13. Staff

Farm Alstonia was a little united nations of PNG.  It's people came from everywhere.  While the core staff were islanders from New Britain and New Ireland, Kulaka, Yuti, Layu and John were Hulis from the Southern Highlands, Dulland from Bulolo, Lester from Sepik, Freddie, Kedo, Jerry from Milne Bay and Samon from Enga

Joyce Pato had started the farm as a philanthropic venture 2007. Originally it was a kind of  halfway house to assist young men who found themselves on the wrong side of the law. The farm became part home, part training centre, part job when they had served their punishment.  When she and Rimbink bought the place it was a mixture of bush and kunai grass.


Kulaka, a Southern Highlander, was Joyce's first employee. Joyce organised construction of a dormitory for the young men. Bit by bit she and Kulaka with the help of subcontractors built  pig and chicken houses and other amenity blocks and houses. Joyce's niece Lyn Mantu planted the aboretum. Miriam was involved right from the start and helped clear the land and cut the grass,

 

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Nobody ever came to blows on the farm.  Patrick managed things well but one staff member, from Papua, felt too much of an outsider and left.   As in all businesses, people presented most of the problems. In his own gentle way, Patrick negotiated the issues and by and large we had a happy crew.  But not a week went by when one issue or another presented itself.  While our senior management team was very stable we had a regular turnover in base grade staff.  They would come for a few months then be drawn away.  Sometimes the death of a relative drew them back to their villages. Others didn’t like turning up every day on time and some went onto better things. 

Jerry and Kedo, who were going to school part time elected to take whole days for school rather than the half day allocated.  They both had written and book keeping skills and ended up in Rimbink Pato's Raina office as admin staff.

 Our staff were devout.  They all went to the local church which was housed on the farm site. Pastor Johnson was Joyce Pato’s father. As part of the rent agreement we paid him an allowance.  He in turn led a devotion meeting on the farm after breakfast on Wednesdays between 0800 and 0900. Rimbink himself was an elder of the Lutheran church so the farm was on a clear highway to God and heaven. Or hell and destruction.  Pastor Johnson was a fire and brimstone preacher.  

We employed six security staff for the evening shifts.  They were a cheerful lot and I always worried that during their shift they would incur some injury in the event of a break in.  They weren’t paid very much.  We were relying on them just being there more than performing any serious security work. Over the course of the four years of operation we only had one break in.  Whoever it was carefully cut through the wire mesh farm gate and stole a smallish pig. I thought we were lucky.  Boroma down the road, a much bigger operation, had one break in a week – usually involving teenagers.  Eventually when about 20 adult men breached security there, shots were fired by their armed security guards and a man was wounded.  As a consequence they surrounded their site with a 3 M high metal fence and ran scarily large guard dogs (mastiff crosses) inside the main fence at night.  After that they head no break- ins.  They set up a guard dog breeding kennel.  The puppies were worth a small fortune. 

We heard about another farm.  Our staff told us that somebody had tried to break in there.  The same evening a person was found dead and gutted in the middle of the main road. No one tried to break in ever again.  

Liam always thought that we were, in part, protected by Rimbink Pato’s ownership of the farm and his obvious status in the community. 

One evening Billy, a security guard, didn’t come to work.  He had been around earlier in the evening but didn’t clock on at 11.00 pm.  Eventually the man due to be relieved went looking for him and found him dead. It all came as a bit of a shock.  There was no foul play.  It was just a hazard of living.  We never knew what killed him.  We were however worried that his family would seek some compensation and sure enough there was demand for 4000 kina delivered in person to Patrick and Miriam.   We were in an odd situation. To the local folk our business exuded wealth because at any one time we kept a total of about 700 pigs on site.  Little did they know that they cost an arm and a leg to feed and that we were barely, if at all, breaking even.

I was at a complete loss about how to proceed with the demand for assistance.  Miriam and Patrick were also unsure about where obligations started and finished.  They involved Willy, a high ranking man from Kundiawa, who spoke with Billy’s family. They sought assistance with funds to repatriate Billy’s body home to his village for burial and for the cost of the coffin.  We were happy and able to oblige. Later, on several trips to the highlands I found myself accompanying coffins and the plane being met at the airport by truckloads of mourners painted in white. The trucks, overflowing with mourners and the coffins, were themselves were decorated with clay and ochre handprints and drove from the airport in funeral convoys sometime escorted by a police vehicle.

