For the first Saturday of Carnivale in Sorata, Bolivia, an unusual event was planned: a Butchering Competition. For such a small town, the competition to be called best (fastest and cleanest) butcher ran high among six families, both men and women alike stepping up to the challenge. In the early afternoon rain, I wandered up road that ran to the cemetary. At that high plaza, overlooking the village and the wild river valley below, about one hundred people of all ages had gathered around six carneceros and their "slaughter teams." Each team brought their cow (lowing nervously) under an arch frame reminiscent of a guilloteen. As it was carnival, kids ran back and forth gaily shooting foamy ribbons of shaving cream. Despite the rain, water balloons sailed across the street. At the official's signal, the crowd pressed closer. The cows were tied, heads lowered, to the archways. Then, at the report of a signal flare, the butchers quickly cut the animals' throats.
With the animal's blood jetting first in a stream, then in the pumps of a heartbeat, the butchers moved in on the frantically kicking cows. Although dying, the bound cows moved wildly, bucking off the butchers as they tried to ready the body on the archway rack. As soon as the animal was still enough, the butchering team moved in to saw the cows' heads off. It was a long process, about three to five minutes of moving a handsaw through unyielding neck tissues. With one hand on the horn to steady the head, each butcher worked at it, while their team began to lasso the dead cow's legs, to hang the corpse upside down on the arch. When the head finally came off, it was left lying to the side with the muscles of the throat still pulsating.
The women, men and teenagers performing the slaughter moved swiftly and with a good deal of laughter. Once the dead cow was hanging from the frame, the guts tumbled from the cows onto ready tarps, quickly hauled away. Grunting with effort, the butchers sawed the backbones out with shouts from the crowd. At a particularly tough spot near where the neck would have been, one bulky female chulita used an axe to cut through the last bit of bone and tissue. The solid 'thwack!' was met with cheers. When the cow was divided, the two halves hung like wings from the rack. The meat was wiped down with a wet rag, and the signal flare shot again to signal a victory. At twenty minutes, the winner had made quick and clean work of a substantially sized animal. Ten minutes later, the last butcher made his final cut. His team seemed disorganized and despondent. By the end of the half hour, the crowd, too, seemed distracted. Kids returned to playing with their water guns. The butchers tidied up their machetes. Dogs moved in between our legs, working their way towards the rivulets of blood joining the light rain in the cracks between the cobblestones.
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