Rancho Conitaca Ruiz: The Gift of the Pig

When my sister Kelly invited me to a Valentine’s Day pig roast in Sonora, Mexico, my curiosity peaked. The idea was initiated last year when Kelly visited her Tucson friend and neighbor, Marcelo’s rancho in Imuris, Mexico and was gifted a pig for helping to construct a corral, but also because he understands that she is a huge fan of pork. So when Kelly’s cochi came to the end of his time on this earth, a multi-national fiesta ensued south of the border with a wild gathering of gringos and local Mexican ranchers.

Rancho Conitaca Ruiz was named in honor of Marcelo’s mother’s childhood ranch in Sinaloa. Mexico.  Marcelo was born and grew up in Tucson spending the summers on his grandparent’s ranch there. He purchased the rancho in Imuris so his two young sons would also have a chance to grow up and experience the traditions of ranch life in Mexico. His grandmother taught him about the gift of the pig and now he too is able to pass it on.

The butchering of the cochi took the better part of the first day and was carried out by a cadre of neighborhood ranchers, Tecates in hand. Three of the four ranchers are named Jesus, and all three go by “Chuy” for short. We learned to distinguish the Chuys by age, dress and demeanor. Then there was José Angel, a weathered yet spry cowboy whose easy smile is framed by several missing teeth.

When the hard work was finished the only evidence of the barnyard cochi was a pile of hair-stained blood on the ground as the animal was scattered between large cook pots and coolers filled with body parts. When the ranchers bemoaned the lack of a horseshoe game one of the gringas assuaged them with her knife throwing set. “Isn’t that a little dangerous?” they asked as sharp knives hurled headlong at a wood fence post. Meanwhile Doña Alma, another neighbor, orchestrated the rest of the gringas in the task of chopping cabbage, radish, onion, and cilantro for the garnishes while she stewed a big pot of posolé over an open fire in the kitchen.

The sun sank low on the horizon, casting long shadows along the fallow pastures and igniting the clouds in shades of fuchsia and vermillion. Outside the smell of carnitas marinated in the crooked hat Chuy’s secret Sinaloan recipe cooking over an open fire in a gigantic copper pot filled the evening air. At first, communication across our language barrier was difficult, yet as the night wore on beer, knives, food and music became the universal language. The song “De Colores,” was well received and soon enough the Mexicanos were calling for an encore performance of “Wagon Wheel.”

José Angel became enamored with Kelly’s friend Jill when we went on a late night town run for beer, cigarettes and candles. He was in awe of the way she commanded her 4-wheel drive pickup truck, negotiating the rugged dirt roads and stream crossings at high speed. At the liquor store we all took turns posing with the life size tequila bottle donned with a bumper sticker that read: “Boot Bush.”

As our last night at the ranch wore down, fueled by bacanora, the local moonshine tequila, the women took turns dancing around the fire with José Angel, whose 18-year old white horse was tied up to the bumper of the truck, ready for the ride home under the stars. Banda music from Sinaloa blasted from the open cab, songs filled with melancholy lyrics and the soulful cries of trumpets.

This pig represents a great gift, an offering shared across borders, a connection that is that is extended not just to Kelly and her gringo friends, but also throughout the food chain including those who helped care for, butcher and feed us the pig. Marcelo is in a position where he can afford to share with his neighbors, but many of them are not so lucky. Yet Marcelo will continue to struggle with the fact that since his sons are not Mexican citizens they cannot inherit Rancho Conitaca Ruiz and could lose their tenuous ties to Mexico in the future.

In the name of homeland security we continue to build fences along a 2,000-mile artificial border that has been crossed freely by humans and animals for several thousand years, before policies and fear separated us. Despite the fence, we felt the generous spirit of Mexico in the sharing of food and culture. I am ashamed that U.S. immigration policies only allow for this intercambio to be a one-way exchange. The loss is ours.