Death and illness were common events in Port Moresby.  It is a tough place. Staff were regularly laid low with various ailments.  Malaria and tuberculosis were common. Denge and any number of mosquito borne diseases were about.  Colds and were flu regular visitors and swept through the staff.  Patrick recorded in one of his reports that, “Miriam and (their infant daughter) Emmanuelle were both sick with headaches and fever. Patrick was down with the flu and back ache from loading the bags of feed. Isidor took a day off on Monday to take his son to the hospital who was also sick”.

Joe was also sick; at home on bed rest due his health.  He was our welder. A quiet, serious, diligent man but his case was sadder.  He had TB and it was in his spine. My Australian medical colleagues assured me it was treatable but for Joe getting to the hospital for sustained periods of treatment just didn’t happen.  He died in 2015 about three months later; a casualty of a failed health system in a country that’s often broken.

Included in our staff wages was a provision for lunch.  We always provided petty cash for the lunch purchase, rice, noodles, greens and whatever protein was available.  Tinned fish was the staple.  In the early days of the project the staff included a part time cook.  As things progressed both our financial status and the quality of the cooking deteriorated. The fresh veg and greens produced on the farm were overlooked in favour of noodles and tinned meat.  It was an evil looking mix. Mercifully the cook left.  There were several cooks who came and went but in the end, we settled for a rostered cook drawn from rotating staff deemed competent in the kitchen but usually the lowest in the peck order. Jerry, years later, was remembered as a good cook.

Kulaka was a Huli man.  He was barely 160 cm high, a wiry, tough, highlander.  I think, at times, he intimidated the other staff.  His job was to  mow the grass around the farm.  It was a bit like painting the Sydney harbour bridge.  When you finish, you start again.  Kulaka was one of those rare, generally useful men.  He lived on the farm with his family and Yuti, his sister, in a little cottage he had built himself.  He had thatched the rooves of several farm shelters and thatched the roof of our village pig house. The roof on his own house, however, was corrugated iron.  At times he was one of Patrick’s personal protection people, when he went to the market on business or to collect cheques from customers.  Patrick had been held up on three occasions and had realized he was recognized so took three people with him when he left the farm. Kulaka was fierce enough to look at despite his lack of height and bulk. He was not the sort to mess with.

Kulaka assisted with killing and processing pigs when the abattoir slaughter men were on strike.  He also traded in noni fruits.  The noni trees had been planted around the farm buildings.  Originally from the Virgin Islands the fruits were believed to have medicinal properties.  They were supposed to be for the pigs but Kulaka saw an opportunity and decided to take an afternoon off periodically and sell them in the local market.  Patrick saw it as stealing and cautioned him to stop.  It was not in Kulaka’s nature to concede to Patrick’s caution and so the practice continued.  Then, one day when he was picking the noni fruit, Kulaka was stung on the thumb by a bee.  Consistent with everything in PNG, the bee sting and Kulaka reached a high degree of incompatibility.  His thumb swelled to double the size, changed colour and looked awful.  He was treated at the hospital and eventually, over a period of some weeks it recovered.  Kulaka, not to be diminished by the whole episode served Patrick with a legal letter seeking redress and threatening suit.  It was left to Liam to have a chat with Kulaka.  For such a gentle creature at heart Liam's tough Glasgow roots periodically showed through.  There was a toughness to him that Kulaka recognised and the problem went away.

Kulaka never quite recovered his former status in our eyes but I was always interested in his opinion especially in relation to Hela province.  He was a thoughtful man, interested in what we were doing up there.  Indeed, we thought he might be useful as a driver and liaison person when we eventually went there and set about teaching him to drive.  It was not something he easily warmed to.  When push came to shove, and we asked for serious expressions of interest in working in the highlands Kulaka’s application was not amongst them.

Port Moresby was as violent a place as any other place in PNG.  With so many people from different clans in town and so many unemployed the place was rife with mischief.  In day to day dealings the locals are a cheerful, good natured lot and it was hard for me to see them getting involved in serious violence despite the obvious security precautions everywhere and the regular newspaper stories. 

