I asked if I could do the deed myself, but the men simply laughed and began discussing a bargain. Though done often enough, it is not traditionally the women that kill the chicken. All the same ‘la blanche’ (white girl) assuming this role was like asking for a ride to the moon.
After the chicken was selected the young boys were put in charge – both had to be around 5. I noticed that one of the boys passed a marble he had apparently been occupied with to his friend, so as to free his hands for the murder.
Without a sound and with much self-affirmation, they together held down the chicken and cut its neck. The blood trickled along the dusty ground like a new river searching for its mouth, as the last traces of life drained slowly from of the eyes of our dinner. I was surprised, and a little disappointed, at the lack of commotion.
After all signs of life had vanished, the boy put the deceased into a pot of boiling hot water so it could be easily plucked. However, possibly due to the young age and excessive pride gained from performing the deed for tourists, the boys had put the chicken in the pot prematurely. The chicken convulsed in the rusted pot spraying the air with boiling hot water and blood.
A spectacle indeed, at least the chicken was given the opportunity to go out with a bang…
Eventually the papa of the chicken shack came around shunning the boys with aggressive clucks and grunts, and with a crinkled brow and an indignant lower lip he made sure everyone knew he was dissatisfied with his boys work. He then re-cut the neck and finally put it in the boiling water, so he could finally pluck and clean the bird.
