I’ve always fancied keeping a few hens. I have a fantasy
that my chickens will have long, peaceful lives and produce
big brown eggs without any dramas. All my friends and relations
who have ever kept chickens assure me that this is indeed
a fantasy. Chickens, they tell me, are stupid, vicious, suicidal
and sickly. Every predator within a five kilometre radius
will move heaven and earth to devour them.
But I have always had to learn things the hard way.
I decided on a small project, just three of four laying hens
in a roomy chicken run with a coop for sleeping. Because it’s
true that every predator from Homo sapiens on down enjoys
a chicken dinner and my land is on the edge of a ravine, I
knew the pythons, water monitors, civets, feral cats and Daisy
the Dachshund would all be deeply interested in my new project.
So before I left for Canada I designed a secure henhouse in
meticulous detail. It was framed in bamboo, and stood off
the ground with a slatted wire floor. The walls were bedeg,
and it had a sloping roof to shed the rain. All the gaps were
covered in fine wire to exclude snakes. It featured an attached
plywood egg box with a hinged lid and a front door I could
close with a string from outside the predator-proof chicken
run. My staff was bewildered with these refinements. Bali
chickens are seldom fed and just run around all day, roost
in the trees at night and lay their eggs any old where. “Seperti
hotel,” marveled Wayan.
I returned to Bali after dark a few weeks later and early
the next morning strolled around the garden. I was surprised
to find 7 kampong chickens in a disused aviary. So I went
to look at the place I had designated as the chicken run.
Inside a half-fenced corner stood a massive structure framed
in two-by-fours, with wire walls. It did have a nice little
ladder up to the front door, but in no other way resembled
my carefully designed chicken coop.
I gently pointed out the gaping holes and wondered aloud how
we were going to enclose the chicken run to keep predators
out and chickens in. After some consideration, Nyoman decided
that he would weave a net from strong plastic string for the
roof of the run, and use chicken wire for the walls. Soon
he had set up production in the front yard on a very long
bamboo pole with dozens of bundles of string suspended from
it, tying them neatly together at intervals. It was very labour-intensive.
After four days of weaving the net and another four of fitting
on the net roof and securing the walls and bamboo door, the
place was finally ready for its new residents. Friends and
neighbours came to admire it and the kids hung over the school
wall to gape. No one had never seen such a fuss being made
for a few Bali chickens before. Then I dug around in the compost
to find the fat beetle grubs that hide there, and buried them
in the chicken run as a welcoming treat.
Sadly, the flock had already dwindled dramatically. After
considerable in-house research, I have to report that the
Balinese chicken is the stupidest animal ever created. Unable
to decide in which direction to run from an oncoming car,
it will invariably launch itself under the wheels at the last
moment when it’s too late to avoid it. When chased by
a dog, it forgets it can fly and allows itself to be cornered
and rendered into a small pile of feathers. My staff had bought
eight hens. One had disappeared before I returned; then there
were seven. Three had made a run for it at feeding time; two
had been instantly dispatched by Daisy and the other flew
off down the edge of the cliff, never to be seen again. Then
there were four.
The remaining hens were shut up in their new coop and locked
into the new chicken run overnight. I woke early next morning
and went to check them. Three chickens wandered around outside
the enclosure, demonstrating that they could fly the coop
and pass through the labouriously-made net without the slightest
difficulty. The fourth lay disemboweled by the gate. Daisy
lurked nearby, studiously avoiding my eye.
Then there were three.
We hustled them back into the run, but it was pathetically
clear that they could leave it at will. By dusk, they had
all escaped. Two of them were teetering dangerously atop a
small tree near the kitchen and falling into my vegetable
garden with startled squawks when they lost their footing.
(Chickens seek the highest place they can reach to roost at
night, it seems to be their sole survival instinct). The next
day, they too had disappeared. Then there were none. Wayan
and Nyoman lurked around the garden with the old fishing net
and set traps, to no avail. On the third chickenless day,
a hen spontaneously returned to the old aviary where they
had first been kept and I managed to shut the door on her.
Then there was one. Later that day I saw that the other two
had broken into the chicken run and were scratching contentedly
in the rice straw as if they had been their all their lives.
Then there were three.
I finally smartened up and had Nyoman clip their wings; now
they were unable to reach the larger holes in the woven net
to escape. Soon after that I caught Wayan looking at the chickens
in a thoughtful kind of way. It was the eve of Saraswati Day
and I suddenly remembered the lavish offerings that appeared
on my bookshelves at this time, topped with a succulent roast
chicken. The next day I discreetly busied myself at the other
end of the garden until I heard loud chicken noises which
ended abruptly.
Then there were two.
But I’m already looking for the local equivalent of
nice, motherly Rhode Island Reds, because I now doubt I’ll
ever see an egg from this lot. And Daisy still lingers hopefully
by the garden gate.
