a word about our chickens

The problem with using a blog as therapy like I do, as Sara pointed out, is that it all ends up sounding manic depressive. (She also "diagnosed me", early on in our relationship, with late-onset autism because sometimes I really can't stand having anything touching my skin, no eyeglasses, earrings, ponytail holder, bracelets, rings, or tight clothes.)

I'm not manic depressive; I'm not even depressed currently. The main culprit for my rollar-coastery blogs is that life here is extreme: mundane to the point of nose-picking boredom, or eventful in a way it never is in America: i.e., a 14-year old boy with a scrotum inflamed to the size of large melon. That, and the fact I have no social life.

But in honor of a determination to be more even-keeled, I'm devoting today's post to my feathery friends.

I had no idea I would love raising chickens so much, never having had the opportunity before this. This is one of the multitudinous benefits of moving to a new country. I've invested well over $10 of my personal money into their comfort and upkeep, which is 16% of my monthly salary; but the flush of pride I feel in holding their little colored, homegrown eggs makes it so worth it.

The names of our chickens are:

Mbhava - who somewhere along the line misplaced his left foot. He used to have it but it didn't work and he'd hop around with it tucked up into his feathers. Today I looked and noticed that the lame foot is now gone completely. There's only a stump. Where did he lose it?

Fudza - our original chicken. We kept him inside an overturned basket for a month or two until Joseph built our magnificent casa das galinhas and, in retrospect, this may have provoked anti-social behavior, perhaps from post-traumatic stress disorder. When we first transferred him, he was cruel to the other members of their coop (especially Mbhava who is special needs), pecking them ruthlessly, stealing the food scraps for himself. As a new parent, I eventually realized that yelling does no good and I was forced to remove him altogether. He now lives free-style out in the year, happily it appears, but as we have no fence, there is no guarantee of his safety from predators (including Sampson, whom I'm beginning to suspect of having a penchant for chicken foot).

Mafigo - who is a duck.

Branca - our first unwed mother. This is so exciting. The neighbor's rooster kept coming around and I decided it was time to expand operations. I let Branca out for a day or two, she and the rooster did some serious cavorting, and now, beyond my greatest hopes, she is faithfully sitting on 8 or 9 eggs in the back corner of the coop.

Last but not least:
Lynn - our newest addition, what Mozambicans call a galinha do mato (literally, bush chicken). She's actually a guinea fowl. It was like a divine plan that we got her; on the very day I asked Joel to please bring me one back from his next trip out to bush, Sara came home with her. The very next day, I lost her. What happened is that I crawled into the coop to retrieve some eggs and, novice as I am, I left the entrance in the roof open. Lynn flew out. For 45 minutes, I ran around our neighbor's yards trying to catch her. Several local kids and two guards helped me, but we could not match her sheer speed and flying prowess. I had no idea. Guinea fowl are nothing like regular chickens. I felt terrible for having lost her but a week later, we woke up and found her back in the coop. I'm still not sure who did it. "Touched By An Angel"?

They are good chickens, on the whole. I am learning a lot about their likes and dislikes. Example of like: carrot peels. Example of dislike: leftover macaroni and cheese. Here's a video I took of them:

Branca, doing her motherly thing.

Lynn might be considered ugly but I think she's perfect.

Mafigo likes to sit in a basin of water.

Mbhava. Note her disability. She's got fantastic balance though.

I couldn't find Fudza to take his picture. This is his old house. It still functions as a good place for time-outs.

The rooster isn't ours. He's big and bold and brawny, a real lumberjack. Like a world which has experienced nuclear fall-out, all of our hopes for future generations rest with him, and him alone.