Law and Order

Traveling to South Africa, one expects to have his* fair share of new experiences. But there was one thing I was not prepared for… murder.

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I thought about posting nothing but the above and allowing you all to marinate on it for a week or so, but I thought better of it. So I’ll elaborate.

I killed a chicken. There I said it. God it feels good to get that off of my chest.

I guess with the right lawyer I could probably get the charges reduced from “murder” to “accessory to murder,” but there is absolutely no avoiding the charge of premeditation. That one’s going to stick like glue, because this was some cold-blooded stuff, my friends. Money changed hands, pictures were taken not only before and after, but during the very act. All in all, it was a pretty amateur job.

Amateur, and finger-licking delicious.

We had driven out of Thohoyandou to the village where Vhuli (my host/co-conspirator) had grown up, and where her mother still lives. The houses in the village now have running water and electricity, but for most of Vhuli’s childhood they did not. As a result, the residents of the villages maintain a sort of self-sufficiency that has long been lost in most of the developed world, particularly when it comes to food.

Decidedly more peaceful than 2nd Avenue.

Vhuli and her sister told me that only recently had they begun to feel comfortable about buying meat from a grocery store, and they still avoid shopping in the produce section whenever possible. This seemed odd to me, until my trip to Vhuli’s village. Her mother’s property, like those surrounding it, boasted a dizzying array of highly productive plant life… avocados, strawberries, corn, passionfruit, apples, oranges, mangos, papayas, grapefruit, potatoes, spinach, bananas, macadamias, and a few extremely tasty fruits I had never heard of and won’t even try to spell. All of this and more, growing within just the acre or so of property on which the house sat. This isn’t recreational gardening, this is a reminder of how the village residents supported themselves before the advent of paved roads and Shop Rites.

On top of that, chicken, goats, and cattle roamed free around the village, which brings us to the scene of the crime:

It all happened so fast. There we were, sitting in the living room, when from somewhere I hear the phrase “slaughter a chicken for dinner.” My ears perk up. I know that sounds a little sick but come on, wouldn’t yours? I mean, I’ve seen “free-range chicken” on a dinner menu before, but how often do you get to look outside and actually watch said chicken as it ranges freely?

Vhuli’s sister agrees to make the pickup. Eli and I supply the cash. It was on. Flash forward 3 minutes; Vhuli’s sister is back. She’s got the goods. It appears she wasn’t followed.

Never get attached, it just makes it that much harder.

 I make the mistake of looking into the chicken’s eyes, and can feel it peering back into my soul, which I assume is turning black. I begin to panic. But at this point, I’m in too deep. This is who I am now. It’s time to do the deed.

In my defense, at least I'm not grinning like Eli.

As a single tear rolls slowly down my cheek, I realize it’s probably safe to assume that most of the chicken I’ve eaten in my life didn’t die of natural causes (though I guess I’ll never be totally sure). I console myself in this way, telling myself at least I did something to contribute to my meal. This line of thinking really helps ease the transition from the man I once was to the monster I’ve become.

Of course, all of this guilt washes away about 40 minutes later as I polish off a drumstick. Fresh chicken is just really, really good. While I’m not particularly anxious to do it again, it was uniquely rewarding to experience this tiny piece of what the daily life in these villages is like. I have a lot of admiration for the people there, who by now certainly have access to modern conveniences but choose to preserve this aspect of their cultural history.

Anyway, I’m tired now and can’t think of a way to really wrap this up. So here’s a picture of a sunset, although to you in the States it may look like it’s just mid-afternoon, what with the time difference and all.

Symbolic of something or other.

Goodnight!

-Gates

* or her, you whacky feminists.