It seemed highly improbable that people who were so friendly to me could be so hard with their own countrymen but that’s how it was.  After all PNG was a nation of a thousand different languages. Everybody I spoke to at the outside poolside bar of the Holiday Inn had a war story but they all seemed so improbable.  The Holiday Inn gardens were a beautiful little peaceful oasis.  It was easy to forget that the Holiday Inn employed 40 security guards.  Things changed for me one evening when we were joking with a hotel guest who fed the cats in the hotel gardens. She was a woman in her fifties who worked as a senior project manager for an international government aid agency. We had noticed some scars on her wrists and suggested that she needed to take more care with cats.  She said, “No, these are my war wounds.” She went on to describe how she had driven to the campus of the University of Papua New Guinea in Port Moresby.  She had parked her car in the guarded university car park. For driving she wore a little pair of “comfy” casual ballet flats.  For her meeting she changed into a new pair of fancy high heels with her “power” business attire.  It was an important meeting.  At around 11 a.m she returned from the meeting to the car park.  Before starting the car, she changed back into her comfy flats to drive. About 50 metres ahead, as she drove towards the exit, she saw two men and as she drew abreast of one, his partner, who had moved ahead drew a pistol and pointed it at her. United Nations security drill 101 says, “drop everything and let them have the car.” She opened the window and said, “you can have the car.  I’ll get out.”  They said, “You stay.”  Security rule 102 states, “Don’t go to another location.” So, she pushed open the door as quickly and hard as she could, catching the fellow by surprise.  She was half way out of the car when he recovered and pushed the door back on her arms but by this time she had enough leverage to throw her weight against the car door again and leap out.  Courtesy of her ballet flats she was able to run the further 40 metres to the security guard post. She said, “I couldn’t have done that in my fancy heels.” The injuries to her arms were, fortunately, relatively minor.  They healed but left tell-tale scars. 

Until then I thought that women would be safe. Not so, and the experience of women on buses in Port Moresby provides examples. At a Department of Agriculture meeting in Port Moresby senior female program leaders mentioned how fearful they were of riding in buses. They rode, wherever possible, in window side seats so that their bags could not be snatched and that they almost never carried their computers home from work for fear they would be stolen. In support of this Miriam rarely travelled alone on public transport for the same reasons.  90% of women on public transport in Port Moresby reported being harassed, robbed or assaulted.  In 2014 the situation had been sufficiently serious for a women’s only bus service to start. A crowd funding campaign in 2016 led to the substantial upgrading of women only buses.  In 2018 six women bus drivers were being trained to drive women only buses.

Lester started with us an all-purpose employee.  He was very bright, very engaging, very much a can-do person.  We all relied on him.  Liam appreciated his many talents.  He was handy with tools.  He could make, fit or install equipment, plumbing or small buildings.  One day he turned up for work very much worse for wear.  He had clearly been involved in an altercation and somebody had taken to him with an iron bar.  Patrick’s conclusion was that Lester was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.  His quick lip and quick wit proved to be unhelpful as he uncomfortably discovered.

Before the project got its own vehicle, we relied on Paul, a driver and a vehicle leased to us by Raina Ltd, Rimbink Pato’s trading company. Paul was a finely built fellow in his mid-forties. He had learnt to drive as a racing rally driver.  He was very measured in everything he did.  Primarily he kept us safe.  Something was always happening on roads around Port Moresby and Paul could read the signals.  It was if he had radar vision for trouble.  He would see individuals running and move the car to avoid the chasing group.  One day he saw a kerfuffle break out at the exit to a city supermarket car park and quickly maneuvered the car towards another exit to avoid the brouhaha. We never drove at speed; always slow enough to stop to avoid a pedestrian but fast enough to get away if it turned out to be a hijacking.

 We would have liked to hire Paul full time, but it would not have been good form to bite the hand that feeds and take him away from Joyce Pato who valued his services immensely.  More significantly our Hilans Pik Kompani Ltd future was built more on optimism and idealism than a sound financial foundation and Paul was too nice a man to put at employment risk.  He was the coach of an under 16 soccer team.  In common with many, he was a devout Christian.  One day I asked him, when we were talking about travel, if he had the chance, where in the world he would like to go.  He had obviously thought about it because he said, straight up, that he very much wanted to go the “Holy land and see the places in the Bible.” I could only think what a profound disappointment that would be.

