The China Journal - Day 30

We wake up at dawn to the sounds of pigs beings slaughtered a few metres away from our bedroom window. As each new pig is herded from its pen and wrestled to the ground by a large group of men, its' piercing cry fills the air, and with the passing of each desperate moment, as the pig struggled in vain to free itself from certain death, the cries would increase in intensity and volume. I know when the end is close at hand when I can hear the strained gurgling of the pig choking on its own blood, accompanied by a few gargled gasps and then silence.

We spend much of the day hiking through the hills surrounding the Dong village of Zhaoxing, exploring a number of smaller villages tucked away in the hills and amongst the vast expanse of rice terraces. I manage to fall knee deep into the muddy waters of the rice paddies not once but twice, prompting us to take a detour to the river to wash off the sludge that covered my shoes and legs.

We return to Zhaoxing in the late afternoon to find pig remains strung across the top of a wind and rain bridge at the eastern entrance to the village. We learn that there is to be a feast that night in honour of a newborn's one-month birthday. path leading up to our guesthouse is lined with animal parts from a variety of sources and women are busy cooking large vats of curried fish, chicken, and of course, pork. We get invited to attend the banquet by the owner of our guesthouse. He leads us to a small, circular wooden table identical to the numerous others set up along the river, each one covered with large bowls featuring a number of local delicacies. On the menu this night: chicken heads, pig rump and pig hearts marinated in fresh pig's blood.