Some Romanians, some Hungarians, and an American drive into the mountains at
the crack of dawn to kill a pig…a good beginning for a joke, right???? Too
bad, it’s true.

I set my alarm for 4:45am because we were scheduled to leave for the
mountains at 6:15 and I wanted to have enough time to shit, shower and shave
and eat something before we hit the road. When I left my house, the sun had
not even begun to lift its weary head.

The drive was quite lovely with the winding roads and snow-capped hills.
The sky was a cloudy grey and the air was cold, crisp and felt electric.
Halfway to the mountain town of Jina, where we were headed, it started
snowing.

What was quite surprising was the homes we passed were quite plush. Usually
these small mountain villages look like poor shanty towns with homes made of
rotting wood and tin roofs that look like a good wind would blow them over.
Csilla (the ASTRA Film Studio director’s wife and one of the Hungarians), my
hostess for the slaughtering, explained to me that these were shepherds’
villages and that the shepherds in this area are known for being very rich.
There is a long history of their wealth and how their professions were not
ruined by communism. Actually, shepherds prospered under Ceausescu. One
from this area owned a helicopter which he used to fly his cheese into
Bucharest during Ceausescu’s rule. The shepherds from this area were also
allowed to leave the country at will. For some odd reason, which she said
was too long to tell, the shepherds were left alone during communism and
were allowed to keep their sheep and their property and travel, unlike the
rest of the country where the people were stripped of their land, homes and
businesses and forced to live in blocks and take government-controlled jobs.
As we passed through the only poor town, Rod, Csilla informed me that this
town was poor because during WWII the shepherds from the town were fighting
in the war and never returned. Those left behind were forced to raise
goats, which is the low end of the herding chain, and the town never
recovered.

Csilla told me that she is trying to get Dumitru to make a documentary about
the shepherds from this area because he knows all the inside stories. I
also think it would make an interesting study. Possibly, a future project.

Along the drive up the winding, narrow streets, we shared the road with many
cows, horses, and pigs out on their daily strolls, as well as horse-drawn
carts filled with hay. Little kids were out playing with sleds. They were
dressed in the traditional village attire: hats that resemble a tall
cylinder made of curly lamb’s fleece perched on the top of their heads,
stiff white pajama-like outfits embroidered with black trim and belted with
a black embroidered sash. A thick vest made of long haired sheepskin
protected them from the wind. This traditional picture, however, was
betrayed by their modern footwear, which bore the only hint of the 21st
century — the Nike trademark.

When we got to Dumitru’s (director of ASTRA Film) father’s house in Jina at
about 7:45 AM, his sister was outside in front wrapped in blankets and
scarves and sweeping away the snow with a bundle of sticks. She opened the
gate, which looked like an old fortress, so we could pull in. Dumitru’s
father met us at the cars. He was an old, small man, bent from old age and
years of backbreaking labor. He rested his weight on two small hand-carved
wooden canes. Although he eyes had that soft, watery look of age, you could
still imagine the twinkle that must have been there during is youth. He was
a sweet old man bursting with stories and conversation. I could tell he
loves to entertain, but has very few visitors.

Today was a day of excitement for him. Not only was his son returning with
his wife and eldest child, but also his two brother-in-laws (Hungarian), his
cook and his driver (Romanians), and me (the American). When his father met
me, he laughed and said in his soft, raspy voice that the Americans he had
been waiting for since the war had finally come.

We quickly unloaded all the stuff from the cars and went into the house. I
could tell that it had once been a well maintained home that was now
well-worn and covered with a year’s worth of dust. Dumitru’s mother died a
year ago, but her presence still remains. The embroidered curtains at the
windows now torn, the lace tablecloth now stained, the needlepoint pictures
on the walls now covered in dust, and the crumpled hand-knitted blankets on
the couches quietly reflect the care that was once taken to create this
family’s home. Six children grew up in this modest, three-room house. The
kitchen contained two daybeds, an old, tiled, wood-burning stove, as well as
a second gas stove, a wooden table to eat at with seven mismatched chairs,
and a dresser and cabinet for dishes. The other two rooms contained more
beds, and shelves and shelves of dusty old books. The only photos were an
old wedding photo of Dimitru’s parents and two portrait style photos of his
parents that Dumitru took three years ago.

