PAPI AND THE SKINNY PIGS EPISODE, 1979

My next story comes from somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind. This time, I was just laying in bed contemplating my 74th birthday, when this vision of Peru leapt into my mind. It is a very meaningless and even frivolous memory, but I decided to put it to paper, anyway. It is a story that demonstrates how, even the best of intentions can go wrong. The scene is high up in the Andes mountains, near our workplace in Huambo, Peru sometime in early 1979. The principal characters are my Canadian/German friend (Wolka from the Colca) and Deysi’s father (Papi). I am writing this because, as I lay thinking about it, I had to chuckle a bit at the recollection.

Before I continue, I want to lay out a bit of the background, surrounding our job in Peru. Just in case anyone has forgotten why I was there. The Canadian company that I worked for was part of a group of World Bank Countries who were funding a major humanitarian project in Peru. I was sent along to see if I could help. Our task was to divert a river (Rio Colca) from high in the Andes, thru the mountain tops and out onto the Atacama Desert. All for the purpose of irrigation and growing food crops. It was a huge job consisting of a couple of hundred kilometres of tunnels and canals. The place, where I spent all of my two year assignment, was called Huambo. We lived there in a camp at about 11,000 feet above sea level.

Within a year of my arrival, I had met and been wooed by an Andean beauty, who I variously call by the name of Deysi, Bubbaloo or more often “sorry, love”. After our marriage we lived together, during the weekdays, at our camp in the mountains. About every 5th or 6th week (on a rotation basis) we were required to remain in camp over the weekend. This was to provide a management authority, onsite, in the event of something happening and a management decision being needed. So, during these times, Deysi and I would bring her family, dad, mom, sisters, and brothers up to the camp for a weekend away from town. They never said “no” to an invite, so I assume they enjoyed these trips.

Our sector looked after a series of canals and tunnels near the end of the project. We were located at a point where the diverted river would be turned west and dropped down onto the desert. We had a very self-sufficient site. It included everything and everyone needed to construct roads, tunnels, canals, buildings, services, camps and medical facilities. The tunnels and camps were divided between tunnel superintendents (or engineers). They were completely responsible for housing and feeding the labour force they needed for their own particular piece of the work. This is where I met “Wolka from the Colca”. He was in-charge of a couple of tunnels and canals, close to where our main office was located. So we would see him daily.

Wolka, was a big German/Canadian boy from Vancouver. He was about 6’1″ tall, and weighed in at a svelte 250 pounds. He had a very funny shape. From his neck down, his figure was all one size. His upper torso was 50 inches around, his stomach was 50 inches and his hips were 50 inches. Attached to this barrel shaped torso were two legs, that resembled tree stumps. Wolka was very opinionated and took great pride in his work. He had tramped around Latin America for many years and could speak Spanish like a Peruvian. I mean, if you wanted to talk around a subject, Peruvian style, for hours, then he was your man. Geezus, when I write that down, it hits home. I am sure I am half Peruvian, because I can beat around a subject endlessly, before getting to the point.

In any event, Wolka being in charge of his group of tunnels and people, was always looking at ways to reduce costs. Additionally, he was always trying to improve life for his workers. He measured his success in daily progress at his work fronts. Wolka did not take lightly, any criticism of his work record, his work ethic or his decisions regarding his area of responsibility. He was a big strong man, so only the very brave or mentally unbalanced, ever confronted him. Him and I became fast friends. I shared a flat with him before being wooed by Deysi. Even after we were married, Deysi and I shared a flat in Arequipa with Wolka, for some months, prior to finding a house to move into.

My story starts about 3 months earlier, before Deysi and I are married. When, one day Wolka enters our staff diner and announces, “I have just had a great idea!” As usual, with that kind of pronouncement, a crap storm inevitably followed. He goes on to explain. “I am going to raise food for my workers right at the tunnel front instead of buying it from the local villages.” He adds, “that way food for my workers will be more fresh. “I am going to raise pigs, using the scraps from our kitchen.” “We will raise them, until they are of a suitable size, and then feed them to the workers.” “Pork or Chancho is one of the favorite foods of my workers.” Looking around the dining room, I see looks of boredom, disinterest, or who cares, displayed on the faces of those present.

I’m not sure if anyone, including myself even had an opinion of his new idea. Undaunted by our lack of interest, he goes to the nearest village and purchases 8 piglets. He proceeds to build a pen for them at his tunnel face, and feed them on the waste from his kitchen. This, he views as a major recycling breakthrough. Wolka was a bit obsessive-compulsive. That meant, his pig raising days took up a lot of his free time. Not to mention that each and every meal, we ate together in our staff dining room, included a progress report by Wolka, regarding his Pig project. He was a man obsessed. It like to have drove, those of us around him, crazy. Every word was Chancho this, Chancho that. This went on for a long time!

Anyone that got anywhere close to him, was regaled with pig stories. If you ever had an hour free time, then Wolka would take you up to his work front to show you his pride and joy. That being, his pigs. He fancied himself a downright business genius. Wolka believed, that soon, his idea would catch on at all of the workfronts throughout the Andes, and he would be seen as a hero. He measured these pigs daily, impatiently waiting for the time when he could serve them for dinner to his workers. His favorite word had become Chancho. Myself and others around him were truly tired of stories about his litter of Chanchos. He could talk pigs for hours.

