FINGER CLUCKING GOOD

The fate of our eunuch rooster was finally decided. We’d been considering turning him into a Sunday lunch for some time, and Philen assured us that slaughtering a hen was old hat to him. Theo had previously been indecisive, claiming that he wasn’t prepared to do all the dirty work while I profess to be an animal lover yet am quite prepared to eat the meal so long as I don’t get my hands dirty. I have no qualms about keeping animals for meat so long as they are respected and cared for during their time on earth. In fact I support eating chickens that roam the yard as apposed to those kept in a cage no bigger than their body for the short duration of their life. Clearly Theo was not listening as usual or perhaps he needed time to figure out how to catch the rooster.

So Philen’s visit brought the dispute to an end and our longing for some delicious tasting Xhosa chicken sealed the deal.

The eunuch rooster, who, I’ll now refer to as “Curry” surveyed us with one beady eye but he seemed much more aware of the red rooster, who I’ll call Cocky Locky for now. Cocky Locky came sprinting across the yard to chase Curry away from little Henny Penny who pecked daintily at some mielies. Her alluring tail fluff had long been the cause of Cocky Locky and Curry’s conflict. Curry, even though he was 3 times the size of Cocky Locky, was very wary of his adversary and clearly had no balls, pardon the pun.

Theo and Philen plotted their attack by arming themselves with weapons of mass destruction. I grabbed the camera. Curry was way too clever for the boy’s initial attempt to lure him with their Hansel and Gretel mielie trail so they tried a more direct approach. Philen stalked Curry with his rope lasso and a towel at the ready which he planned to through over the rooster, confuse him and then pounce.

Theo in the meantime had positioned himself behind my dangly door thingie with his bow and arrow drawn and ready. The hunt was on. (I’ll elaborate on Theo’s home made bow and arrow at a later time). I stood between Curry’s retreat pathway with my camera poised while inconspicuously trying to heard Cocky Locky and Henny Penny out of Theo’s target range in case of a stray arrow. Curry sensed there was fowl play at hand.

After a half an hour we eventually gave up to regroup and re-evaluate our situation. We were hungry and tired of being out manoeuvred by a sharp-eyed chicken. Luckily, just then, a friend phoned and invited us to join him for a chicken potjie and a bottle of whiskey. We welcomed the drinks so the three of us squeezed onto the XT and headed down the road to Marius’s house. I haven’t mentioned him before, although he is an unusual character; an ex rekkie who has been hiding out from the SWAPO team since he left South West Africa in a big hurry a number of years ago and has been hiding in the hills here in Transkei ever since. His extraordinary life story, washed down with a couple of whiskeys, always captivates his audience and on this day, he recounted his Rekkie training days. By the time we left, we were all revved up and rearing to go. We raced home the 3 km’s on the bike, and jumped into action within seconds of arriving home. Theo and Philen marched over, had the rooster down, slit its throat and minutes later I was plucking it.

By the time the adrenalin and whiskey wore off, the bird was ready for the pot and looked just like the chickens you buy from the supermarket all cleaned up and ready to eat. Well almost, the feet, still attached and quite a delicacy here, was the only visible tell tale sign that it wasn’t a watered down, hormone injected, bland tasting excuse for meat.

The bird weighed 3 kg’s and was more than enough for 2 cookings. Philen made a delicious curry, feet, giblets and all which simmered a few hours that day and Theo made another yummy curry the next day with the other half.

I still have a bag of feathers to stuff a pillow or do something useful with. In fact ive just thought of a damn good idea – we can stick them on owl masks next project day at the centre.

WITH A CLUCK CLUCK HERE AND A CLUCK CLUCK THERE.

 Our hen is having an identity crisis. We left the chickens alone (besides a friend feeding them daily) for six weeks and now the oddest thing has happened. When we returned, Diablo, the only chicken we named out of the three, had doubled in size. Her beady yellow eyes which glare fearsomely at you, earned her the name. The other black hen is not nearly as greedy as her, but the rooster has always treated his 2 hens equally as far as courtship and calling them to share food. Only the smaller hen pops out her egg every morning much to Theo’s delight, but Diablo doesn’t seem to have the same desires to contribute towards our breakfast.