As soon as everything was tucked neatly into a corner, a tray of shot
glasses filled with polinka (triple distilled tuica) magically appeared.
This stuff could probably remove rust. Everyone took a glass and offered
the usual cheers of “noroc” and “senatate” before downing the shot. At
about 8 am, a shot of paint thinner was the last thing I wanted, but when in
Romania…I slugged back the shot and shuttered as the hot liquid burned a
hole in my gullet. Then Dumitru hollered, “gata” (ready) as he picked up a
rather large knife and headed for the door. All the men followed and so did
I. It was time for us to slaughter a pig.

We gathered in the courtyard to the back of the house. One of the men from
the neighborhood went into the small wooden shack off the courtyard to fetch
the little porker. Some of the cobble stones were slick and shiny with
frozen blood. They looked like giant puddles of rubies glistening under the
shadowy sunlight. Two weeks ago, another little piggy met his destiny in
this same courtyard, and what remained of him was in the smokehouse in the
backyard.

My thoughts were pierced by the shrill squeals of the little pig. The local
was pulling the pig out of the shack by a rope tied to the piggy’s right,
front hoof. The little piggy was not coming willingly. The other men got
behind the pig and pushed it forward. The squeals and chortles were
deafening. My body grew stiff with its fear. I wanted to cry, but I was
too numb to feel emotion.
I watched as the five men toppled the pig. The pig was a female and she was
squealing and kicking wildly. Dumitru hollered for me to get the knife,
which he had dropped. I picked it up and handed it to one of the men who
motioned for me to take his spot on the pig. I put my hands, knee, and
weight on the wriggling animal. She was kicking and bucking and squealing
like mad. I could feel her pulse. The man I replaced stabbed her in the
throat and the blood started gushing out like hose at medium force. She was
still kicking and squealing when he stabbed her deeper in the same spot.
She let out long squeal as her life slowly eked away. The cook appeared
carrying a plastic bin to collect some of the blood gushing from her throat
for the sausages. The pig kicked the pan causing some of the blood to slosh
onto her rubber boots. One of the men grabbed the hoof so the cook could
collect more blood. Finally, the squeals subsided and she was finally
still.

I am not quite sure what I felt at that moment. It wasn’t horror or disgust
because I was too stunned to be that definite. I felt very calm, but
underneath, unable to burst through the emotionless surface was a cacophony
of silent, screams swirling around in my head. I must have looked rather
strange because everyone kept asking me if I was all right or needed to sit
down. Then, out came another couple rounds of polinka shots, which I was
glad to swig back. I needed a little hair on my chest if you know what I
mean.

The next step, was to remove the pigs hair. This step consists of covering
the pig with straw and lighting it on fire. I was told that the straw gives
the pig a better flavor than using a gas-fueled flame thrower. So there in
the courtyard, the little pig was pulled to the center. A few of the men
slapped her on her rosy bottom and made jokes that I didn’t quite
understand. The sight of a couple toothless men grinning over the pig
reminded of the scene from Deliverance when the horrible hillbilly slaps Ned
Beatty’s ass. But trust me, this scene was freakier.

When they set the pig on fire, everyone came out of the house to watch and
feel the warmth. It was as if they were at a pleasant bonfire. After the
straw burned down, they swept away the ash and brought out a crude, electric
flame thrower that was filled with wood and straw. They continued burning
the pig, and scraping it until all the hair was gone. Then they washed and
scrubbed the soot from her skin.

