Chapter Three. Chickens

What came first? The chicken? Or was it the egg? It is the question of our time, the question that has plagued philosophers for thousands of years. Know the answer to this, and you could possibly know the answer to the mystery of life itself. With that in mind, I am going to make the most preposterous assertion that I may have actually found the answer. And found it in the where-the-hell-is-that?-ville called Waitetuna Valley of all places. So here it is. Out in this odd new locality I was about to call home, the chickens definitely came first. And they were not ready to relinquish their hard fought place at the top. In preparation for the influx of these prized birds into my life-I had been thoroughly forewarned by the online advertisement-I did at little research into the life of the humble fowl. My main source of information was a kid’s picture book called Fun Facts about Chickens-obviously a good place to start. I thought I would share a few of these fun little anecdotes with you. Did you know that the fear of chickens is called is alektorphobia. My little book illustrated this fact by showing a pale man being chased by two angry looking chickens, both about the size of VW Beatles. One of them was carrying a cleaver. Both were wearing balaclavas. To be fair, I think anyone in this situation would be a pissing themselves a little bit. I once had a friend who suffered from this curious little oddity. He was so neurotic about the creatures that even a visit to the KFC drive-through would cause the whites of his eyes to gain a few extra inches, and make him to curl up into the fetal position on the backseat of our car. The last I heard of him he was working at the Tegal Factory in Te Aroha, which needless to say, I found very ironic. Another interesting fact about chickens is that they are apparently very easy to hypnotize. The book showed a chicken on a tight rope juggling half a dozen eggs (slight exaggeration I’m thinking). It also gave the step by step method on how to actually do it, which, of course, made me immensely happy. First, you hold the poor animal’s head to the ground. Then you draw a line in the dirt starting from its beak, outward. And then, hey presto, it is under your complete control. Supposedly the record time for a hypnotized chicken stood at 3 hours and 47 minutes. It quickly became my summer goal to beat it. One rather disturbing fact about the species is that they can live happily for quite some time –18 months in one peculiar case- without a head. I will you leave to imagine what the illustrator drew in my picture book. Also, this macabre attribute is, unsurprisingly, the leading cause of alektorphobia in human beings.
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I opened the driver’s door and immediately a sea of golden yellow feathers was lapping around my ankles. I was carefully picking my steps through the clucking melee when suddenly a brown object flew out from under the carport, ploughing its way through the squawking mess toward me. With feathers flying, a chocolate brown purebred Doberman erupted out of the carpet of Gallus Gallus Domesticus (as there are known in Latin). With a series of aggressive barks, loosely translated as “Who are you? Why are you here? And you had better not be inappropriately touching my chickens!” it proceeded to lunge at me, and unexpectedly started sniffing my bottom. I have never really understood this odd little greeting activity our canine friends seem to enjoy. Instead of simply saying ‘hurrow’, or shaking paws, they go and put their nose in places a nose should just never go. You can only imagine what the conversation must sound like. “Hey there. I’m Bruno. You smell, er, nice today.” Or after, when he is hanging with the ‘boys’. “Bro, that bitch (an entirely appropriate word in this instance), smells like, um, crap.” If you saw two humans doing that to each other, it would be a very strange sight to say the least. However in this particular scenario, which could have been potentially dangerous, the attention, though cringe-worthy, was preferable to being attacked. Knowing that the animal was not going to take a bite out of my ass, I relaxed my sphincter a little, and continued to wade through the brooding bunch. Like Moses, the red- (and white and yellow)-sea parted before me and I ventured out into the promised beyond, dog in tow, its nose seemingly glued to my anus.

“HigoodtoseeyoufoundyourwayiseeyoumetChilliPepperhopeyoudontmindthechickens”

And then I met Anita.

Anita was a little bit larger than life. My phone conversations had already given me a bit of an insight into her personality. And here she was, the voice personified, loping up the driveway in a pair of gumboots, carrying what looked like a bucket of milk in her hand (it turned out that’s exactly what it was). She was slightly shorter than me, and had a slight frame that screamed exercise and hard work. She looked young, but the laugh lines around her eyes indicated that she was in her late thirties or early forties. Possibly the most striking part of her appearance were her facial features. They reminded me of a hawk and this matched her nature perfectly. She fixed her green eyes on me as if I was a rabbit and shook my hand quite energetically, managing to slosh milk all over both of us.

“Well, let me show you around the place.” Anita’s rate of speech had apparently slowed down. I’m not sure if she was actually speaking at a more leisurely pace, or I was just becoming used to the way she communicated. Not surprisingly she was very expressive, using body language I had never seen before. I think it was this attribute that helped me to understand what the heck she was talking about.