When we finally got our own vehicle, a landcrusier ute, we saw little of Paul.  Patrick had learnt to drive. He was by nature cautious and drove safely, unlike another staff member, who we also trained to drive and who insisted on driving everywhere as fast as the vehicle would go.  I silently applauded when he left, charming fellow that he was.

Our vehicle was donated by Oil Search.  It had been located at Kikori, in the delta of the Kikori River. Kikori has river access to the Gulf of Papua but is also home to an annual rainfall of about nine litres (yes litres) which was, in part, why it took so long to get the vehicle.  The town itself was under water and nothing could get out or, except for river traffic, in.

Whenever Patrick was driving in the middle of the day there was often a tray load of passengers going into the supermarket, to the clinic at the hospital, to the accountants, the timber yard or even a pig carcase on board for a restaurant customer and so began the detailed planning of the itinerary so everyone could complete their tasks and Patrick could pick them up on the way home.

                                                                                

Whenever she saw me Yuti smiled.  Her brother, Kulaka, worked on the farm.  Yuti had joined her brother’s family in the little house that Kulaka had built on and at the northern edge of Alstonia farm. 

At first Yuti was the part time cook for the farm’s staff. Her job was to cook a simple meal of rice or noodles, green vegetable and usually tinned meat or fish for the lunch time meal.  When I decided to grow cassava just to see for myself how much work was involved to grow the feed for the 10-20 pigs that I thought a village might take on, Miriam hired her full time. I had earlier asked Yuti whether she thought village women would able to cope with growing five tonnes of cassava and looking after ten pigs as well as all the other jobs, they had to do. She was absolutely unfazed by the challenge. She didn’t know what five tonnes amounted to but she did know what 70 bags of cassava might look like.

Yuti seemed impossibly frail to take on the cassava crop.  She was a very lean diminutive woman from Hela province, but she turned out to be much stronger and tougher than she looked.  I knew that, over the course of a year, we needed about 20 tonnes of the chopped cassava to feed two lots of 20 pigs every six months.  I’d seen groups of women preparing ground to plant corn in the highlands, but it seemed that no matter how earnestly the people worked there was never enough corn to meet demand.

When we started planning the cassava crop staff estimated, very roughly, how much land we might need to plant.  Cassava can yield very well indeed. In Nigeria they get over ten tonnes per hectare and some places grow 40 tonnes so conceivably we could get all our needs from about four hectares if we achieved just half those quantities. It turned out that area was about what we needed because our yields were quite low. We based the requirements on the harvest from our first garden plots.  Miriam and Yuti made the first garden pretty much modeled on what they had at home and using the wisdom of the local crowd. The farm staff liked the idea of feeding cassava and took a keen interest.  It was easy to get them involved in preparation and planting.

Miriam had earlier remarked in her weekly report that the staff were very interested in seeing how the pigs are reacted to the cassava diet. On their own bat they fed fermented cassava and protein balancer to the weaners and growers in the main herd.  “It is an experience for the staffs as they love to stand and watch how the pigs rush to their feeding trough to eat the cassava. At first the staffs (she always used the plural) thought the cyanide would affect them but to our surprise the pigs have proved us wrong.” Two things were happening; the chopping and fermentation would destroy the cyanide and in any case the PNG cassava varieties were low in cyanide content.

Yuti recruited Nerius to plough the land with the farm’s tractor. His normal job was to manage the finisher section but he doubled as a tractor driver.  He turned the cassava beds over and this small highland woman planted the 30 cm cassava canes almost horizontally in the ground in seven different gardens spread here and there over the arable areas of the five hectare farm.  Then she tended them daily – keeping the weeds at bay.  The crops looked good at the start.  I kept asking her “Can you do this?’ It seemed so improbable that she could manage the whole eight gardens on her own but of course, when it came to the harvesting the first plots she recruited the men from the farm.  It was seriously hard work in a stinking hot, humid climate.  The cassava roots had to be levered out of the ground with brute force and pick shovel or crow bar, and then cut with a machete and bagged ready for pick up.

The tubers (roots) had to be processed within about 2-3 days lest they turn black and deteriorate.  It’s caused by rapid oxidation of the roots, a unique phenomenon compared to other root crops.  It is cyanide dependent. The tubers become unpalatable and unmarketable after 24-72 hours of harvest. They didn’t last as long as kau kau did. In our case chopping the cassava up and letting it ferment in a sealed container prevented the oxygenation process. But there was a thin layer of black material at the top of the drum of chopped cassava at the interface with the little bit of air still left in the plastic bag.