Even on the weekends when we went down to the main city, his pig stories followed. Before leaving the mountains he would assign one of his most trusted lieutenants to feed and guard his pigs. I believe his security was tighter around the pigs, than anywhere else in his domain. Often times, on the weekends, we would join Deysi’s family for lunch or dinner. Wolka would then corner anyone present and bombard them with tales of his pig plans. In his mind he was a social and environmental pioneer of the Andes. He could not have been more proud of himself. Many times I noticed some of the people, that he had cornered, gazing into the ceiling with that, “who gives a crap” look on the faces. He was oblivious.

After the passage of a few months time, and at the point that none of us could stand another pig lecture, he announced that the pigs were nearing fully grown and about ready for the dinner table. I could see everyone present shrinking into their seats at fear of being invited to the Chancho feast. After all, most of us had heard so many tails of his pigs and their exploits, that we felt somewhat attached to them. Eating one of them would have been a little sad. He would spread his arms apart and demonstrate just how big these Chanchos had now grown. One part of me could hardly wait for him to eat these pigs so I didn’t have to hear about them any longer.

Shortly after his announcement, regarding the impending full growth of his herd, it came to pass that Deysi and I were to remain in camp one weekend. We sent a driver down to Arequipa to pick up Deysi’s family for a weekend adventure in the Andes. Because there was nothing to do onsite over the weekends, we spent much of our time touring in the mountains, and seeking adventure. Deysi’s younger siblings seemed to love it. There was always something for them to do there. They pretty much were allowed full access to the staff quarters, kitchen, games area and anything else that they encountered. Everyone tried their best to spoil the young ones.

On this particular weekend, Wolka, having heard that we were staying and bringing up the family, decided that he would also stay in camp. I believe that he thought, “finally I have some outsiders to show my pigs to”! And sure enough, they had barely set a foot on the ground, when Wolka has Deysi’s dad cornered and is giving him an economics lecture about the beauty of recycling waste into full grown Chanchos. I’m not sure, but perhaps, Papi was ready to get back in the van and return to Arequipa. However, he “sucked it up”, and nodded patiently while Wolka pounded him with pig lore. My god, I was convinced that Wolka was going to make us eat one that very weekend.

Bright and early the next day, Wolka was pulled up in front of our quarters to load everyone into the van for a trip to his tunnel fronts. Oh good, I can hardly wait! Not! We arrived at his work front and were given a tour of his domain. As I said before, he was extremely proud of his work and his work place. I mean, it did look pretty good. However, how good is a tunnel face at 12,000 feet in the Andes, ever going to look. It was not someplace you would choose for a vacation getaway. He saves the best for last. You can feel the hype growing as he leads us in back of the kitchen to show us his pride and joy. At last he has an audience. He plants himself and asks, “there what do you think of those?”

Deysi and I and the children are making the appropriate noises of appreciation. In front of us stand 8 black pigs. Now it’s Papi’s turn. He stands very quietly looking over this litter. He then puffs himself up to make his pronouncement. And out comes, “SON MUY FLACOS”. I let this sink in, and then realized that, Papi just told Wolka that his PIGS ARE VERY SKINNY! I was about to let out a mountain shaking laugh, when I saw Deysi’s look. You know, the one that warned me to stifle myself or risk injury. Nonetheless, I nearly wet my pants. You could not have, possibly, hurt poor ol’ Wolka’s feelings any more than if you had just stolen his pet dog. He looked as if someone had soccer kicked him in the huevos.

Never at a loss for words, this one cutting statement from Papi had brought the pig farmer to his knees. He looked at me as if he was going to rip off one of my arms and then beat me with it. The words that came out of his mouth were something like this. “Who is that old “X#@&%$” bastard think he is? What in hell does he know about pigs? Calling my pigs skinny! Let me at him!” All the while this tirade is going on, Papi stands there as calm as could be, righteous in the knowledge that he has dispensed the ultimate truth. There was no diplomacy in Deysi’s father. He called it, like he saw it. Of course, Deysi was not translating Wolka’s string of insults to her dad. I am looking for a place to hide, so I could release my laughter before I choked.

Needless to say, that ended our Chancho tour. Wolka took us back to camp, dumped off the family and told me to meet him in the clubhouse for beer. By the time I get there, he is ready to kill somebody. I then have to listen to him rant, about the nerve of someone making negative remarks about his pigs. Wolka was inconsolable. I listened, but could see only, the raw truth and justice of Papi’s remarks. Truthfully, these were not huge pigs, skinny might have been a little unkind but in some ways, honest. I mean a little diplomacy could have been used. However Papi was never really known for that. I could not wait until the rest of our guys returned to work on Sunday to tell them what had happened.

Deysi kept reminding me not to be so hurtful to ol’ Wolka. Myself, I could not resist the sheer comedy and justice of the situation. I, along with everyone who had suffered months of pig lectures, got many hours of laughter and joy from Wolka’s pain. We laughed until we cried, made pig noises everytime he passed by and spent countless hours replaying his downfall. It just proved how one brutally honest, innocent statement, could bring down the prideful. From that point onward he had a little less time for Deysi’s father and a lot less nice things to say about him. The benefit for the rest of us was that we no longer had too suffer through lectures on the growing of pigs, in the Peruvian Andes.

I have now come to the end of this insignificant piece of our history in the Andes. It was written, partially, to keep alive, memories of the characters I met in Peru, and of the good times we had, with even the simplest of situations. I am sure it means little to my readers, but in a way, the writing of these small events, helps keep some of my younger years real. Please humor an old man and don’t say hurtful things about my memories and stories. I do know that if I ever meet Wolka from the Colca, again in this lifetime, this will be one of the first things I bring up. Hopefully the years have healed the physiological damage, inflicted by Papi, on a poor gringo in Peru.