I live at the top of a very long, very steep, and very terrible piece of road. I affectionately like to think of it as “the worst road in St Ann”. At points almost completely vertical, riddled with enormous potholes deep enough to lose a toddler, or at the very least, a goat kid or two, the taxis doggedly downshift and ancient, lovingly maintained Toyota engines gradually pull them up and over, grumbling all the time.

To get anywhere I carefully walk down this atrocious little piece of paving, avoiding taxis who come barreling down towards the main road. Jamaicans are a boisterous people, and manners call for greeting everyone who passes the yard. As the only whitey in town, I receive even more attention. Most of the kids on the lane know “Miss Taylor”, and all the young men must ask if I need company, no matter how many times I say no.

The slaughterhouse is no exception. It’s a small operation, a concrete slab under a zinc roof, and its proprietor is one of my most ardent admirers. Its a throughly masculine enterprise, and nothing is more ridiculous then these men, shirts and rubber boots splattered with blood, running to the gate to tell me how they wish they could have a nice little girl (read White, with a Visa) like me. Across the road is a small pasture, and usually full of noisy goats and sedate, resigned cow or two. The operation does a brisk business, and I enjoy knowing that I walked by the goat in my curry the week before.

The nasty business begins early in the mornings, before it gets too hot, the men hoisting the pigs upside down by their back feet, which have been tied together. Then, the screaming pig’s throat is slit, and the next wildly protesting hog is lifted into the air. By 8 or 8 30, when I’m usually walking by, most of the killing is finished and the porkers hang in orderly rows from the roof. Bellies have been slit and fires have been lit to burn what can’t be sold. I suspect that smoke also helps to keep most of the flies at bay.

I’d had it on good information-Mr Hopeton, my favorite taxi driver, taxi drivers know everything- that on pig days, around 1 or 2 in the afternoon, the men at the slaughterhouse roast up a pig and sell slabs for $100, which is a bargain. ($100 is a little over a US dollar).

Today as I was walking down, I smelled the fire and saw a pigs head sitting on an oil drum. A sign of good things to come. Then I saw the low grill, covered with pieces of meat, so after the obligatory greetings, where every male must profess his sincere desire to make me his wife, I asked what was cooking. It was the best thing I could have done. One of the men selected a small piece and handed it too me, waving off my cash. “No, no, you pay next time!”

The pork was hot, and smelled like the best piece of bacon in the world, which is essentially what it was- alternately chewy and crispy, fatty and salty, with a couple bristles for authenticity. It was divine, and the taste of salt stayed on my lips for a while afterwards. Knowing what awaits me in the afternoons will make the screaming hogs bearable. “Lovely!”, I’ll think.
“I wonder how long until lunchtime.”