Well, the other morning, we were still in bed; I was enjoying listening to the birds and filtering through my thoughts which these days are limited to creating fun lesson plans, or recalling skipping songs from files which have long ago been abandoned to file 13 in the bottom drawer of my whiskey saturated brain. Anyway I have limited time to arrange these thoughts before Theo turns the radio on to listen to the traffic report in Cape Town or what poultice Tannie Sannie recommends to treat Boet’s recurring athlete’s foot calamity on Radio Sonder Grense. So there we were, 30 seconds into some or other Afrikaans singer belting out something about “ek wil styf langs jou lepel lê” when the rooster gave his usual “I got it all this morning crow” when clear as daylight, we heard an answering call in a deep voice right outside the door to our rondavel.

It definitely was not the neighbour’s rooster answering as used to before we left for Cape Town and I can only assume that he was eaten over the holidays, (probably to celebrate someone being circumcised) and now our rooster has to strain his ears to listen for an answer from another adversary over the hill. Anyway, Theo jumped up to investigate and true as bob, Diablo was out there crowing. WTF? Was it possible? Was Diablo messing with our rooster’s manhood, or more perturbing, was she a he? Surely the rooster would not have tolerated a rival on his property? She’s bigger than him these days and he can’t catch her for his mandatory bonk but since she has started crowing, the rooster is disgusted with her and he and the other hen have teemed up and poor Diablo is being ostracised. Well all I know is if it turns out that we have two roosters, one potentially to reach the size of a goose on steroids, then one of them will have to end up in the cooking pot and what a pleasure it will be to eat meat other than Russians.

I’m gatvol of Russian sausages. Theo’s culinary abilities have been put to the test in his attempts to disguise the taste of yet another meal of processed Russians. Slicing, dicing, braaing, boiling, drying and the latest way of mincing them and adding to soups, stews, and bolognaise served with rice, samp and beans or pap have been on the menu every day since we’ve returned. He has yet to pickle them. Last night he made lasagne, with home made pasta which was yummy so maybe there are more inventions to come.

Anyway, the chickens better figure out who’s who, since the latest advice is to take our rooster to the 90 year old mama who lives over the hill and who specialises in castrating roosters. This apparently will curb his lusty desires and become less aggressive but if you ask me, all that will do is encourage Diablo to blow her own horn. I researched this rooster castrating business and apparently it’s not as bizarre as I imagined, but slicing a chicken’s groin open to pop out his internal goonies just doesn’t sound right at all. I’ll rather let nature play out its course and if that doesn’t work, I could seek out a Sangoma for advice regarding our chicken problem. Chances are I’ll be told to bury a bundle of herbs in the yard to restore harmony in the coop. That seems to be the general advice I’m told, whether to heal a sick person, change your bad luck, or get rid of a persistent itch in your groin, burying a bundle of herbs will do the trick I’m told.

On the other hand, the Sangoma might cleverly tell me to bury a dead chicken instead and that would be the end of my problem of having two roosters. The next step is finding someone who will catch it, slaughter it and pluck it cos I sure as hell am not gonna be able to. I’m holding thumbs we will find two eggs in their coop some time soon.

Fowl Play

Fowl Play




Picture this, Transkei, 1948, a peaceful day in the hills of Qolora. Well today its 2012 and not a thing has changed except that Theo and I are in the picture. Us and our chickens.

Lately I’ve been feeling quite sorry for the two little hens as they have to tolerate the rooster who constantly tries to jump them. He carries on like a teenager at a free for all rompus with the chicks. He has not yet learnt to be a gentleman but his focus these days is to either jump the hens who flee in fear or he practices his favourite pass time - crowing. Last week he forgot how to crow properly (what with his mind preoccupied with tail feathers) and his half hearted one liner cock a doodle doo trailed off so pitifully that the hens gave him a disdainful smirk and the neighbours’ rooster didn’t even bother answering his pathetic call. Maybe his testicles dropped or something. I don’t know what goes on under all those feathers but I suspect his goonies to be in the same position as an elephants’ - internal. Just rather different sizes. Ever heard of elephant peertjies as a starter? Nor have I, but I digress.

