American Tourist Narrowly Escapes Mauling

Or: Local Pigs Complain of Prejudice, Unfair Treatment

This morning I was chased by pigs the size of pimped-up Harleys down a small forest path. The pigs made as much noise as motorcycles, grunting in a menacing pissed-off-pig-fashion, not unlike growling motors. I had spotted them early on, blocking my trail, and since the path was fenced in on either side, I had decided I would just walk swiftly by them, the way you tap someone’s shoulder at a cocktail party and squeeze between the person and a waiter bearing drinks.

But since they were pigs, I could not gently tap them on the shoulder, I could only walk past, eyes straight forward, the way, as a woman, you instinctively pass a group of leering men sitting outside a bar, your gaze fierce and focused five feet ahead on the sidewalk. And if the men call something out, you don’t respond or flinch. Neither did I respond or flinch when the pigs came galumphing after me (a verb that, outside of “Jabberwocky” was never so accurate for describing violent movement).

They won’t eat you, I thought to myself. Pigs don’t eat humans. Right? I tried to remember if I had ever heard of a pig mauling. That was wild boars, wasn’t it? The snorting was getting closer. I resisted the urge to run, figuring my fear would only egg them on. Then they fell back. My heart slowed. I walked on, only to hear them coming again, shadowing me, and then falling back, again. When they ran forward for the third time, their hot pig breath coming closer and closer, I lost my cool and scrambled up a small path to my left, figuring they would, like all half-assed pursuers, get lazy and remain below. I was right. I continued up the path quickly, my body covered with cold sweat. I had escaped the pigs ­– for now.

I managed to find another path back that did not cross the pigs again. I breathlessly related my ordeal over breakfast to Erwin, who just laughed. His family had raised pigs. They were just curious, he told me. They just wanted some company. You should have petted them. Pigs love that.

The whole episode made me feel like an enormous city slicker, but it also reminded me how difficult it is to judge fears and threats. How to discern whether the cumulative 320 kilos of porcine flesh following you are nightmarish beasts in hot pursuit or just friendly farm animals craving a nuzzle? Or, more abstractly, when should you simply halt your jerky, terrified march, lean over, and sweetly stroke your fears? When does instinct come to our rescue, and when is it just making a fool out of us, as we sprint from benign spirits?