I have a plot of farm land in Mexico… the “rancho”. Its gorgeous… green, lush, very fertile. I have planted there for the last eight years and nothing has failed to take…everything from avocado to papaya, guanabana, plantains, onions, garlic, pineapple, cucumbers etc. There’s an orchard with a few different varieties of oranges, a cactus garden filled with nopales (delicious pan fried in olive oil and traditionally accompanied with eggs), and countless other native vegetables & fruits. I went South to check in last week and discovered that corn had sprouted up in my absence. There were a few stalks and I helped myself to an ear to check for sweetness. Disappointedly it seems as though I had missed its harvest mark and it sat mealy and flat on my tongue.

My property sits a couple miles outside a tiny town and the road back in to civilization is picturesque. I walk down a wide riverbed that fills up with water in the rainy season and swarms of butterflies in the summer. A few farms are scattered about, but for the most part the canal is a corridor through untouched tropical wilderness. My closest neighbor sits a quarter of a mile away from me and over the past years he’s become as much accustomed to my routine as I his. A small (about 4 1/2 foot) man in stature, he is a native Mexican Indian. He is toothless, holds his threadbare pants up with a shoelace, and has the most beautiful chestnut skin I have ever seen. A dozen mongrel dogs safeguard and keep him company. These pups appear cloned- the differences shown only in their range of ages. Every time I run across these mutts I can’t help but study them. Right before my eyes- a live physical model of a dog’s life stages. It’s pretty remarkable in an eerie way.

Strolling along I am quickly greeted by the pups and just as fast they are called off by Augustine. He gives me a friendly wave and I return it marveling at the amount of pineapples I see coming up in a neat row just inside his fence. His land is hilly and his tiny shack home is perched up on an embankment. I can see he is tending to a pot that is sitting aloft a fire. He’s preparing to butcher a chicken. I spot the creature pecking around inside the doorway of his living quarters. I have slaughtered a chicken once before on one of my farm stints but it had been awhile and I wondered if he would go about the process any differently. So I stuck around.

It just so happens that the only difference was that this chicken slaughter bordered on a religious experience. I was transfixed. He began with a prayer and after soothing the animal the death was remarkably quick. It seemed as though one moment he was consoling it and the next he was dipping it into the bubbly cauldron. There was a flash of him bleeding the chicken somewhere in there but the whole process was so efficient and not in the least unsettling. Augustine chatted easily about his habits. He slaughters a chicken once every couple weeks, he does not take the process lightly. Its significant and he stretches the meat as far as possible, sharing the bird with his dogs - even making use of the feathers. For the most part, he counts on his fruit & vegetable harvest to sustain him along with his own tortillas and grains. As for his dogs, he tells me this is their reward for doing their part in making the farm a happy home - they usually feed themselves by hunting small animals that look to squander his crops. He loves it here, he has wonderful food at its source, healthy land and a lovely relationship with its inhabitants. Every part collectively laboring to keep the ball rolling and reaping the benefits. I left impressed and feeling exceptionally grateful for the experience.

I love being on a farm. One of these days I’m looking for that to be my life full time in lieu of the intermittent trips to Mexico. These visits are quick teasing exposures to the ideal before returning to the disconnect of mainstream.