She led me around behind the house, along with the over-friendly Doberman and half a dozen chickens. “And here is the chicken coop,” she pointed out. And indeed, so it was. What lay before me was about a quarter acre of grass fenced off with wire mesh. The only little problem with this scenario was that it was completely devoid of chickens. It seemed they were everywhere except where they were meant to be. Even the most unlikely places had a fowl or two clucking about. On the drive. On the deck. In the garden. On the dog kennel. In the dog kennel (except when Chilli Pepper–or just Chilli for short-knew about it. She had a tough-love approach when it came to managing the flock.) On the trampoline. Under the trampoline. One poor guy even had his head stuck between the trampoline springs. Though I was sure he would survive the ordeal (remember Fun Fact #2). If the need ever arose to get letters from the mailbox, you had to take a broom to bang it with. More often than not a cloud of feathers would explode out, followed by their rather bemused looking owner. The beauty of this was even if there were no letters, at least there would be at least a couple of freshly laid eggs, maybe even enough for an omelette.

As if to exemplify the point, two fluffy little chicks popped up out of a lone gumboot that was lying next to the fence, and started chirping away happily. Chilli gave a motherly growl, picked them both up gently with her teeth, and lobbed them back over the wire. And there you have it, a breed of dog better known for attacking small children, acting as a parent to a literal mob of chickens. I had only been in Waitetuna for ten minutes and already it was becoming decidedly bizarre.

“The chickens manage to get out sometimes,” Anita said somberly, as if this was some kind of revelation. Talk about understatement. It probably didn’t help that there were holes in the fence the size of a human head, or that the mesh didn’t exactly span the entire perimeter of the coop. I decided against pointing out these minor details to Anita, and the philosophical idea that for something to ‘escape’, it had to have spent a fair bit of time locked away to begin with (the flock clearly did not fall into this category). Instead, I decided to inquire about the keys situation.

“Um, I don’t have enough spares right now, so I’m just keeping a set in the chicken feed.” Considering the last few minutes, this absurd response did not surprise me in the slightest. I should have guessed really. She opened the feed box, and in about a nanosecond, every single chicken, from all parts of the property were clucking around us in all directions, expectantly awaiting an early dinner. About three of them were trying to climb into it, and soon we were flinging chickens into the air at an alarming rate. It would be quite unfortunate, for both the bird and ourselves, if it swallowed the only set of spare keys. The minute we saw their shiny glean, Anita slammed the feed box shut, nearly decapitating one of the chickens (in the event, though, this would not have been a huge issue, again, remember Fun Fact #2).

With the newfound ability of opening the appropriate locks, I followed her toward the house. The house itself looked rather well worn-in from the outside, and had that pioneer/settler air about it. She led me through the side door, which was also had a small gate attached (to keep out the wildlife I guessed). One of the hens managed to slip through between our legs. As soon as Anita saw it, she gave it a hefty kick with her gumboot causing it to sail back over from whence it came. Maybe the chickens didn’t come first around here after all.

“They aren’t allowed inside”, she noted, quite unnecessarily. The quiet fact that she had just placekicked one of them like a rugby ball had hammered home the point quiet forcefully. I felt like blowing an imaginary whistle and shouting ‘goal’, so wondrous was the projectile motion that had just occurred. It certainly put a spin on the term ‘free range chicken.’ Because that’s exactly what these critters were. Chickens cannot fly very well. And if they do, they barely leave the ground for more than a few metres. I learnt this fact from the claymation film ‘Chicken Run,’ which was also part of my pre-trip research list. However, giving them a good kick, or throw-I had just been party to both methods-could get them airborne, flying free- for at least three seconds anyway.

We wandered into the house. The interior had obviously been restored sometime in the previous few years and bore little resemblance to the rough, weather bent exterior. It had beautifully polished timber floors, on which Chilli was skittering about arthritically, and an old iron stove which added to the rustic feel. The walls were covered in various art pieces, and there was a statue of a bronze pig in the corner of the lounge, an interesting addition to an already intriguing place. However, the most amazing feature was the breath-taking view from the kitchen table. And I mean it was stunning. The house stood on a small hill that faced north up the valley. The house was designed so that the living room windows faced outward onto the amazing vista. They spanned the entire wall, and when they were swung wide open they would reveal a picturesque scene that out-rivaled the art pieces that decorated the walls either side. No artist in the world could ever capture the beauty of what lay before me, and in the next few weeks I would spend many hours entranced by it. I think the thing that struck me most was the green-ness of it all. The scene was literal patchwork of different shades of the colour, each little square cordoned off by age-old barbwire fence. An abundance of trees were dotted about in no apparent pattern throughout the landscape, which rolled about lazily in the general manner of the area. Various cows and sheep mooed and baa-ed their way across their respective paddocks, and in the distance, two ancient volcanic cones-now smothered in grass-stood brooding, sentinels guarding the valley. On the horizon, the bluish mountain ranges surrounding Waitetuna whispered mystery, a heavy contrast to the golden pre-summer glow of the afternoon sun which gleamed off everything it touched. Every colour was so exuberant it was almost as if you could reach out and touch them. The energy of it was inspiring, and one could easily get lost in its magic.

