Monica & Me vs. Mamma Hen

“They’re like goldfish,” Monica said. We stood staring at the baby chicks running around the storeroom. Their feathers were starting to change colors, but they were still awfully small.

“What do you mean, goldfish?” I asked.

“They grow according to their environment, and they’ve been trapped in a little basket their whole lives, so they haven’t grown much.”

The theory sounded good, but what do I know about chickens? Then it hit me: she didn’t know anything about chickens either. “Are you sure?”

“Of course!” She feigned insult. I remained silent. A moment passed. Then she looked at me hesitantly before adding with a laugh, “I mean, I haven’t read it anywhere or anything...”

Still, it was good enough for me. “It’s time to move the chickens.”

However, we soon realized that was easier said than done.

First, we tried herding them with sticks. They didn’t cooperate. In fact, we looked so ridiculous the Old Man was bent over laughing at us from the peaceful security of his house.

So we tried catching them with a sheet. They were too quick. Every time we came within sheet-throwing distance, they’d scuttle out of range or take cover beneath a prickly bush. These goddam chickens are wiser in the way of warfare than they lead you to believe.

Then we resorted to the basket, catching Mamma underneath and scrambling around to convince the four chicks to join her. But the distance between the storeroom and the henhouse was simply too great! As we dragged the family along, Mamma’s foot or a baby’s wing or an entire chick itself would get caught between the thatch and the path, and we would cringe on their behalf, cease our movement, and stare at the broiling remaining distance. By this time the sun was at its zenith, and Monica and I were drenched in sweat.

Still, we refused to concede. We took a moment to strategize over a glass of water, built a chicken-catching contraption with a basket, a couple sticks, and our own wit, and tried again. To no avail.

Maybe the idea was sent from elsewhere, but it struck us both at the same time: With the chickens in the basket, we shifted them over the sheet, wrapped the corners tightly to prevent any openings, and lifted everything. All five rascals were squawking and squealing, but they were sealed and transportable. We carried the chickens to their new home, shifted the basket on its side, with the sheet between the chickens and the henhouse door. Then, like two proud magicians, we let the sheet drop. Mamma, Thelma, Louise, Beatrice and Mammacas flew frantically into their new home.

We sealed the door just in time for Vasentha to arrive. She looked at us, standing and sweating beside the hen house. She looked at the Old Man, laughing from a distance. And she looked at the animals playing in the dirt within caged walls. “Super.”

Monica and I may get the hang of this after all.

Daily Activities

People from the States keep asking me what life is like these days.

The thing is, running a forest is a lot of work. Period.

Twenty acres is a lot of land. Period.

And there are animals to protect! Just this morning the villagers brought their dogs to collect cashews and—as they do almost every morning—the dogs chased the chickens. For the third time since June, one of the dogs succeeded in catching a poor bird, and I had to come with a stick to free the cock.

Plus, our Gop__ needs a lot of loving (which I’m more than happy to give) and company (which I spend simultaneous writing about watsu and/or complementary currencies). He’s just a puppy, after all…

And the cows come several times a day to eat the young trees and blooming flowers, and the house/kitchen/storeroom always offer improvement projects, and the workers—my God, the workers.

Everyday they try to teach me Tamil. However, the lessons include me repeating what they say without any clue what it means. We laugh a lot. Then they ask me serious things in Tamil and look at me with expectant eyes. I suddenly have to make a thoughtful decision based on a frantic stream of grunts and hollers which meant absolutely nothing to my ears. Sometimes we play charades, but I’ve always been bad at that game.

They look to me more and more for direction. I point and explain what needs to be done around the house. But in the forest? I clearly have no idea, and even if I did, the Old Man would have no idea what I’m saying.

Thus, after working on watsu and economics, between fighting village dogs and chasing cows, while tending to Lumière’s puppy and employees, I’m now researching Tropical … Forests and practicing Tamil online.

So, my fellow Americans, my only answer to you is: I’m keeping busy.

Chics Day Out

Interesting how much we’ve seen shapes how world view. Many will never leave their home country, many have never been on an airplane, many can’t even conceptualize elsewhere. I, for one, strongly advocate for travel and encourage others to see as much as they can. If I had the resources, I would give EVERYONE I know an opportunity to leave their sheltered life—even if only for a few moments.

Why should the baby chickens be exempt?

Thus far, the chicks’ entire world existed only of the blue birthing bin, the protective basket, and a few futile glimpses of the storage shed corner as we changed the sand or water in their home. It was time to push their limits.

(Plus, the Steward of the Land suggested a chick expedition via skype… so I was simply following orders.)

I first let them out in the morning. They just emerged from the storeroom door when the Old Man ran over hollering, pointing to the sky, and herding them back into the protective den. Apparently there’s a giant gray bird that eats baby chickens if they come out too early in the morning. Seriously.

