The Wild Chickens of Kenya

The Wild Chickens of Kenya

Here's a juicy morsel to get you in the Mood:

"I bought another round of Tej for us. He continued, saying he knew of only one other pack of wild chickens. Apparently they roamed in the western part of the Scottish Highlands, but they were rarely spotted. My friend drew me a map, while we drank some more in that dark and sweaty bar."

Thanks Jörg. This is your finest work, and testimony to the beneficial effects of Cannabis on literary endeavour.

The Wild Chickens Of Kenya

I first heard about the wild chickens of Kenya through a photography friend of mine. He had spent three months with these wild chickens. Initially he couldn't get close enough, but after two weeks, the birds capitulated. He had used a special language to communicate with them: A combination of vocal and body language to convey trust, allowing him to relate on a raw primal level.

We were in the process of getting drunk in some candle-lit bar in Addis Ababa (as usual no electricity in this godforsaken capital!). A folksinger, shaped like a brown egg, was slowly moving through the bar, proudly singing about 'our courageous boys' that had returned from the war with Eritrea. Three young soldiers nodded their beer glasses in appreciation.

I bought another round of Tej for us. He continued, saying he knew of only one other pack of wild chickens. Apparently they roamed in the western part of the Scottish Highlands, but they were rarely spotted. My friend drew me a map, while we drank some more in that dark and sweaty bar.

I hurried back to my hotel brothel, past muddy alleyways, decaying donkeys, abandoned streets, smoky shacks and empty restaurants. I rolled myself a joint. I couldn't keep my thoughts away from these feral fowl. The thoughts consumed my mind like liquid.

Kenya was next door. I needed to find them.

I bussed out of Addis Ababa early the following morning. The girl next to me vomited into the lap of her skirt, but nobody opened windows - Ethiopians were a superstitious people. We took two days to reach Merele, the dusty gold smuggling border town to Kenya. It took a further two nights to organize a lift on a Land Cruiser down to Nairobi. I shared the back with eight other people, sacks of sugar and drums of diesel. At night we slept in the sand behind the vehicle. And the stars ... there were so many stars. I arrived in Mokowe three days later, after securing several more lifts from Mombasa to head north along the East African coast. According to the map I had acquired in Addis Ababa, I was now close to the wild chickens. I gave a hawker some money in exchange for his bicycle.

I woke up before sunrise and headed out. The morning air was fresh. Thick bush flanked the dusky roads. The gravel crunched underneath my tyres. The bike was creaking in tune with the waking insects. I was surrounded by solitude. Very unsteadily, I made my way toward the chickens. An hour later, an ethereal dome of light grew on the horizon. When I arrived at the big baobab tree, I lent my bike against this landmark (my friend had drawn up a good map). The rest of the journey would have to be done on foot. I had water for three days; food for only one. I left my bicycle and cut into the bush, heading west. I passed the occasional mud hut, stumped palm trees, a small vegetable garden, little marijuana patches, surprised locals, and dirty children. Civilisation slowly became more and more forgotten. As the sun was rising I was all alone. The air quickly warmed up. By midmorning, the heat was buzzing. I searched all day. Sometimes I thought I heard clucking. Excitedly I'd stop and focus like a satellite dish, swallowing furtively. But nothing. I drank water but left my food for breakfast the next day. The night was cold and alive.

And then. The following morning, as it was getting light, I spotted the wild chickens of Kenya.

They were lying in a clearing, like fresh bails of hay in a field. A lump of feathers was stretched out not even thirty metres from me. Its body was breathing, and its nostrils were the source of small dust storms. They were sleeping. Their spirits were of animal and Earth.

I remained well hidden behind dry bush. The pack began to stir into their morning ritual. Several stood in the warmth of the morning light. Others clucked around, stretching their legs, testing their wings and feathers. They helped clean each other. It was the unfolding of a new day, a day of roaming the vast grasslands.

I crouched in reverence for an eternity - or an instance - humbled by their mystery, their wisdom; enchanted by their romance. Suddenly, two chickens erupted into a wild flutter of wings, throwing themselves at each other in a disturbance of dust; their impassioned cries resonated deep in my soul. It was a dance of sorts, a primordial message to the gods, and to each other. Their leg muscles shimmered in the morning light.

I was absorbed in them for a long time, when suddenly a wild chicken spotted me - its eyes revealed truth and fear. Quickly all chickens knew. They vanished hastily, rushing headlong into the land - their land, leaving behind only prints and silence.