Skull Toboggan

The Percy Pig adventure

In the year after school I zipped around on my not so trusty fifty cc. Garrelli Junior moped (small motorbike). A number of miraculous escapes and serious, almost injury free falls, prompted my parents to lend me the money to buy my first car. A yellow two door sedan, Vauxhall Viva , with a white roof. With this little car, I and my friends traveled the city and country in search of wine, women and song. More often than not it was mostly wine and song but we all had our enlightening moments with the fairer sex.

 

One particular weekend stands out in my memory for various reasons. We had traveled to my friend Stub’s, parents’ homestead and trading station, at a Xhosa speaking village near King Williams’ Town in the then Transkei or Ciskei, I’m not sure which it was. We arrived when the rest of the uncles and cousins had congregated to help with the slaughter of a huge boar pig. All the family pitched in as it was a mammoth task to kill and butcher a pig of this size. Stub (so called because he was short and stubby), Stretch (6ft 3ins Clive) and I were dispatched to end the boar’s reign, and with my heart beating like a two stroke we marched to the sty. Stretch and I were to herd the pig into the corner of the sty where Stub would apply the coup de gras. This was easier said than done because the pig was bigger than all three of us put together and after repeated failed attempts, with Stretch and I diving through or over the rails at the last minute, we assembled to change our plan of action.

 

The new plan was to get into the sty and use sticks to prod the gigantic pig into the corner for Stub to shoot. By this time, the boar, of course, was in such a rage that it was dangerous for us to even enter the sty let alone have the audacity to poke the enraged animal with sticks, but after what seemed like hours of prodding, shouting and daring escapes, we succeeded in getting him to stand in the corner and Stub delivered the death shot. The boar dropped like it had been pole axed (duh — that’s what just happened). Stretch and I breathed a sigh of relief, even though I felt sick at the sight, and climbed onto the top rail of the sty to catch our breath.

 

There was a squeal, shriek and snort and the boar rose from the “dead”, spun around and charged straight for Stretch and I. Stretch grabbed me and I grabbed Stretch just before the berserk animal smashed into and through the poles underneath us. I landed flat on my back in a pile of fairly dry cow manure, which broke my fall slightly, while Stretch landed face first in the muddy overflow from the sty which consisted of pig pee and poop, half chewed old rotten vegetables and water from the leaking trough. He rose from the mess roaring like a lion only to fall over onto his back into the same swill while clawing at his face to clear it.

 

Spitting out swill and threats he surged to his feet and took off after the pig, while swinging a stick, which he had grabbed, above his head. Stub in the meantime stood rooted to the spot with his mouth hanging open and his eyes glazed. I shouted at him to come and set off after Stretch and Hogzilla.

 

The sight of all six foot three of skinny Stretch, covered in pigswill, charging after the beast, while brandishing his broomstick, and swearing fit to peel the paint off walls, will remain with me forever. He reminded me of a mixture of some drunken hillbilly and Don Quixote who was accused of tilting at windmills. But I digress.

 

The three musketeers took off after the enraged animal with the sole idea of finishing what we had started, before anymore damage was done or someone was seriously hurt. Percy, for that was the pigs’ name, was heading straight for the outhouse, privy or long drop or whatever the thing is called and I was praying that neither Uncle John nor any of his family was communing with nature inside the rickety old loo. Percy and the three of us had reached full speed by this time and no amount of cheering or jeering could deter us from the task at hand. Stub couldn’t shoot, in case there was someone inside the loo, and none of us was near enough to change the path of Percys’ headlong charge. With a squeal – screech, Percy slammed into the privy head first, completely demolishing it in one hit. ——- Deathly silence! ——– Percy stood as if cast in stone, teetered for a few seconds, then fell over sideways with a ground jarring crash. The mangled remains of the long drop was lying off to one side while the carcass of poor old Percy lay dangerously close to the edge of the pit.

 

The rest of the family came running up, and chaos reigned supreme as everybody was breathless from the chase and all were shouting questions about what had happened. We were trying to explain in between taking huge gulps of breath and shouting to be heard above the noise.

Part 2

Once the hubbub had subsided Uncle John took charge and ordered some of the other men to get rope from the garage and to bring the truck in order to transport Percy to the shed for butchering. The “Truck” mentioned, was an ancient Ford 500 that was unlicensed, unroadworthy and a danger to all who attempted to drive the thing. The play in the steering wheel was almost a full turn before the front wheels actually started to move and no license was required as the truck never left the small holding and was used mainly to make deliveries of heavy purchases to the nearby mud hut village. The exhaust pipe was non existent, having fallen off many years earlier and the vehicle would even have looked out of place in a scrap heap.