This week the poor fowl had a most frightening experience. There they were, minding their own business, pecking at the grass, and keeping a beady eye on the rondaval door in case anything edible gets thrown out with the dishwater. The next moment we heard the rooster squawking like mad and he came running home like a bat out of hell, his little road runner legs flying over cow dung landmines and his flappy red mohawk thingie plastered flat against his head. His beak was stretched wide open and his tongue beating against his cheek. Well ok, he was frightened. Theo rushed out, grabbed the whip (the same one which he used to defend himself against the one eyed Cyclops) and dashed towards the commotion. One hen came rushing towards him at a frantic pace screeching in alarm while a flock of swallows who live in the neighbouring rondavel roof were mobbing a bush, sweeping low again and again. Theo cracked his whip around his head as he raced towards the bush to investigate. A buzzard had the other poor little hen in its clutches, pinned to the ground and her life was about to be extinguished. Theo managed to chase it off and the bloodied chicken escaped and ran off to hide. The other hen frantically dashed around like a headless chicken while the rooster made it back to the container where he hid in fear. The frustrated buzzard circled overhead while Theo whipped at the air, protecting his potential egg factory like a madman. Anyone passing would have mistaken him for a crazy lunatic herding his mixed avian flock.

The chickens survived their ordeal but these days they duck whenever a bird flies overhead. These days the rooster has a much more confident crow, except the 2am one which sounds like he might be sleep crowing and which keeps me awake as I lie listening to hear whether his opponent over the hill responds. He has learnt to protect his females as he chaperones them around the field and even calls them when he finds food.

I wish I knew what he and the neighbours rooster continually call to each other. Could it be “hey buddy I’m still around and this is my bit of fluff so don’t even think of coming down that hill”, or is it a more friendly “hey buddy, you still there, any danger your side at the ok corral? Or is it just howdy doody? Guess I’ll never know the answer.



Fowl, Qolora, chickens, hens, Rooster, chicks, crowing, cock a doodle doo, testicles, egg

Fowl Play

Fowl Play




Picture this, Transkei, 1948, a peaceful day in the hills of Qolora. Well today its 2012 and not a thing has changed except that Theo and I are in the picture. Us and our chickens.

Lately I’ve been feeling quite sorry for the two little hens as they have to tolerate the rooster who constantly tries to jump them. He carries on like a teenager at a free for all rompus with the chicks. He has not yet learnt to be a gentleman but his focus these days is to either jump the hens who flee in fear or he practices his favourite pass time - crowing. Last week he forgot how to crow properly (what with his mind preoccupied with tail feathers) and his half hearted one liner cock a doodle doo trailed off so pitifully that the hens gave him a disdainful smirk and the neighbours’ rooster didn’t even bother answering his pathetic call. Maybe his testicles dropped or something. I don’t know what goes on under all those feathers but I suspect his goonies to be in the same position as an elephants’ - internal. Just rather different sizes. Ever heard of elephant peertjies as a starter? Nor have I, but I digress.

This week the poor fowl had a most frightening experience. There they were, minding their own business, pecking at the grass, and keeping a beady eye on the rondaval door in case anything edible gets thrown out with the dishwater. The next moment we heard the rooster squawking like mad and he came running home like a bat out of hell, his little road runner legs flying over cow dung landmines and his flappy red mohawk thingie plastered flat against his head. His beak was stretched wide open and his tongue beating against his cheek. Well ok, he was frightened. Theo rushed out, grabbed the whip (the same one which he used to defend himself against the one eyed Cyclops) and dashed towards the commotion. One hen came rushing towards him at a frantic pace screeching in alarm while a flock of swallows who live in the neighbouring rondavel roof were mobbing a bush, sweeping low again and again. Theo cracked his whip around his head as he raced towards the bush to investigate. A buzzard had the other poor little hen in its clutches, pinned to the ground and her life was about to be extinguished. Theo managed to chase it off and the bloodied chicken escaped and ran off to hide. The other hen frantically dashed around like a headless chicken while the rooster made it back to the container where he hid in fear. The frustrated buzzard circled overhead while Theo whipped at the air, protecting his potential egg factory like a madman. Anyone passing would have mistaken him for a crazy lunatic herding his mixed avian flock.

The chickens survived their ordeal but these days they duck whenever a bird flies overhead. These days the rooster has a much more confident crow, except the 2am one which sounds like he might be sleep crowing and which keeps me awake as I lie listening to hear whether his opponent over the hill responds. He has learnt to protect his females as he chaperones them around the field and even calls them when he finds food.

