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Published: September 5th 2009
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In the “you learn something new every day” category, I now know that Vilcabamba’s roosters—like its dogs—howl at full moons. And tonight, amigos, there’s a full moon.
Although Jack and I are accustomed to waking up in the morning to a cacophony of roosters and dogs—with an occasional burro filling in the bass line—this non-stop all-nighter is a revelation. The roosters’ fingernails-on-chalkboard voices collect and mix and swirl up the mountainside darkly to our little casita, reminding one of the souls in Dante's lowest circle screaming for release, or one of those horrid 1950s movies set in an insane asylum.
It’s 2 a.m. and the animal kingdom is taking turns supplicating Vilcabamba’s moon god with their favorite arias. When the canines take a break, a rooster takes that’s as his cue to command center stage. Soon, his supporting cast joins in, too, and their discordant chorus becomes a vocal free-for-all.
Normally, it's tolerable living on our hillside, with the racket more of a distant annoyance rather than an in-your-face assault. Tonight it's verging on "shock and awe." Roosters are rampant all over Latin America, but after tonight they might consider changing “Vilcabamba” to “Gallobamba.”
But if I’m
Captive Fighters
Tied to the curb. in aural agony on the hillside, I can only imagine what it’s like in the village right now. We have friends who live around the corner from an old-timer who thinks that roosters were born to fight. During the day, he ties one of their legs to the curb, spacing them just far enough apart so they can't rip each other apart—not until Saturday night when he can make a few bucks when they rip each other apart. We’ve counted up to 25 curbside captives at a time.
I'd scream if I were a gamecock, too, but I feel sorry for our friends renovating apartments nearby—and their future tenants may not appreciate the repertoire of these mohawk-wearing “punk cockers.”
Besides their nighttime mono-syllabic screeches, roosters have a multi-syllabic daytime vocabulary. Contrary to popular myth, it is usually not "cockle-doodle-doo," consisting of five syllables. It's "cockle-doodle," four syllables.
Now this is the embarrassing part—and evidence of how the evil ones have shredded what semblance of sanity I was rumored to have once possessed. You see, what the gallos are really saying is… "Kathie Daniels"… my maiden name. As I walk through the village, I hear the collaborators announce
my arrival, block by painful block. “Kath-ie Dan-iels, Kath-ie Dan-iels…”
I don't know what bizarre twist of brain circuitry would make me think that every rooster I encounter is chanting my name, but I swear, every time I hear one of these nemesis’s, I hear "Kath-ie Dan-iels." It's the same rhythm, the same number of syllables, and it drives me absolutely bonkers.
It’s not like we haven't given ourselves the chance to get used to the feathered fiends. At various times, we've tried peaceful coexistence. When Jack and I lived in Kauai, we decided we wanted to “live with the people," so we sold our beach condo (fools) and moved to the hills—just a few houses away from "chicken lady," whose human family had been there for generations.
Over the years, she had also acquired a large extended family—the feathered kind. She had chickens in her pickup, chickens on her porch, chickens on her roof, and probably chickens in her house. One day, we counted over 200 "family members."
At dusk, Chicken Lady’s lice-laden kin spread out over the neighborhood and took to the trees. For a few hours in the evening there was quiet, but
as soon as we went to bed, some testosterone-filled fowl would decide to yell out that he was “da man,” and—you know men—he had to be answered by the guy next door, and the guy next door, and...
Earplugs were a joke. After months of sleepless nights in paradise, we were driven to drastic action. Reformed pacifists, we joined the NRA, drove to K-Mart, and bought a pellet rifle. We'd wait for the rooster regiments to settle into their trees, darken our faces with “camou,” and work out way out to enemy territory. Our mission—to get those damnable birds out of the trees around our house so we could sleep.
The neighborhood locals didn’t seem bothered by the birds in the least—but they did have a few questions about the sanity of their haole neighbors. After a year, it was clear. They liked the chickens better than they liked us. We sold the house and moved back to the mainland.
After we left—and inspired by our bloodthirsty nighttime excursions, I’m sure — Kauai declared the chicken a protected bird.
But how soon we forget… In April, Jack and I moved to Mexico. Once more, we wanted
to "live with the people," so we rented a lovely traditional Mexican casita in the village with tall walls all around.
After we moved in, we discovered that tall walls are no protection from raucous roosters that your closest neighbor decides to keep on his rooftop—right near your bedroom.
This time, we surrendered without a fight. We moved to a gated community. No roosters allowed—especially not the ones who say “Kath-ie Dan-iels” instead of cockle-doodle-doo.
It’s Roosters, 3 — Us, 0. They win hands down in Vilcabamba.
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Jim
non-member comment
Too funny
Oh Katie, how you make me laugh. Your talent as a writer is surpassed only by your short memory and desire to "Live among the people." For what it's worth, you are far from the first or last to go through that trial. It works for some but not for others. Be glad you are just renters there.