They transferred the body to a low wooden platform that looked like one side
of a wooden step ladder. With a few good swings of the an ax, they managed
to chop off the head, which they sat on a nearby stump. Its eyes watched us
as we barbarically hacked away at its lifeless body.

They repositioned the headless carcass on her back to split her open
lengthwise and remove the organs. Next, the woman came out with a large
wooden bowl and patiently waited to collect all the innards. Using a 7-inch
blade, one of the men split the pig down the middle and her legs were spread
akimbo, the men made a few sexual jokes as they cut out her vagina saying
that no one needed that anymore. The women chuckled too as they collected
the bloody organs, intestines, and stomach for cooking. Another man
chuckled and slapped me on the back and said, “It’s no longer an animal.
Now it’s just food.” I halfheartedly smiled. But as I looked at the
remains, I just felt sad. What crazy lengths people will go to get a good
meal.

They used the ax again to split the spine and divide the carcass in half.
Since it was cold and snowing, they took a workbench from the shed and
carried it into the house and set it up in the kitchen. Two of the men
carried the two halves of the pig inside while another took the ax and split
the head that was sitting on the stump in two. A woman scooped up the brain
and took it inside. Everyone chuckled at how small the brain was for such a
large animal.

Now let me describe this picture. The workbench with the bloody halves of
the pig was on one side of the room. Right next to it was a daybed where
Dumitru’s daughter was sleeping under a pile of coats. The bloody hoof of
the pig was hovering about six inches from her head.. I made sure to put my
coat and hat on the other side of the room because as the body was cut into
pieces, the blood and bits of flesh flew all over. Someone told me to go
out into the garden to see what the women were doing.

So, I put on my coat and went outside. They were in the backyard cleaning
out the intestines. They had gotten most of the shit out of them already.
The cold air helped to control the smell. They were in the second rinse
phase and asked me if I wanted to try, so I did. When else would I get the
chance to clean out a pig’s intestines. They gave me a long piece about a
yard in length. To me, the line “seven miles up my hole” has a vivid
meaning now. I held an end in each hand. With my index finger and thumb of
my left hand, my other three fingers were still holding one of the ends, I
clamped a section of the intestines about ten inches from the end in my
right hand, Then one of the women poured hot water into the end in my right
hand. The ten inch section filled up like a veiny balloon. I loosened my
index finger and thumb so that the water could travel through the rest of
the intestines and wash out the remaining gunk. We repeated this process
two more times until all the crap was washed out. I went inside the house
and gave my hands good scrub. There is no running water in the house, so I
had to use a bowl of water to wash.

Someone offered me a big mug of spiced wine and I gladly drank it. I needed
to keep a light buzz on to make it through this day. Once I finished it, it
was quickly refilled.

By this time, one half of the carcass had already been cut up into sections.
Some parts were sitting on the dining table, which was located about three
feet from the workbench. The strange thing was, there were people eating
bread and zakusca on that same table with the bloody hunks of meat. No one
seemed worried about germs from the raw meat mingling with the prepared
food. People were also a little tipsy by this point from all the polinka
and spiced, warm wine.

I started mopping up the pools of blood that had formed on the floor and
tracked throughout the house. I surprised by how mechanically I performed
this action. Maybe I’ve discovered a new career. I can become a butcher’s
assistant.

More wine and polinka was consumed. By now my bladder was full and I needed
to go to the bathroom. I asked Csilla where the toilette was and she told
me it was the small shed in the garden. JEEZUS CHRISTMAS, I have to use an
outhouse????? My face must have revealed my horror because she chuckled and
said it natural, we are in the country. Thank god I had had the forethought
to bring some toilette paper.

