As So Much Cattle

The pillar of thick black smoke that rose above the highway camp, although completely unexpected, was unsurprising to me as I rounded one of the many bends between Tryall and the near side of Sandy Bay. At this point, I was still nine kilometers from the end of my morning commute, and at the first location where I could spy the thirty meter tall cement tower and the balance of the compound, on the point of land the maps designate simply as Pointe.

Sure, I was unsurprised (that is my island mantra, “I’m not surprised”), yet I was mildly disturbed. If the camp were to be burned to the ground, the day’s efforts would become more challenging. While the machines get backed up regularly, the paper records would certainly be damaged, and to recreate three years of project documentation would be just slightly more than annoying.

With each bend along the coast, I was a little nearer to the office, and I could get another brief glimpse of the goings on at Pointe. The plume of smoke was still rising, and my irk was turning to ire. Something like this was sure to be intentional, and I quickly ran down the list of suspects.

Top of the list,... the contractor. He would not be the first one to torch a poorly performing project. He certainly had unfettered access to the site. He was well aware of what would burn. He had little to gain by continuing his efforts here.
Of course, labor had to be disgruntled by the way they were let go, with little warning and no future prospects. They, too, knew what would burn, and site access was as easy as bribing one of the underpaid guards at the gate. Hell, storming the gates would not be far fetched, considering previous mob actions associated with this project.

Third on the list, the JLP (Jamaica Labour Party). If this project fails, they are one step closer to regaining control of the government, as the inability to construct the highway would be (and already is) a huge embarrassment to the current party in power, the PNP (Peoples National Party). Considering the level of ultra-violence that surrounds the national elections on their five year cycles, and the rapidly diminishing popularity of the JLP, I would not put it past the party irregulars to resort to such flamboyant tactics.

With each kilometer, the Dogwagon seemed to squeak and rattle with a greater sense of urgency. I have had projects go down in flames before, but it was always in a figurative sense. If this one were to go up in literal flames, I wanted pictures. I knew that, once I made it through the cut up the hill on the west side of Mosquito Cove, I would be able to see the entire compound, and could start planning my photo locations.

But when I got to that point, the angle of the smoke was not quite right. While still rising from the center of the compound, it seemed to be a little in front of where the flammables were supposed to be. The plume seemed too small as well; not nearly the magnitude of smoke that I imagined would be spewing from a Navy Surplus triple-wide engulfed in a tropical conflagration.

Less than half a klick from the gate, I located the object of such concern and imagination. Just another flaming cow. The second this month. I guess there would be a day’s work after all.

For a variety of reasons, local beef prices are depressed. I have heard that there is a(n unfounded) fear of mad cow disease pervasive here. While this may account for some of the lack of demand, the fact that there have been absolutely zero reported cases of angry cows makes me think that there are other factors involved.
If I had to speculate, I would say that the reason for the low demand for beef is that the local beef tastes really bad.

As there are no expansive grain farms on Jamaica, grain which could be fed to these cattle, many of the beasts are free range, living off whatever scrub they can forage. This results in a steak with little fat whatsoever, and with no difference in taste or texture from the inside of the cow to the outside. There are large ranches on the south coast, where cane waste is sometimes used as a feed supplement, but we do not see that beef on this side of the island.

On the north coast, free range is almost an understatement. Unpenned cattle are everywhere, crossing the roads in the country in small groups, cow/calf combinations on the shoulders, entire herds sleeping on the beach in Sandy Bay or in the middle of the Freeport roundabout. It is a wonderment that more of them do not meet their fates at the front ends of Ladas.

There are government pounds, where the aforementioned wayward bovines, once rounded up, are detained until such time as their owners come to bail them out. However, I have heard that a few weeks' charge of room and board for a cow quickly surpass its value, so farmers do not pay the ransom, the pounds stay full, and no further cows are detained.

The value of cattle is so low that it makes no economic sense to even repair the pasture fences. The cattle roam free, and eventually end up on the roads, where they spend the nights sleeping on the asphalt, which still radiates heat from the day before, and where they occasionally meet their demise as 500 kilo hood ornaments on the ubiquitous Russian sedans.

As in the States, it usually falls on the public works people to clean up the roadkill carcasses. With limited resources, the public works departments here are a bit more, how shall we say,... creative. Small beasts are usually left to the ravages of traffic and, once suitably tenderized, carrion. Mid-sized dead things are scooped up if in town, or tossed into the bush if in the country. Cows are big animals, and large equipment and disposal sites are scarce, so they usually get pushed to the shoulder, covered with four to six old radial tires, doused with diesel fuel, and set afire.

The column of smoke I had witnessed that morning was not caused by malice, but was performed as a public health service. On my commute the next day I saw only a scorched patch of earth, a big charred pelvis, and a twisted pile of steel belts where the barbeque had been.

The project was in the same state of uncertainty as it had been the morning before.

Not quite a large dead thing yet, but sleeping on the highway was a move in that direction. Better have a couple of tires around, just in case.