So I spent a few satisfying days in Filadelfia, in the heart of the Gran Chaco, but I felt something was missing. Fair enough, the infrastructure to reach the many northern hardly accessible national parks was basically non-existent, so that was a no-go… but I was in the core of Paraguay’s countryside without really having seen the true countryside. That had to change.                       

I stared at the crinkled piece of paper two cheerful Belgian chaps had pushed into my hand earlier that day. Estancia Paraguaya*. I knew calling that number had consequences… the sum of a farm + in the region of the Gran Chaco + within a Mennonites community + who thrive on the meat and dairy industry made it quite obvious to me. I was headed to a meat farm where innocent cattle was brought into life to subsequently die for our pleasure (taste), shattering my vegan heart into a thousand pieces. However, my fingers were already moving over the keyboard, controlled by my subconsciousness. This memory had to be made, good or bad, I can’t close my eyes for everything. 

In order to understand a country, to dive into a culture, you sometimes have to submerge yourself into standards that are not your own, going beyond your own ethical judgment or life spectrum.  

While sweat glued my hair against my forehead and mosquito mouths kissed my sun-dried skin I held my carton sign above my head to create the only available shadow. 45 degrees, why are people voluntarily living here? There were hardly any cars, but I was determined to let the first one stop for me, as walking with 2 backpacks in the unforgiving midday heat is something my north-European body is simply not made for.     

An approaching growl of a distant motor… honking of a vehicle… squeaking tires forming a chalky cloud of dust. I did it. The first car, it stopped.  

And it wasn’t only going to drive me a few kilometers in the right direction, it was going to drop me off right at the farm’s doorstep, 20km out of the way. The things four men are willing to do for a single woman in need. A round-faced man ran towards me, his bulky belly wetly clinging to his damp blouse. I must be Stephanie, welcome home.     

Once I threw my hefty backpack into a corner and installed myself in front of the ventilator with a loud groan of satisfaction the man entered the big living room to ask if I would join for lunch… he just finished cutting the meat off the calve he just slaughtered, it couldn’t possibly be fresher than that. With a whitish shade I shook my head, “veg… vegan” I stuttered. The man had to process that for a while and then replied with a deep chuckle, “Right, you’re the one that’s keeping my Christmas bonus away! Come on, I’ll show you around on the farm instead, snackst du Plautdietsch? 

While water dripped of his forehead he preceded me to the stables, all the while recounting the pure pleasures of day-to-day farming and rural life. This is a happy place where cows graze freely, just like in the commercials, he reassured me.     

I heard the distressed mooing fortifying. Are you sure about that? That doesn’t sound happy. That blood on the floor… that doesn’t look happy to me either. What is that flesh floating into it anyway? “Oh, testicles, we’re castrating our young cattle.” I closed my eyes and recalled how my male cats got castrated. Unconscious needless to say, I wouldn’t want my dear pet to be in pain, just like I wouldn’t enjoy having my own vag sliced open without anesthetics (or at all). That’s however not the case when you’re a cow. You see, if you’re a cow you’re not as cute as those cats and dogs humans grew to be so fond of, which means we don’t give a flying fuck if you’re in pain or not. We can divide you from your mother, slit her throat open right in your sight, lock you up in a dark cell with all other fresh orphans and slam you out to cut your balls off without pain-killers to later on eliminate you at the age of 18 months, even though your natural life-span is 15-20 years. Because that’s accepted in our society: you’re not a living creature, you’re a resource. 

I tell you one thing. It doesn’t matter if you die on green grass or in a factory. Would it be different to you if you’re raped in Disney World or murdered in a beautiful palace? Do you accept an ax in your neck with a smile on your face because you had a short but rather cheerful life? No. Abuse is abuse and dying is dying. And if you eat meat that’s what you support, whatever you tell yourself to make you feel less guilty or responsible.    

Look how happy that cow is! He can’t wait to climb under the gate and celebrate with his equally happy cow-friends (that aren’t dead yet)! 

But I never say those things out loud. Because vegans are not supposed to force those beliefs on others. Even though that’s exactly what the meat and dairy industry did from our childhood on: mass-brainwashing society for profit, pushing ethics and environmental issues aside, playing with our health, disconnecting us from the origins of our food. I stared through my upcoming tears and watched the man and his sons tossing away a fresh pair of testicles. They are not disconnected from their food, at least. They know exactly what’s going on. They do all those things with their bare hands and have no problems sleeping at night. They just exchanged the perception of a living being into one as ‘food on legs’, which I guess explained why they can commit such cruelties but at the same time be friendly individuals.    

I walked away. I heard a voice behind me, asking if I was hurt. No, I wasn’t, ask that the injured soul you’re holding the balls of. I needed to see this, just like I didn’t avoid visits to Cambodia´s Killing Fields or Sachsenhausen’s concentration camp, but I had to process this shake-up from in-your-face-reality. Awareness is the main road to activism. Let it simmer. 

In order to not sit in my tent crying for 48 hours in a row or end up angrily burning the entire farm down, I decided I needed to get my head off things for a bit. Luckily the ranch had many options for lazy recreation. A ping-pong and pooltable, a midget golf course and a lake with a little island in the middle where you can either swim, tube or kayak to.     

Combined with an endless supply of hammocks this is how the word ‘holiday’ takes shape. While picnicking with my brought-along bean-burgers I let the beautiful side of life cover its ugliness.  

As I was the only one around I jumped out of my clothes and plunged backwards into the refreshing water. While the liquid cloak with its spot-on temperature wrapped around my body I slowly allowed my torso to float to the surface. What a twisted delight of a place, heaven right next to hell, I murmured horizontally.     

The perfect spot to camp, smack-bam beside the lake in absolute solitude, the breeze shielding off all mosquitos… If your tent is wind-proof, that is. The plastic poles of my pathetic excuse of a tent were swiftly broken into two pieces when the first blow of air stroke besides it, which meant I had to pitch my repaired monstrosity at the only wind-free place at the yard, on the dreary cement path at the back of the house.     

Well, I wasn’t going to sleep that night anyway, so why would it matter? After I watched the orange sun set from the top of a hill covered in wild greenery, overlooking the entire campo, I ran into the Belgian boys again.     

They just returned from a wildlife-spotting-trip with the farmer’s wife, during which they could admire Chaco’s abundant fauna from quite close up as the touring car they were in had ran over a few mammals itself. Which “didn’t matter, as there were enough animals anyway.” Mildly shocked they chewed on their dinners, reflecting on an unusual yet interesting day flushed away by a communal bottle of wine.  

The night brought a whole new spectrum of sounds and vibrations, which triggered my fresh-made friends and I to explore the ranch’s life in obscurity. Embellished with head lamps and torches we disappeared into the darkness to see what the outdoors had in store for us.     

Frogs, insects and a wide variety of spiders, is the answer to that. Not the (distant) pumas and ant-eaters we hoped for, but that couldn’t rain on our parade. I’m always surprised how with zero resources and in the middle of bloody nowhere the best parties spring up without prior notice. It was 8AM when I decided to see what my temporary bed looked like, to conclude I couldn’t sleep at all anymore anyway.  

I wasn’t in the position to leave. If the sleepiness might kick in unexpectedly it’s better to be already lying in a hammock, just in case. So I stayed.       

I needed another full day floating in a lake in between the swarming wildlife of the Gran Chaco. Who doesn’t?

      * Pseudonym.

Until we meet.

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