A Motorbike Ride through the Cambodian Countryside and the Death of a Chicken - Cambodia

---

From the moment we arrived in town, a forty-year old Cambodian man had been hounding us to hire him for a motorbike tour through the countryside. He’d be waiting in the lobby of our hotel every morning when we came down, and would ask if we’d like to go for a ride today. His eagerness suggests the profitability of work with tourists over other traditional jobs available to him. We finally said yes and he called a friend with another motorbike. The fee was $15 for the afternoon, total.

We set off down the red, dirt roads, dust quickly coating our ears, eyes and mouths. When another vehicle passed us, we had to cover our mouths, or be left choking. Our drivers had mouth masks but we unfortunately did not. They took us to places we would have never gone on our own. We rode thin dirt paths, miles of farms stretching out on either side of us. Little homes, livestock, flat-ness stretching forever. Cows quietly watched us pass, but the kids were much more vocal. They waved like crazy and yelled, “Hello! Hello! Hello!”. They all knew the words “hello” and “goodbye”. We felt like celebrities.

We climbed steep hills to see interesting, old temples and pagoda complexes. We could see far in to the distance, a patchwork of farms, undivided by hills or rivers. We were protected from wild, threatening monkeys by three little boys who threw rocks to keep the animals at bay. We drank refreshing coconut milk through straws stuck in to the rotund fruit. We rode a bamboo train, a little platform on wheels with a motor that the locals use for transport on the train tracks. The real train only comes by once every other day so the locals have cleverly devised their own system to take advantage of the tracks. The bamboo train can easily be lifted off the tracks when the real train comes.

Resting at an outdoor table after eating a lunch of noodles with chicken, we got very intimate with the origin of our meat. First, a man with a maniacal laugh ran by with a stick, trying to catch one of the many chickens lolling around. He was too slow, but a little girl soon snatched one up by the feet. Fascinated, we ran over to watch what would happen. The man slit the chicken’s throat, kneeling over a cup so the blood was caught. The chicken, still very much alive, moved its legs in an effort to escape, but couldn't run or squak. The man kept smiling at us, watching him and the chicken with wide eyes. We were wondering why he was so excited about the murder. I guess he got a kick out of our intense interest in his everyday routine.

After bleeding the chicken for about a minute, the butcher let it go. The chicken couldn't lift its head off the ground but it flapped its wings wildly, trying to fly away. The man soon came back and lifted the chicken into a waiting pot of boiling water. He submerged the chicken into the water, dipping it in when it popped out, for about a minute. Then the man took the chicken to a table behind the kitchen to pluck its claws and feathers, which came out easily. The chicken was still making squeaking noises. The routine was efficient and fast, and soon the chicken was taken for another hot water plunge.

After this second dip I think the chicken finally died. The man continued grooming it, and I left the area, feeling a bit sick. Gabriel, a vegetarian, watched until the very end. Actually seeing this animal die for a silly meal made me realize how unnecessary it was to eat it. Couldn’t I have just eaten noodles and vegetables and saved a chicken from a painful death?

In America, we are never forced to see the live animals that become the meat we eat. The whole process is done in private, by others, allowing us to pretend our meat was never a live animal, squaking and pecking about. Maybe we should all have to watch animals die, so we can decide if it’s really worth it for us to eat them. The chicken whose death I witnessed did live a happy life though, free to peck around and do what wild chickens enjoy.

---