost for days...
There is an unfortunate schism, in North America, between the hunters, and the greens. They'd make excellent allies, in my opinion, but the formers consider the latters a threat to their traditional way of life, and the latters consider the formers murderers of sacred Nature. Bambi started it, I think. I came to my love of nature through the greens, but prefer hunters to developers. And have gone sufficiently feral, to appreciate the hunter's aesthetic, altho I still get twitchy, wandering through wildernesses, during hunting season.
So my compromise is, death to the invasives! And uncontrolled populations! Wild pigs and bamboo inhabit the former, predator-free herds of deer in Eastern forests, the latter. Arguably humans as well, but there are ethical complications there. Point being, next time I go, I'm totally going wild pig hunting in Jamaica...
