S-chür Di
Dark days and the weight of inheritance.
It’s raining heavier than I’ve seen all year. The light in Val Bregaglia is low, blocked by towering mountains and thick layers of cloud. The asphalt, the concrete, appears greyer—amplified.
“It’s always raining when I do this...” Roger says, as we pull up to the slaughterhouse.
Only a week ago I was with the family on the pasture in Fex as they were setting up fences for the goats. Wildflowers emerging through the grass.
Today is an early start. I pull up to Chesa Rominger and the skies have opened. Unrelenting downpour, the likes of which I haven’t yet seen. I tie the plastic cover around my camera and run towards the house.
Roger is outside already, rigging the trailer up to the Skoda. We greet each other, yet I feel somewhat restrained given the circumstances. I know it’s a sensitive moment.
“I hate this shitty job.” He says to me as we get in the car and begin driving to Vicosoprano. Out of Sils. Past the lake, straight down Malojapass.
In the other direction, a stream of Italian cars begin the daily commute to the Engiadin’Ota for work in hotels, construction and the like. Two currents of the same stream.
We remain mostly quiet. The radio blasts pop music, occasionally buffered by enthusiastic Swiss radio hosts.
Straight into the storm. Streams of water form down the asphalt road. We are one of the first here at 07:00, a strategic decision I’m guessing, in order to get out of there as quickly as possible.
In the distance, a fluorescent light glows against white tiles. Roger unbolts the door to the trailer to reveal the two goats. Young, perhaps only a few months old. They are male, he tells me, so they have to go. I don’t ask why.
They are shaking with fear. He has to pull them forcefully. A reluctant force.
Outside, the guys who are working there are making small talk. A trailer is parked directly in front of the entrance, from a local cow farmer in Sils.
Without expecting it, I see a large cow fall out of the trailer and collapse on the floor. She has already been bolt-gunned. Blood is dripping out of her mouth. The goats are shaking vigorously now.
Roger and the farmer are chatting, clearly trying to keep attention away from what is happening.
Papers are exchanged with the site manager. One of the goats is taken. Meanwhile, the cow is roped around the neck and hung up from the ceiling.
I don’t want to see it, but I do. The same happens to the goats. The man walks out and hands over the collars. Roger walks back to the car as quickly as possible, throwing the collars onto the passenger footwell.
We begin driving back.
“Only 15 more years and then the contract with family is over…” Roger explains.
When his parents retired, the farm passed to the next generation along with the debt required to keep it running. When his sisters left to other parts of Switzerland, staying in Fex meant continuing to farm.
Without the farm, he would lose the house.
We meet Martina, Roger’s wife, in the car park of Sils. She needs the Skoda for work so we swap cars. She has many sides to her appearance, able to swap between chic professional and alpine farmhand within a matter of minutes.
She is wearing high heels and strong perfume, contradicting this morning’s atmosphere in a way that feels somehow relieving. The scent washes it away.
As I leave, I notice that the collars remain on the floor.
