Free Range Chicken

Like any good island, Gili Meno has a lot of chickens roaming around. (So does Bali. Key West, too, in case you think chickens are limited to Asian islands). They strut and fret about the yard, hunting and pecking for bits of edible... well, whatever chickens find edible: grubs, worms, insects, grass, grain. They tend to be a little scrawny, but these are not pampered, American chickens. No, they are hard-scrabble chickens pecking out their fortunes. (It's amazing how many of these stock phrases seem to work so well for the lowly fowl.)

I haven't quite figured out how you tell one person's chicken from another because they all roam free. And, in case you didn't know, the rooster does not only crow at dawn. Oh, he crows then. And at breakfast. And second breakfast. And elevenses. And lunch. And, well, you get the point. He crows all day long.

And the chicks? They cheep-cheep-cheep like the River City's best old biddies. Even when to my untrained eyes they look big enough to be called proper hens, they are still cheeping after their mothers.

All of this is to say that they provide hours of amusement for a lounging tourist. The roosters are brightly colored and they all sometimes strike some pretty funny poses. I'm beginning to see what Gonzo found attractive in Camilla.

As I sit here, avoiding the rain in the main shack at my hotel, there is one chicken who will not give up. She is determined to get behind the counter. I have no idea what she sees back there, but she wants it, bad. The Help keep on "Shh, shh" ing her away, and she keeps on coming back.

When she is found out, and shushed off, she clucks away indignantly. "How could they think such a thing?" she clucks. "Accusing me of such indignities. Well, I never." Cluck, cluck. Be-gawk! If the rooster happens to be around, he sets off a crow or two, in solidarity. And if the other hens are around, they join in the chorus, "Hmph. The nerve of those men. To accuse any one of us."

And away she clucks. Until she sneaks back in. And the story repeats itself.

If she is caught behind the counter, she flutters up and over in the sad display of wing-flapping that a chicken calls flying. She lands on a table. Hops, wings a-fluster, to the ground, and back out. Clucking, of course, all the way.

Then, with her black feathers blending in with the tile floor, she sneaks back in again. And again.

I've been calling her Chicken Little, what with the fluttering and clucking, you can see where the sky is falling story comes from. But, I keep on warning her, if she doesn't shape up, we're all going to be calling her Dinner.


- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Author's note: I did have fried chicken for dinner last night, and this morning, there was no imperious, sneaking chicken to be found. Coincidence?

Location:Gili Meno, Indonesia