There are three ways to catch a chicken
We’ve been learning various skills that relate to our service here in Vanuatu, some of which are essentially sourcing our own food. What does one wear to class when they are told the main event will be “how to catch and kill a chicken?” One of our language instructors suggested the ladies wear knee-length skirts, no longer, as they’re the best to run in. There will be lots of running. Also, there will be blood.
This morning, Santiago was having breakfast with his host family. His host mom asked him what the agenda was. “Catching a chicken.” Santiago’s four year old host brother responded with something in the local language between bites of a fried doughnut, and Santiago’s host mom laughed. “He just asked, ‘is it someone’s birthday?’” Catching and killing a chicken is an event for a birthday! It’s going to be a fun day.
We all met up at the Nakamal, bush knives in hand, good running shoes on our feet. Soon one of our instructors, Kevin, called for our attention. He explained in Bislama, “there are three ways to catch a chicken.”
So, as it’s ten AM on a Tuesday, we have two options of the three, as all the chickens of the village were quite awake. Kevin then unveiled a white board with a hand-drawn map of a small section of the village. We giggled, but the event presented before us was serious. There were three chickens to be chased, and this was our tactical plan.
Kevin pointed to three red circles on the map. He then drew some small blue circles around the red ones, spreading them out. “The blue ones are you, and you will need to spread yourself out in the area.” He paused and pointed to the scribbled trees on the top of the paper. “This is the bush, and you don’t want the chickens to escape into the bush. If they go there, there’s nothing you can do except wait for them to return.”
A chatter started among the group and Kevin held up his hand to quiet us, “Let’s enjoy this chicken chase. Now we go.”
The 21 of us, along with our instructors, walked down the road toward Francis’s house. Francis’s host sister fed a group of chickens as we gathered around them in a circle. We had attracted Francis’s entire host family and children, along with a handful of neighbors and their kids. Kevin pointed out the three chickens. Each of our small language groups was to catch a chicken, with a ratio of seven students to one fowl. Our group’s rooster was light brown with dark brown spots on its feathers.
As a test, we goaded Francis to try to catch hers first, as she is the fastest runner. She dove into the cluster of chickens and she came out empty handed. Despite the cluster of chickens re-forming itself around the scraps of food on the ground, they seemed to be on edge. Francis’s quick and unsuccessful chase made them aware that we were the hunters, and they were the hunted. A silent air horn blasted in the form of chicken hunting fever, and soon all three groups were running in separate directions. Marc was the first to get his group’s chicken. The group cornered it between a building and a bush, and they slowly closed in around it as Marc swiftly reached forward to grab it by its legs.
Chase then caught his group’s chicken with assistance from Eve, who grabbed at it and pulled nothing but feathers, but pushed it closer to Chase, who got it by its legs.
Sydney was at first hesitant to kill a chicken, but once she held one of the chickens by its feet, using her other hand to feel its lungs expand and contract under a layer of white feathers, she ironically found that she could find the courage to kill it. It was a visceral connection to life.
Our group chased after our chicken for a while until it went into the dreaded bush. Sydney and I walked into the thick brush and chased it out into the open. Kevin gestured that it was hiding in a bush and I scared it out, chased it over some logs and through a yard until it ran back again into the bush. Our group failed its mission.
Feeling dejected, we returned to the nakamal. Later that afternoon, it was time to start prepping the chickens. Kevin provided us with a new opportunity to go catch a second chicken. We walked to a different yard, but the setup was the same. Kevin pointed out our white feathered target and as the dozen chickens gathered to eat, we closed in on them. Austin dove into the group with his eyes closed and got a hold of feet, opened his eyes and realized he didn’t have the intended target, but instead was holding a black rooster. He gently petted its back and set it free.
The rest of our group ran after the moving target around the house, over a small shrub and into the neighboring yard. By the time I rounded the bend, I witnessed Tristan triumphantly holding the chicken upside down by its feet.
We walked back to the nakamal and decided we would cook Thai curry chicken with rice. Sydney and Vanna went to the garden to pick some spicy peppers while we prepped the food.
It was brutal watching the three groups kill the chickens. The first group attempted choking it, but settled on the neck-snapping method which turned into disembodiment as the body flung to the ground, flapping its wings while the head was still clutched in Ted’s hand. The second group held it down and Marc used a bush knife to chop its head off. Our group attempted to kill it with a small pocket knife in the back of the neck, but after the guys realized the chicken was still breathing, they hit it with a bush knife in the head to kill it. It was torturous for all parties involved. The vegetarians of the group distanced themselves during the killings, and those who remained, like myself, looked away in horror or disgust. A lot of people felt the need to turn into vegetarians, while others felt the necessary horror of witnessing their food being caught and killed to justify their carnivorous diet.
The groups removed the feathers from the chickens while the children of the village gathered and offered to help. This chore, to them, was the mundane equivalent of the chore of tidying your room back home.
We prepared our group’s sauce using homemade coconut milk, ground turmeric (here referred to as local curry), spicy peppers, onions, garlic, and some salt.
The chicken heads flung to the ground were quickly gobbled up by the wandering stray dogs. I sat on a bench outside and scraped the meat from some coconuts, then used their husks to strain the milk from the meat. I tossed the dry coconut scraps to the chickens circling the nakamal. I felt it was my duty, in a way, to give our targets’ brethren some sustenance in return.