So we tried again at the zenith of the day. Voila—Thelma, Louise, Beatrice, and Momacas (she’s a bit fatter than the others)—you are free! Go forth and prosper!

And while we (mostly Monica) took their guardianship quite seriously…

…this is primarily how and where they spent their day of freedom:

Getting them back into the basket was the hard part. It consisted of using the basket as a shield and a giant stick as a sword, so I pranced around like a gladiator until they were successfully herded back into their tiny dominion.

One of these days we’ll shift them to the abandoned hen house…

The Vet

It’s good to be humbled. I find I am wrong more frequently these days, and that’s fine. I’m sure I’m learning something besides humility.

A dear friend took me and the dog to the free vet for village dogs. What an incredible service! Walking through its beautiful gate, visitors find themselves in an open puppy playground with battered dogs full of life and hope. A three-legged beagle mix greeted us with protective barks and gentle kisses. Several mutts followed curiously in our wake. Others suffering from mange or broken limbs or whatever else were herded into the back field, where they can run and tussle and play. I was immediately relieved, and brought our street dog to the table.

“Ah, he’s not so bad,” the vet said.

I looked at the fly-infested, limping, bleeding dog and responded, “You must see a lot of suffering.”

She examined his wounds, weighed him, gave him a shot for worms, played with his feet and teeth and unmentionables. Here are the conclusions:

• He’s six to nine months old.
• He’ll be a big dog, judging by the size of his paws. Some German Shepard mix.
• He has mange and needs to be washed with special soap.
• He needs follow up worm pills.
• He needs to eat more. A lot more. He’s malnourished—probably because of the worms.
• He limps because he’s weak; as soon as the mange and worms go, he’ll be better.
• He’s already attached to us.

“Now,” she said, “the first step to healing is a name. What are you calling him?”

We each blurted out three different words.

“And that, I fear, will be your problem.”

Ok, ok... Gop__ it is?

Old Man vs Wild Cat

Last night there were noises. Violent noises. Noises too scary for us to check on. Plus, we have a night watchman, and his voice triumphed over the cries. So everyone in the house returned to dreams, and only this morning did we learn of the previous evening's heroic adventures...

Apparently the shadows hid more than sleeping bugs last night. Somewhere in the bushes lurked a wild cat, and his hungry eye was on the chickens. While the chickens' protectors slept soundly, the cat pounced--snatching away a beautiful white hen in its blood-thirsty fangs!

But the Old Man isn't too old. He sprung from his bed and approached the vicious cat with a big stick and only mild intimidation. It was one wild creature versus another, and with flaring arms and bizarre shouts, the Old Man frightened the beast away.

But not in time. The hen lay wounded on the ground, blood staining its precious feathers. The Old Man scooped the poor damsel up, nestled her in his arms, and walked away slowly. He soothed the creature, wrapped her in bandages, gave her the love and attention any old bird needs.

And today, she's walking with her chicken comrades across the Land.

No wildcat will get us down.

Roomies

I spent the night on the hammock; sometimes it’s just too damn hot in the house. As light slowly took over the land, my senses began to stir. My heart stopped. There was someone snoring beside me.

I froze and my limbs went cold as only the chill of fear makes them do. Who was sharing the deck? How did they get up here? What did they want? Was I in danger?

I listened to the rhythmic breathing and tried to take comfort in the fact that the breaths were small, meaning the breather couldn’t be too large either. Maybe one of the millions of locals got lost picking cashews yesterday, wandered all night, and ended up here. ‘It’s probably some poor little woman, or even a child!’

So I worked up the courage to turn around... slowly... carefully. I wished for something heavy or sharp with which I could defend myself if necessary. ‘I’ll have to rely on my charm... and dirty fingernails.’

With my face towards the breathing I opened my eyes. Nothing. The floor was completely empty. The dark corners were people-less. I was alone.

But the snoring continued.

So I looked up.

There, still as a statue, was perched a large owl. Its feathers lifted and left to the rhythm of the breaths. The great bird was snoring.

I laughed at myself and rolled back to sleep, content to share my space with such a magnificent creature. ‘We both can snore together for a few more hours...’

When I woke up in full light later, the bird was gone. A lizard had taken its spot—a lizard like I’ve never seen before. Pink head, green body, black neck and legs, beady eyes staring at me with curiosity. I swear its colors shifted as it slowly crept along the keet roof. Are there chamelians in these parts?

I laughed. I like that the house is so full, and we all make such splendid roommates.

Listening to the Land

I learned two important signs tonight:

1. When the gecko croaks, the words being spoken are certainly Truth. For example, if you're speaking of rain when it cries, it will surely rain.
   
   
2. When the owls cry, good spirits are present. Every night they wake me from my sleep, and now I can take comfort in their bittersweet song.