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over the fence into the pen, where a large sow and four fat shoats ran about. He picked one out and began an entertaining pursuit. The squeals of the pigs were deafening. Finally he caught one, lifted it up by its hind legs, and handed it over to Kevin. Karl climbed back out of the pen and drew out a sharp knife. ‘You all hold its legs, and I’ll slit its throat.’

‘How can you do it right here, in front of its mother and brothers?’ Marcus protested.

‘Bullcrap,’ Karl replied. ‘Their turn will come soon enough.’

Marcus refused to have any part in it. He wouldn’t even watch. Kevin and I firmly gripped the fluttering legs. Karl grabbed hold of the pig by its ears and skilfully slit its throat. A pool of blood gathered on the ground near the fence. Karl carried the pig over to the oven, which stood under a thatched roof in the centre of the clearing. He tied its front legs to one of the pilings. I looked back at the surviving members of the pig family. Two of them had gone over to the pool of blood and were slurping it up thirstily. Inside the pen a fat little piglet was attempting to mount its mother.

What a world, I thought to myself.

Kevin went to get some wood for the oven, and I helped Karl butcher the pig. We laid the loins in large roasting pans. The oven was made of clay, shaped like a little igloo. Within half an hour aromas from the roasting pork wafted through the

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