I downed some more polinka before heading out to the shed. I needed to
really numb the old brain for this one. I opened the door and was
immediately hit with the scent of shit and urine, but 15 times more
concentrated than what had come out of the pig’s intestines. There was a
small hole in the middle of a splintery board and at the bottom of the hole
was a pile of toilette tissue covered in browny, yellowy diarrhea. It was
disgusting. I felt my mouth grow sour. As I pulled my pants down and
steadied my bottom over the hole (cuz there was no way I was gonna sit
down), I tried to focus on the door handle. But just above in the corner, I
noticed a huge spider web filled with leaves and bugs. I quickly forced out
as much urine as I could, wiped, pulled up my pants, and ran out. My
biggest nightmare: to be bitten by a poisonous spider and found dead in a
filthy outhouse with my pants down in Jina, Romania.- I returned to the
house and gave my hands yet another scrub in a bowl of water.

Next cutting boards were set up on the table and knives distributed. We
started slicing the hunks of meat into smaller pieces. Some were to be used
for the carnati (sausages) and the blood sausages, and some for lunch, while
other sections were bagged for later use. After the second half of the pig
was cut into sections, the men set up two large iron meat grinders.
Everyone took a turn grinding the meat for the sausages, even yours truly.
After we finished grinding the raw meat, it was dumped into a big tub to be
seasoned. Through the same grinders, we mashed garlic and onion. That too
was dumped into the minced meat and mixed. They added spices to the
mixture. People started tasting the raw mixture to see if it needed
anything. When they decided that the taste was right, they brought out the
sausage making machines and the casings. I’d say they made about 20 feet of
carnati. When the carnati were finished, they rapped them around a large
stick so they would not rupture and took them out to the smokehouse.

By this time our meal was ready. They had fried some of the pork with its
own fat along with onions and garlic, served with mamaliga (or polenta),
sour sliced cabbage, and pickles. We ate at the same table we had just cut
up the meat. They did wipe it off with a rag, but there were still bits of
raw flesh scattered about. The large pot of cooked pork was set in the
center of the table on a piece of cardboard to absorb the heat. We did not
use plates, instead we took a hunk of mamaliga with our hands and with a
fork ate out of the pot. The meat was very tender and flavorful. I dipped
the mamaliga into the juice that had collected at the bottom of the pan. I
must say it was quite tasty. After we finished eating, the women cleared
the table and washed the dishes in a small pan of hot soapy water and then
rinsed in another pan of clear water. The men drank more spiced wine and
serenaded the women with some old shepherds’ songs.

When the dishes were cleaned, the women left the room. They returned with
the cooked organs and the head. They pulled the meat off the head and mixed
it with spices, onions and garlic. This mixture was put in the stomach and
tied to that it was nice and tight. They took the stomach to another room
below where there was another stove to cook. The organs were put through
the grinders and then mixed with spices and garlic. Next the boiled blood,
which was now gelatinous and the most beautiful, deep, cherry red I had ever
seen, was brought in and also put through the grinders with rice and added
to the organ mixture. Again, the concoction was mixed well. More casings
were used and another 20 feet of sausages were made.

By now it was about 7:00pm and everyone was tired and ready to go home. We
cleaned up the kitchen and washed all the cooking apparatus. The workbench
was taken back to the shed, and the floor was given a final mop. Then, we
packed up the cars and said our goodbyes. Dumitru’s father told me that I
should stay in Romania and marry a Romanian man because I would make a good
wife. On that note, I think I’ll pack my bags and race home!

Although it was a day of blood and violence, it was also a fun family
gathering of tradition and song. It was explained that the locals believe
that on this day the spirits from beyond, both good and bad, circle the
event. It is important to go into the slaughtering with a clean heart so
that you don’t attract the bad spirits to enter you. Many people fast
before the slaughtering to cleanse themselves of impurities. Maybe later in
the week I’ll report that my head did a 360 while I spewed green vomit
screaming “Fuck me!” to the top of my lungs while poking myself bloody with
a crucifix. Oh sorry…that’s The Exorcist. Oh yeah, in the film version
of this day, the villagers were carrying torches and pig heads on sticks
while dancing, twirling, and chanting wildly through the streets. Fade to
black.

Asta e (that’s it)!!!!!