Chicken farms

I've talked about my walks through the rice fields, and how astoundingly beautiful they are. I've mentioned that my guesthouse is in a village of 110 families. Now it's time to mention the most numerous residents: the chickens.

The village is on a ridge supported by steep slopes. Terraced down those slopes are chicken farms. On the west side, the side I walk down most often, there are at least a dozen barns, each containing 500 to 1,000 chickens. There are more barns on the north, east and south sides of the village. So while there are 800 human residents, there are easily 32,000 chickens.

Every day there are trucks taking pick-up loads of eggs to the city to feed the hungry tourists. When the birds lose their laying power, they also go to restaurants.

Farming is hard work, and much of that work falls to women. Every other day I'll see a truck parked on the side of the stereo slope and a woman cautiously balancing a 20 inch basket of manure on her head as she slowly and deliberately makes her way up the plank to empty her load. I marvel at her strength and balance.

Walking by the barns at certain times of the day is amazing. There's a gentle roll of sounds from the hens, like the sound of surf rolling onto a pebble beach. They don't exactly cluck and it isn't quite a purr. It's very comforting.

There’s a pair of barns at the bottom of the hill, near the river. At times, the hens are louder than the water. Other times, the hens are silent.

And then there are the roosters. They seem to be partly for men's amusement. They are kept close to the house, sometimes in upside-down meter-high baskets. They sound from pre-dawn until dusk, a constant reminder of their collective presence.

The barns at the bottom of the hill.

The chicken statue at the turnoff to my village.

Some live chickens.