I wish I knew what he and the neighbours rooster continually call to each other. Could it be “hey buddy I’m still around and this is my bit of fluff so don’t even think of coming down that hill”, or is it a more friendly “hey buddy, you still there, any danger your side at the ok corral? Or is it just howdy doody? Guess I’ll never know the answer.



Fowl, Qolora, chickens, hens, Rooster, chicks, crowing, cock a doodle doo, testicles, egg

Daars a hoener wat a eier nie kan lê.

Daars a hoener wat a eier nie kan lê.


Theo’s rooster is getting cock sure of himself. About a month ago, we acquired 2 hens and a cock. During the day the little black hens walk around pecking at things on the ground and chasing each other around under the assumption that anything the other one finds must be worth stealing. The rooster, now that he has settled, spends his time trying to cross our doors’ threshold. He seems to think we have bugs inside and he is determined to come in and find out where we keep our factory of dung beetles who industriously roll their balls crisscrossing our rondavel floor. Theo has taken to hiding behind the door with a dishtowel and when the rooster ventures too near, he jumps out of his hiding place to scare him away. I don’t keep score. Initially we weren’t sure if these fluffy black jobbies were hens or cocks since they showed the beginning signs of a growth thingie on their heads like that useless flappy thing cocks have. A month down the track and now it’s easy to see that they definitely are hens by the way they daintily dart around and they take their dust baths more femininely than the rooster. At night, the three sleep in a huge container which is a bit of a metal eye sore outside our door. Also, it has a toxic sign stuck on the outside. I don’t know what it was once upon a time used for but if we end up having green eggs with ham for breakfast then I guess there was a reason for the toxic sign. Anyway, about a week ago, the cock crowed for the first time. He was inside the container at the time and his crowing echoed extra loud. When Theo opened up to let them out, Mr Rooster strutted around, puffed up like some bigshot with a torch in his pocket. A bit like the Xhosa boys around here, who apparently after initiation suddenly think they are men and act all windgat. Well I s’pose if I survived a stunt in a hut with nothing but a blanket and a piece of dry bread while nursing my injured chopped penis I’d probably also feel I had the right to stick out my chest afterwards. The whole initiation thing is a touchy subject actually. It’s probably one of the few customs that are still a very important part of any teenage boy’s life especially here in the rural community. The boys must go through it to be recognised by the community as a man otherwise they will never command respect or find a wife. The way it interferes with school education is a big problem (besides the whole issue of it being done under unclinical conditions which could lead to fatal infections or Aids from using the same blade). The ritual usually takes place in December when a bunch of school boys go off for their “manhood training”. It is such a big buildup in their lives that it carries much more weight than year end exams at school. I’ve heard talk of fighting between the boys at this time as they suddenly feel the urge to display their manhood and puff up like Theo’s rooster.

The initiation is secretive to outsiders especially to women so I haven’t exactly been able to go up to any male students and together with a couple of hand signs thrown in to explain my English say “howzit man, so are you looking forward to your circumcision?”

During their stay at the special hut, the umkhwetha (the person who trains them) teaches the initiates about the responsibilities of becoming a man and once they have passed the test, they eat meat and go home men, free from their mothers’ apron strings. I understand their training is quite intense and the painted initiatives get little food and less sleep since they have to make sure that the fire burns throughout the night. I’ve also read that they shave their heads and that the hair gets burnt or buried in case a bird uses it to build a nest which is guaranteed to make you go mad. (I think the hair bit is relevant to anyone getting a haircut actually.) At the Arts and Culture Festival, a teacher told me that the boys who were dancing did similar dancing during the ritual and also that many mothers were unhappy that their boys had become disrespectful towards them after going through their rites and in fact came home smokers and drinkers. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to find out more about this passage of rites the longer we stay here.

In the meantime, Theo’s rooster is getting too big for his hormonal boots. Just because the neighbouring roosters are answering his calls these days, without him having to step into his “auditorium” container for special effects, he now thinks he is entitled to jump the little fluffy hens who squeal with fright and try to run away. They are too frightened to dip their heads to eat when he’s around since it makes their bums stick up in the air like an invitation flag. I’ve noticed that they often stand with their backsides up against the wall while chewing the cud. If the rooster keeps this up I’ll send him with the next group of boys to the grass hut so that he can be trimmed down to size or mind you he’ll probably get cooked.

Those poor hens are in for a bum deal so I hope they figure out the pecking order to survive Cocky Locky’s rites.