All of a sudden an orange blur scanned across the corner of my vision and I immediately snapped out of my paranoramic-induced trance. An overweight ginger cat stood at my feet peering up at me making the most bizarre noise I had heard in a while. It sounded like the cross between piece of malfunctioning farm machinery and, well, a choking cat. I was genuinely concerned for the health of the feline, and inquired to Anita about the curious sound it was making. “Oh, that’s just Ginge, he’s alright.” Though not convinced, I decided to take her word for it. Ginge: what an absurdly unimaginative name, no points there. Ginge’s raucous ‘meow’ added another part to the quickly growing animal orchestra-which already included the barks and clucks of Chilli and her feathered family. It was clearly a musical company lacking a conductor of any kind. Or else, had a conductor with a fetish for avante garde music, because for the life of me, I couldn’t find rhyme of rhythm in any of it. Though I guess I wasn’t supposed to. They were simply farm animals after all. After making this reasoned assumption I started humming Old Macdonald Had A Farm, and waited for the appropriate animal to make its solo. (‘And on that farm he had a ________’) It worked remarkably well. Though it was to get more complicated as my time in Waitetuna went on, due to the ever-increasing list of domesticated farm species I would meet on my way.

One of the only inhibitions I had had about moving to the Valley was the fact that there was not internet (dial-up is not internet), and no cellphone reception to speak of. The place was a technological desert. I suppose the isolation of it would be quite appealing to some people, however to this tech-savvy outgoing twenty-something the outcome could easily become completely disastrous. Only time would tell. However, despite the non-existent communication channels, there was a certain feature of the place that would fill the void left by not being able to continue my online social life. The house was a veritable library, with books stacked wall to wall in both living areas. It would turn out to be the only thing keeping me from going outright insane over my time spent there. Books of every imaginable genre, topic and author lined the numerous shelves. Even browsing through all the titles could take hours. It seemed someone around here was a science fiction geek. About a quarter of one of the shelves was full of titles like ‘The Magic Sword That Might Get May Get Our Hero a Social Life’ and ‘Virgin Fanboy Finds a Lightsabre’ (I don’t think it helped him!). I cringed a little, my sphincter once again clenching uncontrollably, and quickly moved on to the next section, which turned out to contain all the titles of romantic dramas ever written. I dubbed it the Fabio Factor, due to the worlds most overexposed male model-in both meanings of the word-gracing the cover of nearly every novel. I flicked through them and saw him posing in every possible position-some of which I wished to have remained ignorant of-and dressing up in garments that you wouldn’t even find at your local costume. Fabio the pirate. Fabio the innkeeper. Fabio the firefighter. You name the profession, and Fabio would somehow fill the required role. Some of the more interesting ones included a male nurse (or murse, as they are better known), a paleontologist, a wandering gypsy who was secretly the advisor to the King of Spain, and a soap-maker. It seems some people can’t get enough of Fabio. I certainly was, and moved on to the rest of the library. The various topics were in no particular order, and included everything from spiritual gardening to the history of pickup trucks, from Finnish architecture to the mating rituals of Portuguese geese. Given enough time, I could, if I so desired, become that annoying, somewhat socially awkward guy who is full of useless information. So the only way to stay sane was to possibly become a social retard. I would have to tread carefully to make sure this wouldn’t happen.

Anita then led me to the room I would be sleeping in for the next little while. It was all pretty typical. The one thing that did get me excited however was the double bed. I had never owned one before and tt was to be a new experience. I spent the next ten minutes finding out how many angles I could possibly sleep on it without falling off. Every way except side-on it turned out (it was a queen size, you need a king to do that). After that pointless exercise I then went back to Sarah Palin to begin unpacking my things. Then it dawned on me. This was home. This was real. The adventure was beginning.

It took me all of fifteen minutes to decorate my room. It would have taken me about ten if every chicken in the place hadn’t kept on trying to run through my legs as if I was part of some kind of obstacle course. I found that if I swung my surfboard around in a circle it would cause the chickens to form this feathered vortex, much like one of those outrageous fight scenes you see on old cartoons. As the room was fully furnished there was no need for me to bring any of my own furniture, however there was one piece that I did bring, and this was the last thing I carried inside. There is a bit of a story behind my beloved bedside table. It happened early last year. For some time I had been employed as gardener/labourer/lackey for a bazillionaire doctor/lawyer duo who lived in a restored historic mansion in Mt Eden. I won’t tell you the exact address, as one of my jobs there involved me installing a $100,000 bronze statue, and I don’t want anyone else planning on nicking and selling it to pay off their exorbitant student debt. Anyway, this particular job was not actually at the villa but in a derelict shop at the southern end of Symonds St in the central city.

