I lick my fingers after pulling the last piece of meat off the drumstick. I have never eaten chicken so fresh in my life. I toss the bone to Jimito who finishes it off. The flames have died somewhat, but the fire’s coals are still glowing from a bright orange to red and back. I can almost time the color change with the sound of my own breathing. I wipe tears from my eyes, a consequence of my hysterical laughter. I know I should be in my tent by now, but I can’t pull myself away from this moment.
Let’s back up several hours…
It was around noon and I was with the guys working on the floor for the house we are constructing. I was mixing and shoveling cement with Sergio, Andre had the wheel barrow, and Jimmy Choo was clearing the rocks to level out the cement. Those darn chickens were back.
In an effort to scare the chickens away, Jimmy Choo (Jimito) threw a rock to his side. Turns out his strength is beyond his knowledge and he actually took a chicken out. There it laid, squawking, struggling to breathe its last breaths. “Any second and it’s dead,” I thought to myself, “any moment now.” Death did not come. “Here comes Rose, the cook. She will take care of it,” I thought hopefully. Her idea of taking care of it consisted of stomping on its small frame a couple times and when that didn’t work she pulled the pick comb out of her hair and tried her hand with that. When this still didn’t work, she put the pick back in her hair and laughed dauntingly. I begged and begged for them to take it out of its misery, but to know avail. Finally, Rose picked up the chicken and carried it off toward the kitchen, which consists of three tarp walls tied around four wooden poles with a fire in the middle. I asked in my best Portuguese if that is what we would eat for dinner. “Si, Si.” Chicken it is then.
In an effort to scare the chickens away, Jimmy Choo (Jimito) threw a rock to his side. Turns out his strength is beyond his knowledge and he actually took a chicken out. There it laid, squawking, struggling to breathe its last breaths. “Any second and it’s dead,” I thought to myself, “any moment now.” Death did not come. “Here comes Rose, the cook. She will take care of it,” I thought hopefully. Her idea of taking care of it consisted of stomping on its small frame a couple times and when that didn’t work she pulled the pick comb out of her hair and tried her hand with that. When this still didn’t work, she put the pick back in her hair and laughed dauntingly. I begged and begged for them to take it out of its misery, but to know avail. Finally, Rose picked up the chicken and carried it off toward the kitchen, which consists of three tarp walls tied around four wooden poles with a fire in the middle. I asked in my best Portuguese if that is what we would eat for dinner. “Si, Si.” Chicken it is then.
That night we did not have chicken, but our typical rice and beans. I didn’t think much of it, but part of me wondered whatever happened to that poor chicken.
After the other girls went off to bed, Brittani and I heard some rustling in the distance. We thought it was just one of the guys trying to scare us or maybe one of the roosters had gotten into something near the kitchen. Nope. Moments later, Naveenho came out of the darkness with that chicken in his hand. It was barely moving, but breathing desperate breaths. He placed the chicken on the ground and handed Brit the knife. She took a deep breath and I wished I had my camera. Rose held its head down while Brittani did the honors, which ended up taking a little longer than expected with that dull knife. Ten hours after the original rock incident and that poor chicken was finally relieved of its misery. And in under forty minutes that same chicken was in my stomach. I helped pluck the feathers and in no time Rose had it cleaned, greased and fried right there at the fire in front of us. Like I said, fresh.
After the other girls went off to bed, Brittani and I heard some rustling in the distance. We thought it was just one of the guys trying to scare us or maybe one of the roosters had gotten into something near the kitchen. Nope. Moments later, Naveenho came out of the darkness with that chicken in his hand. It was barely moving, but breathing desperate breaths. He placed the chicken on the ground and handed Brit the knife. She took a deep breath and I wished I had my camera. Rose held its head down while Brittani did the honors, which ended up taking a little longer than expected with that dull knife. Ten hours after the original rock incident and that poor chicken was finally relieved of its misery. And in under forty minutes that same chicken was in my stomach. I helped pluck the feathers and in no time Rose had it cleaned, greased and fried right there at the fire in front of us. Like I said, fresh.
And this is just another day in my life on the World Race.