This morning, Santiago was having breakfast with his host family. His host mom asked him what the agenda was. “Catching a chicken.” Santiago’s four year old host brother responded with something in the local language between bites of a fried doughnut, and Santiago’s host mom laughed. “He just asked, ‘is it someone’s birthday?’” Catching and killing a chicken is an event for a birthday! It’s going to be a fun day.
We all met up at the Nakamal, bush knives in hand, good running shoes on our feet. Soon one of our instructors, Kevin, called for our attention. He explained in Bislama, “there are three ways to catch a chicken.”
- Catch it while it’s sleeping.
- Lure it with chicken clucking noises.
- Feed it, then grab it while it’s distracted.
So, as it’s ten AM on a Tuesday, we have two options of the three, as all the chickens of the village were quite awake. Kevin then unveiled a white board with a hand-drawn map of a small section of the village. We giggled, but the event presented before us was serious. There were three chickens to be chased, and this was our tactical plan.
Kevin pointed to three red circles on the map. He then drew some small blue circles around the red ones, spreading them out. “The blue ones are you, and you will need to spread yourself out in the area.” He paused and pointed to the scribbled trees on the top of the paper. “This is the bush, and you don’t want the chickens to escape into the bush. If they go there, there’s nothing you can do except wait for them to return.”
A chatter started among the group and Kevin held up his hand to quiet us, “Let’s enjoy this chicken chase. Now we go.”
The 21 of us, along with our instructors, walked down the road toward Francis’s house. Francis’s host sister fed a group of chickens as we gathered around them in a circle. We had attracted Francis’s entire host family and children, along with a handful of neighbors and their kids. Kevin pointed out the three chickens. Each of our small language groups was to catch a chicken, with a ratio of seven students to one fowl. Our group’s rooster was light brown with dark brown spots on its feathers.
As a test, we goaded Francis to try to catch hers first, as she is the fastest runner. She dove into the cluster of chickens and she came out empty handed. Despite the cluster of chickens re-forming itself around the scraps of food on the ground, they seemed to be on edge. Francis’s quick and unsuccessful chase made them aware that we were the hunters, and they were the hunted. A silent air horn blasted in the form of chicken hunting fever, and soon all three groups were running in separate directions. Marc was the first to get his group’s chicken. The group cornered it between a building and a bush, and they slowly closed in around it as Marc swiftly reached forward to grab it by its legs.
Chase then caught his group’s chicken with assistance from Eve, who grabbed at it and pulled nothing but feathers, but pushed it closer to Chase, who got it by its legs.
Sydney was at first hesitant to kill a chicken, but once she held one of the chickens by its feet, using her other hand to feel its lungs expand and contract under a layer of white feathers, she ironically found that she could find the courage to kill it. It was a visceral connection to life.
Our group chased after our chicken for a while until it went into the dreaded bush. Sydney and I walked into the thick brush and chased it out into the open. Kevin gestured that it was hiding in a bush and I scared it out, chased it over some logs and through a yard until it ran back again into the bush. Our group failed its mission.
Feeling dejected, we returned to the nakamal. Later that afternoon, it was time to start prepping the chickens. Kevin provided us with a new opportunity to go catch a second chicken. We walked to a different yard, but the setup was the same. Kevin pointed out our white feathered target and as the dozen chickens gathered to eat, we closed in on them. Austin dove into the group with his eyes closed and got a hold of feet, opened his eyes and realized he didn’t have the intended target, but instead was holding a black rooster. He gently petted its back and set it free.
The rest of our group ran after the moving target around the house, over a small shrub and into the neighboring yard. By the time I rounded the bend, I witnessed Tristan triumphantly holding the chicken upside down by its feet.
We walked back to the nakamal and decided we would cook Thai curry chicken with rice. Sydney and Vanna went to the garden to pick some spicy peppers while we prepped the food.
It was brutal watching the three groups kill the chickens. The first group attempted choking it, but settled on the neck-snapping method which turned into disembodiment as the body flung to the ground, flapping its wings while the head was still clutched in Ted’s hand. The second group held it down and Marc used a bush knife to chop its head off. Our group attempted to kill it with a small pocket knife in the back of the neck, but after the guys realized the chicken was still breathing, they hit it with a bush knife in the head to kill it. It was torturous for all parties involved. The vegetarians of the group distanced themselves during the killings, and those who remained, like myself, looked away in horror or disgust. A lot of people felt the need to turn into vegetarians, while others felt the necessary horror of witnessing their food being caught and killed to justify their carnivorous diet.
The groups removed the feathers from the chickens while the children of the village gathered and offered to help. This chore, to them, was the mundane equivalent of the chore of tidying your room back home.
We prepared our group’s sauce using homemade coconut milk, ground turmeric (here referred to as local curry), spicy peppers, onions, garlic, and some salt.
The chicken heads flung to the ground were quickly gobbled up by the wandering stray dogs. I sat on a bench outside and scraped the meat from some coconuts, then used their husks to strain the milk from the meat. I tossed the dry coconut scraps to the chickens circling the nakamal. I felt it was my duty, in a way, to give our targets’ brethren some sustenance in return.
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