In the jungle, stalking the wild piggies

Pigs are the Rodney Dangerfields of the mammalian world.

They don’t get no respect.

In truth I had never given much thought to creatures of the porcine persuasion for much of my life. When I was in university I used to have to park way out by the pig barns of the agricultural college. They smelled evil. And that was the extent of my interaction with them – an eye-watering wake-up excursion past their vile paddocks.

So, you see I didn’t respect them either. Not that I was averse to bacon, for example. Who of non-Semitic calling is antagonistic to a sinfully unhealthy Sunday morning repast? And, a good roast of pork with applesauce and hot mustard – heavenly. Nothing much better than a good ham with scalloped potatoes on the side.

Yes, I did respect them as culinary fare. But, I didn’t much fancy their sense of decorum or attitude to personal freshness, so I disregarded them as creatures.

That changed for me in 2001.

Way up in the jungle of Rarotonga in the heavenly Cook Islands I had a tiny epiphany about pigs. The Raro jungle is exquisite. It’s all lush and viney and Tarzan-ish. It looks exactly as a jungle in a tropical clime should look. Bonus is there are no snakes, few evil insects (other than mosquitoes that might transmit dengue fever (but a good dousing of heavy deet repellent keeps those bastards at bay), and, oh my, no lions or tigers (or bears), and a few of the ubiquitous mynahs that have destroyed much of the wonderful native bird population of the island – alas.

Anyway, it was there, as we strolled a lovely trail, revelling in the enchantment of the place, and keeping a wary eye heavenward each time we passed under a heavily laden coconut palm (those things can kill you), we passed by a remote pig farm. Why not put it out there? The stink won’t offend any neighbors, and there are no predators.

We looked down from the path at the big porkers going about the business of getting fat for the slaughter (sigh; almost immediately the thought of Sunday’s bacon was a little less appealing for a guy as susceptible to guilt as I am) and continued on our way. Then we heard a scurrying in the underbrush. We looked closely and up popped three little pink heads with ears sticking straight up. They stared at us for a few minutes and then with a squeal that was virtually a screech, two of them, their twisty little tails behind them, scurried frantically down the path toward the farm and (they’d been lulled into thinking) safety. One little guy, however, was braver than the other two. Li’l Mr. Alpha Piggy was going to stand his ground. That lasted for about 10 seconds, after which he, with similar squeal, also evacuated for the piggery.

There are many pigs on Raro. We had a trio on the beach path from our condo. Mama sow was a tethered porker. They do that on the island. They secure a hind foot with a rope and then they set the pig loose on that long lead to root and expel pig poop and thus to cultivate and fertilize a field. The next season it will be planted and the pig will be expedited to another fallow bit of ground. I was of mixed mind as to whether the tethering was cruel. She didn’t seem to mind.

Mrs. Pig (Petunia?) was possessed of three piglets that were just on the verge of leaving the safety of the teat and learning to forage for themselves. There were two females and a strutting boy. He was the bravest of the trio. After a couple of weeks of my walking by he would actually tentatively approach me.

Over the weeks I grew quite attached and realized that pigs have distinct personalities. I got fond of them and did not want to think of their ultimate fate as chops or (adding insult to injury) pork rinds. Pigs, you see, are extremely intelligent and probably more in the realm of dolphins in cerebral acumen than just mere dogs and cats. They can, it is said, be housebroken in a couple of days, and will readily learn their names. If we really considered pigs from humane perspective they likely wouldn’t be considered a source of bacon.

But, we’re situational when it comes to animal esthetics (let’s face it, we are with humans; pretty folk get more breaks than homely ones) so we love our kittens and puppies, but not pigs. A friend, a high school biology teacher, once suggested that if those fluffy baby seals on the Newfoundland ice floes looked like warthogs rather than the big-eyed cuties that they are, nobody would give a damn or be rallying to their defence.

Sadly, I think he’s correct.

But me. I got new respect for pigs when I went to the South Pacific. Alas, I also still eat bacon. Not a lot, but some.