Hauling Chickens

Here are the culprits – Dave & Todd – and the story of how I bridged the Kenyan cultural gap.






Dave & Todd are pictured as true to form as I could get. Dave would not be Dave without a cigarette. Todd would not be Todd without a beer. Dave & Todd thought it would be funnyhaha to give me chickens for my birthday at a location 12 hours by train from my house.

FYI – I hate chickens. I slept with earplugs for two solid years to avoid early morning roosters. I am amazed to this day that I’m not deaf from some fungal creeping earplug crud. Chickens poop EVERYWHERE. Chickens are gross. Chickens are annoying. Actually, some days, my kids seem a lot like chickens. I should throw some rocks at them.

Anyway, I graciously received Rusty and Checkers while secretly vowing never to Hair Wiz Dave’s hair again. I was now forced to haul them from Naivasha to my house in Mariakani. Nothing says “Hey, I’m a classy world traveler” like humping around some chickens in a box wrapped in twine.

The trip home involved a night in a hotel in Nairobi where I stupidly decided to get all PETA-ish and feel sorry for the chickens in the box so I let them roam free in the closet. True to chicken form, it was gross and I left a big tip for the maid.

The next day we boarded the train to Mombasa with this box of chickens and I thought to myself, “I am taking farm animals on public transportation. I am officially Kenyan.”

Now, there was a train station in Mariakani, but the train typically didn’t stop there. I don’t know what the mystery criteria for stopping at a station was but it didn’t matter since I only desired to get to Mombasa and my personal slice of heaven aka The Mission to Seamen (which is another chapter entirely). As fortune would have it, the train actually stopped in Mariakani where I wrote the fastest note possible and stuck it to the chicken box:

“Please take chickens to the chief’s compound. I will return in 2 days.”

I jumped out of the train, threw the box of chickens on the platform and ran back on knowing full well that someone would take care of things. Meaning the stationmaster would order some poor kid to haul those birds 2 kilometers to the chief’s compound and find a babysitter.

Turns out they got delivered to my neighbors and I believe they were fully delighted when I told them Rusty & Checkers were as good as theirs. I’m pretty sure Rusty was stew the first week, but here’s Checkers with some chicks! Awwww….

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