I Ate Barbecue and Felt Guilty at Quebec's Controversial Pig Festival

There is no elegant way of catching a pig.

It's not a matter of speed or agility. You have to corner the beast and jump on it, plain and simple. At least that's what I was able to glean last weekend between mouthfuls of pork while watching the National Greased Pig Race in Ste-Perpétue, Quebec, an event which is—depending on who you ask—either the ultimate celebration or humiliation of the humble pig.

READ MORE: How a Pig Farmer Taught Me to Respect Her Pork

Pig wrestling has a long history, not only in county fairs across America, but in other parts of the world, too. In Quebec, this strange ritual takes place in Sainte-Perpétue, a small town 90 miles east of Montreal, where rural gladiators step into the ring with grease-covered pigs in an attempt to drop it into a barrel; in under 90 seconds.

The pig race began in 1978 after the town's festival-planning committee caught wind of employees at the local slaughterhouse having a hoot when pigs got loose and had to be chased down in the rain. The rest is history. The festival has been going on for four decades now, and over the course of five days in August, it attracts approximately 35,000 festival-goers to a town of 983 inhabitants. The festival is sponsored by the government and even Céline Dion has performed there.

Pigs have held an important place in Quebec's agricultural and culinary history ever since settlers brought them here from France almost 400 years ago. Today, there are almost as many pigs (roughly 7.3 million) as there are humans in Quebec (8.2 million) and pig farming has a become a billion-dollar industry in the province. Yet pigs remain emblematic of a rural lifestyle that once defined la belle province but has become foreign to its largely urban population.

As a result, the Ste-Perpétue's pig festival has become a celebration of country living. There are tractor races, line-dancing, and lots of barbecued pork, but the pig is the true vessel through which farm life is celebrated. The amount of pork-centric dishes being consumed on the festival grounds was mind-numbing; pulled-pork poutine, sausage wrapped in bacon, chops, belly and ribs. I opted for smoked pork butt slathered in pork gravy, also known as méchoui.

When I arrived on the festival grounds, Smokey Joe Lavoie had just won the annual barbecue contest. The main ingredient was—you guessed it—pork. For Lavoie, his dry rub and barbecue sauce were the crucial elements of his win in the smoked ribs competition. He may have been reluctant to share any culinary secrets with me, but when it came to the pig race, he was adamant. "Look, it's just a tradition and a good time for families." The general consensus among people I spoke to seemed to be that the pigs don't get injured. But that point of view is far from unanimous outside Ste-Perpétue city limits.

"We were receiving calls of concern of people who live in the area," PETA activist Ashley Byrne told me. "We've spoken with veterinarians and we've had people on site at events in the US to observe. Forcing pigs to run for their lives in front of a screaming crowd is pure torture for them. Severe trauma like broken limbs and backs are often par for the course."

But for those eating and preparing food at the festival, the animal rights angle wasn't of much concern. Jean-François, a caterer who was dishing out upscale cuts at the gourmet tent, echoed this sentiment. "Last year, George Laraque made a big stink about the race, and it was the most well-attended festival in the event's history. So, maybe there isn't really a problem here!"

He was referring to retired hockey goon and animal rights activist Georges Laraque who had described the greased pig race as "disgusting" and called for a boycott. Last year, an activist with the words "Animal Liberation" written on his chest jumped the fence and ran in the mud to protest the race. This year, both the SPCA and PETA also called for a boycott of the competition.

"Any time you have people engaged in a cruel spectacle, you're going to have a few people who want to pay money and gawk at it," Byrne says. "It's long overdue to have these events relegated to the history books."

But it's not just animal rights activists who oppose the greased pig race; even the experts are against the idea of a pig wrestling competition. The Canadian Veterinary Medical Association (CVMA) does not mince words in their official stance on animals being used for entertainment. They are explicit in their condemnation of any event where an animal is "forced to perform actions or tasks that result in physical or mental distress or discomfort," which sums up the pig race almost perfectly.

I also contacted the organizers of the festival for their take on the treatment of the pigs. They hung up on me.

Still, advocacy failed to make any noticeable dent in attendance. There was not a single protester in sight and the greased pig race was almost sold out, with close to 5,000 tickets sold. For festival-goers, reverence for the pig, as an ingredient at least, was genuine. In fact, according to organizers, the greased pig race is actually a "homage to pigs".

After a couple of beers and some line dancing, it was time for the main event. The 38th Annual National Greased Pig Race kicked off with a man who sang the National Pig Anthem, a hymn with no discernible melody but plenty of yearning for a "victory" over the pigs.

He was soon drowned out by Green Day's "American Idiot" as the pig gladiators began to emerge from the backstage area. Our emcees—radio hosts from Montreal—reminded contestants that they can "under no circumstance grab the pigs by their ears, tail, or legs" and that the animals were to be "dropped and not thrown" into the barrel. They were also quick to reassure the audience that "pigs only have one kind of squeal" and that "it doesn't mean that they are in pain."

But once the show got started, it didn't take long to realize that the pigs were squealing for dear life as they tried to keep their heads above the mud as the crowd cheered. I had never heard a pig squeal before, but it's loud and high-pitched and, in this context, full of fear.

One by one, competitors took turns running around the mud pit waiting for the right time to jump on the pigs, all of whom would try to run back to the safety of the other pigs. When a large Mexican man named Jesus managed to drop the hog into the barrel with just seconds left on the clock, two huge fireworks instantly shot up into the sky. The pig limped back into the pen with the other swine. Nobody fucks with Jesus. Saint Perpetua is, after all, the patron saint of ranchers and butchers.

It was time to call it a night. Wrestling, fireworks, pigs, and country music are all great on their own, but they had come together in a grotesque spectacle—all at the expense of smart, sensitive, limping animals. It wasn't enough to convert me to vegetarianism, but it allowed me to look at pigs from some very different angles.

For locals and festival-goers, it's a fun tradition and a celebration of an important animal. For animal rights advocates and veterinarians, it's a cruel and painful use of the pig for human entertainment. And for barbecue enthusiasts, it's simply a chance to pay respects to one of the most diverse and delicious sources of meat in the province and on the planet. Each are using the animal to support their own narrative in a heated debate about the meaning of the pig. These are the lines that intersect every year in Ste Perétue, Quebec.

So, while the battle between man and pig was over in Ste-Perpétue (with a clear win for humans), the fight between animal rights activists and the pig festival rages on. Let's hope it doesn't get as messy.