Yuti worked her garden magic for the first critical months after planting but not even her skill could overcome the effects of the drought and the crippling failure of the monsoon. Despite its resistance to dry conditions our cassava crop failed and by the time the rains came and revived our crop it was too late, and we were winding up the project.

At Christmas time I gave all the men T shirts.  I couldn’t work out what size Yuti was so, instead, gave her a scarf from the Ocean Grove market. She always wore a pirate scarf head covering but when I gave the scarf to her I though her face would break in two so great was the smile. You’d think I’d given her a Hermes scarf. She disappeared almost indecently quickly, only to reappear several minutes later with the new pirate scarf firmly in place.

Isidor kept a low profile.  He’d done a certificate course in animal production sponsored by Japan.  Originally, he worked with Rimbink Pato’s poultry project.  They had a long earthern floored shed about 30 metres long and 10 metres wide.  They would buy in day old chicks and rear them to sale, selling the chickens locally when they were grown.

Isidor came from Ambitle, one of the Feni Islands about a day’s boat ride (50 K) east of New Ireland. To get home, on the occasions when he could afford to take leave, he flew to Rabaul, caught a boat to Namatanai, a truck to Muliama and a small boat to his Island.  It took about three days but was heavily dependent on the weather and sea conditions.

The Feni Islands are thought to hold both copper and gold deposits.  It’s a mixed blessing.  Isidor was acutely aware of the need for development of the islands.

He lived in Port Moresby when the project started but when Lester left he became the assistant manager and he and his family moved into one of the cottages in the housing compound on the farm.  Patrick and Miriam had the other. Isidor and his wife had three children.  The oldest was in the middle years of high school.  The youngest was born during the project.

His first job on the farm was to run the proof of concept experiment.  It involved meticulous record keeping and regular reporting.  He didn’t miss a beat.  Then he looked after the management and feeding of the pigs in the village pig house that we built.  Those pigs grew well and while we had swine dysentery playing havoc with the pigs in the main farm building Isidor’s two experimental groups of ten pigs fed cassava and a protein mineral balancer housed a few metres away grew untroubled.  Luck, good management, meticulous hygiene all played a role.

We wanted Patrick to take a more sales-oriented role, so we freed him of day to day farm operations and any formal reporting and left that in Isidor’s capable hands.  Patrick was good at selling the farm’s output, but I suspect he disliked hands on management and checking that things had been done.  In any case Miriam picked up that role with enthusiasm. Miriam also wrote the weekly farm reports. Later we wanted Patrick to think about the farm management more closely and asked him to write the reports instead. He hated it but when he was on leave and Isidor ran the farm and wrote the reports they were very well done.

Isidor was a vegetarian.  It seemed at odds with his job of raising the animals for food but he enjoyed the work and applied himself diligently.  He inspired absolute confidence.  As the project progressed and we realized we were onto a winning concept we asked him to come up to the highlands with us to investigate further.  It was a big ask. The highlands were a notoriously violent place.  While Australians seemed to fall under a spell of courtesy to strangers no such courtesy was likely to fall Isidor’s way.  It is remarkable that a people can be so friendly to Australiana but treat their own countrymen so harshly.

In my plan, if he felt safe, Isidor would guide the operations of the project in the highlands.  He would not move his family to Tari where the next phase of the project would be based but would live there and return to Port Moresby regularly.  It wasn’t a perfect arrangement but Isidor better than anyone else knew about cassava and kau kau, knew about processing them and knew about feeding it with the protein balancer.  He understood the importance of data.  He was also a decent and honest man whom we could trust. 

We equipped him with new working clothes, a jacket for the highlands (it gets cold up there) and boots and sent him there on a mission with Liam.  He provided thoughtful comments.  We thought we had a good hands-on field operations manager. 

As it turned out, when the project failed to attract the interest of the local Landcos, probably due to the earth quakes as much as the inter-tribal violence, Isidor took a job with Mainland Holdings looking after poultry.  