The story behind the story goes like this. Apparently the uncle of the lawyer had leased the shop for about three years. He didn’t actually use it as a shop, or any particular profit making enterprise for that matter. What he did do was accumulate ‘three years’ of ‘stuff’ and store it all in there. The doctor described him has as ‘a bit of a hoarder’. This was an absurd understatement. The shop front was completely boarded up-as so much of them are on Symonds-and the moment we opened the front door we were met by a literal wall of the ‘hoarding’. We quickly realized that the ‘three years’ was more like half a dozen lifetimes. Once we managed to tunnel our way in, we found that the entire room-which was literally the size of a small town hall- was packed wall to wall, roof to floor, with every imaginable item under the sun. I don’t have the time or energy to even remember all the items, but to give you an insight into the absolute surrealness of the situation I will list a few of the more interesting of this man’s possessions. There were about 200 dress-up costumes, all of which no one in their right mind would be seen dead in. A ‘phonogram’-the ancient precursor to the MP3 player-which was about the size of kitchen table. There was also a ginormous stamp collection, which documented a brief history of nearly everything, pictorially depicting the evolution of man, right through to the coronation of Princess Leia. There were also lots of mundane items. What made their presence absurd was the sheer quantity he had of each. For instance, there were twenty-five ironing boards, four excer-cycles, and in all honesty about 15,000 rolls of toilet paper (insert potty humour here). In short, there was a shitload of stuff, an inventory of which would fill a hefty tome, heavy enough to use as a deep-sea diving weight, or a weapon to kill a man.

Our job in all of this was to completely clear every last item out of the place, saving the poor befuddled man (apparently he had a mental illness that led to the compulsive hoarding) about $40,000 per year, the amount he was paying to lease the shop. The job took us over month to finish. We used a variety of methods to try and make the monstrous task a bit easier. These included organising a massive inner city garage sale. We easily made $500 in the first hour. Another effective measure was soliciting the moving services of the homeless men we found sleeping in the doorway one morning (in return they could take whatever crap they wanted). Demolition and destruction-always an enjoyable form of work-was employed on a fair bit of broken stuff to fit it into the skip that sat idly on Symonds Street for at least a month. I also roped in as many friends (and friends of friends) as I could to lighten the load. As well as getting paid thirty and hour cash-in-hand (it turned out there was an illicit money printing press in the secret attic) we also got to take whatever item tickled our fancy. Amongst other things I acquired a set of drawers, a clothes rack, about thirty tubes of toothpaste, the aforementioned cigars, and of course my polished oak bedside table, which was now sitting happily next to my oversized bed in my Waitetuna bedroom.
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Dinner was fried chicken and eggs. I wasn’t surprised really. We washed it down with more than one glass of wine that Anita was so liberally pouring. Over the meal, Anita told me a little more about the place, how she was creating an organic farm that would eventually becoming self-sustainable-an admirable ambition I have to say. I asked what other creatures could possibly be living on the property, and she told me about the second paddock that, until that point, I had not known existed. In it lived a couple of goats, which disguised themselves as lawn mowers. One of the reasons I had been accepted so readily as a tenant by Anita in the first place was due to us having a mutual friend, Brian, who was to be my new workmate, and incidentally, was an ex-flatmate of the Waitetuna. Zoe was one of the goats, apparently Brian had undergone an interesting experience with Zoe. Anita was vague on any detail and told me mysteriously to ask Brian about it. Later on I would, and it would turn out to be hilarious. As well as a couple of vegetation-destroying goats there was a kunekune (a somewhat native pig), simply named Henry. Henry was the size of a sofa, and I was to have a very odd experience later on with my porky friend.

It was a fairly late dinner. Being close to mid-summer, the sun was only beginning to set even though it was nearing 9 ‘o’ clock. After reading a couple of ‘heartwarming’ (read: soppy) stories from ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul’ (the whole series was included in the library) I decided that it was time to retire to bed, as I would need to get up early the next morning. It was to be my first day at work, and I had no idea about travels times living out in the wops and all. To be on the safe side, I set my alarm to 6am, curiously enough the witching hour in most cultures. The exercise turned out to be completely futile, because at 4am I was promptly woken up with a start by the fucking rooster.

All rights reserved by the author. 2009.