 

The truck started with a few gurgles and a couple of backfires after being pushed by a sweating cursing band of butchers and with an exhaust free roar, grinding gears and many squeaks, clangs and grating noises, was reversed up to the carcass. A wooden ramp was placed near the pig’s rear end and a rope was tied around the animals’ rear section. Two of the men climbed onto the truck while every other family member tried to get a handhold on the enormous pig.

 

On Uncle Johns’ call we all lifted pulled and strained to slide the carcass up the makeshift ramp. The combined stench of death, smelly, dirty, swill covered Stretch, the stinky old pig and the open cesspit were making us all gag while breathing any of the foul air was getting progressively more difficult as we strained and pulled to slide the carcass up the ramp. Percy lay there defiant in death, and refused point blank to be hoisted up the ramp.

 

Exhausted, dirty, demoralized and sickened by the stench, we all withdrew a hundred paces to discuss our alternatives.

After much discussion it was decided to roll the carcass onto an old tarpaulin and to then tie it to the truck and drag the whole parcel to the shed. After much more straining and sweating, we all cheered when this was accomplished. The rope was tied to the old truck and Stub jumped behind the wheel.

We all retreated to a safe distance again and Stretch wandered off to get a change of clothing after deciding to burn the stinky ones. Stub revved the old engine, which belched great clouds of oily smoke to add to the already toxic atmosphere, and with spinning wheels surged forward to start the drag, but the old crock didn’t have enough power to move the package any significant distance. There was a loud bang as the bumper was torn off the vehicle, which, now unfettered, charged forward narrowly missing one of the family, before coming to a stop. The rope and bumper shot backward, as if it was elastic and demolished the last upright section of the already wrecked privy. This whole butchering thing was fast becoming a hilarious number of incidents which are only seen in comic books and cartoons.

 

The rope was untangled and loosened from the bumper, then retied to the rear axle of the truck, which would have been the best spot in the first place, and the entire family including the women stood around the truck ready to push once Stub had taken up the ropes’ slack. Again, with a deafening roar and much shouting, the vehicle charged forward and with assistance from all of us, we dragged Percy to his final destination.

 

Once in the shed Percy was hooked to the block and tackle and hoisted up by the hind legs so that the butchering could begin. Being a city boy and unused to the slaughter of animals or butchery, combined with the cloying smell, I was feeling decidedly nauseous and faint by this time, so I crept away from the scene to try to catch some much needed fresh air.

 

With a little wisdom on my part I called Stub and Stretch and suggested that we try to rebuild the flattened long drop rather than becoming involved in the butchery process. We assembled some new timber posts, corrugated iron sheeting, nails, screws and tools and started construction. Fortunately all three of us were better suited to construction than butchery and we soon had a brand new toilet facility erected over the long drop, which looked ten times better than the old one, even if I say so myself. With a new door, new seat and a coat of paint the new privy looked and worked very well, so we were forgiven for not killing Percy with the first and only shot, and anyway, after some of the butchery was completed, it was found that the bullet had only just penetrated through the skull bone and into the brain. Because the bullet had not traveled far enough it was decided, that the rounds used, must have been very old and therefore lacked in power, so it wasn’t our fault after all.

 

During all this excitement, exertion, thick air and stink it was decided that we all needed a rest, so we all retired for lunch, which I couldn’t face anyway. Any morsel of food passing my lips would have resulted in an instant evacuation of my delicate feeling stomach. Then the real work began.

A fire was started under a huge cast iron pot and all excess fat was added in order to extract the lard which would be cooled, cut into blocks and frozen. Of course, this process also added to the general stench hanging in the air. Bits of meat from the tougher portions were placed in a big enamel dish and taken inside for spicing, mincing and sausage making.

Being on a trading station where there was no electricity except for a generator for lights and cooking, all of the mincing had to be done by hand, with the three musketeers designated to provide the muscle power to turn the handle.

 

The huge sections of meat that were designated to become bacon were also sent inside, where they would be placed on an electric bacon slicer which would be switched on when the generator was started in the evening. These sections would then be sliced up and packed for freezing. Other sections were hung in a little shed where another fire was started, then covered in green sawdust and allowed to smoke.

 

The smell of freshly butchered pork, while being slightly masked by smoke, garlic, pepper and spices, was nauseating to say the least, and my sense of smell and taste buds developed an aversion to pork that lasted for many, many years, before I condescended to eat any pork products, including bacon, which had been one of my favourite dishes.

 

About the Author

Years of experience with Disability, it’s complexity and survival are tackled head on in these articles. Roly has been wheelchair bound with myositis for some 10 years now and he has numerous articles published in magazines in South Africa and on various sites on the internet.

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