Nerius was the most photogenic of men.  He had the biggest smile you could imagine and the whitest of perfect teeth.  He looked about 40 years old but guessing ages was always difficult. He was on the farm staff when we arrived. An islander from New Britain he was skilled in all aspects of farm operations.  He could estimate the weight of pigs to a kilogram, supervise mating, drive the tractor, build, spread concrete and manage sales with customers coming to the farm.  For that reason, we put him in the finisher section.  He learnt to treat the pigs for worms and the other diseases that periodically beset the herd. And he was a great help to Yuti in the garden.

Nerius lived in the dormitory that Joyce Pato had built on site.  Each staff member had his own room.  They shared a bathroom and toilet and an outside covered kitchen – an open fire surrounded by a ring of stones and various cooking pots and pans.  Their meat diet was liberally supplemented by casualty pigs from the farm – those with lameness or hernias that we couldn’t sell but which were perfectly good to eat. It wasn’t five star accommodation but it exceeded AWU shearers standards.

Naime Oome was an important person in our life.  Oil Search wanted to separate the project from their administration, so they set up a new company called Hilans Pik Limited.  Naime had done some work for them on other projects involving Landcos and he was the accountant for a senior OSL divisional head.  He was in his late 30s I think and a gentle, polite and serious fellow. A member of a church group he was also involved in personal development. He had earned OSL’s trust over some years.  They  nominated him as the public trustee so it was his responsibility to make sure the company could pay its bills.  He would have been terrified I imagine with our financial position had OSL not been there to bail us out periodically. I met with him in his office, he came for breakfast at the Holiday Inn almost next door to his office or for a coffee late in the day. 

His office handled all the money coming in, payments of accounts or for purchases and staff wages.  When staff bought supplies, for example timber at a local wood yard, they would get a quote.  Miriam would raise a purchase order, Liam or I would sign it off.  The order would be placed with the timber yard.  They would issue the invoice which would be delivered by hand to Naime’s office who would issue payment by direct debit, give the receipt and internet record of the bank transfer to the staff member, sometimes on the same day or, depending on senior staff availability and timing, the next day.  Then our staff, armed with the paper work, would drive to the timber yard again (now on the third visit), stand in line, again and pick up the timber or pick most of it up and return to get the pieces that were momentarily out of stock or that had to be cut separately or get a refund or replacement if the exact timber wasn’t available.  You can see why the developing world struggles.

I liked Naime.  He was very direct.  Very honest. His staff were always helpful although early on we didn’t think that when, when for a raft of reasons staff didn’t get paid when they should a couple of times in a row.  It was very embarrassing for Liam and I.  Our staff were living in an expensive town and while we paid the going rate it still wasn’t very much so when they didn’t get paid it had serious consequences.

Eventually everybody got their act together. Some staff had bank accounts and funds were paid in directly.  Others wanted to be paid in cash.  We discouraged that wherever possible.  We just didn’t want to have any cash lying around the farm that might expose Patrick and Miriam to any risk.  Even though we knew that Rimbink Pato’s reputation as a big man provided a measure of protection for the farm and the staff  it was risk we didn’t want to take. Over the four years of the project Patrick was held up a couple of times and had his phone stolen while he was collecting checks.  Fortunately on one occasion a police car pulled up as the hold up was going on and his assailants melted into the crowd. From that point on he knew he could be targeted and never went anywhere to collect checks without two other staff members and someone to mind the landcruiser.  You can see why we needed a lot of people on the farm.

Very early in the piece in an attempt to put our business on a sound ethical footing a B4D consultant worried about apparent conflict of interest.  For whatever reason he got it into his head that senior local Oil Search manager and Naime were in bed together and risked defrauding our little HPL. There was no basis to it apart from suspicion arising from a hundred stories all on the go at once about local corruption. It was a dreadful period while we separated the warring, indignant, offended, and distrustful parties and rebuilt the relationship.  Innocent people were caught in this crossfire and it did nobody any good.  My relationship with Naime survived in tact.

He watched closely what we were doing.  His own village was about four hours along the coast west of Port Moresby.  In distance it wasn’t all that far but there was a bit of sea travel to get there.  He drove there every few months in his red utility – a Mitsubishi I think.  As the project was winding up he bought some pigs from us and we supplied him with three little gilts and two little boars all raised in the thatched pig house from weaning to reduce the risk of disease. He took delivery of them when they were about eight weeks old and drove them to his village. We were very pleased when we heard that Naime’s gilts some months later had delivered fine litters of pigs