The Chicken Drop: a night out in Belize

It had been another exhausting day in Caye Caulker, Belize, full of enfeebling activities such as hammocking, sunbathing, reading, watching the sunset, and reading while sunbathing in a hammock at sunset.

After the obligatory 5 o’clock shower (for washing off all the suntan lotion and sand of the day), it seemed like a good idea to relax atthe island’s token sports bar to watch the New Jersey Devil’s cream
the Leafs. (I’ll be getting to the part of the story where the chicken runs around in a circle while beligerent tourists try and scare the shit out of it soon).

At the bar I met up with a Torontonian and a blue-eyed Swede, both deceivingly nice guys with an unfortunate habit of cheering for the Leafs (as an example of how bizarre leafs fan are, one guy had brought his own Leafs beer cozy along to Belize to help cheer for his team).

This is about the time in the story when I started feeling homesick. Though I spent less than 2 of the last 14 months in Canada, I rarely take part in very Canadian activities like NHL games, so homesickness was quite new to me. I suddenly had visions of watching the game in grama’s living room while drinking a Canadian and rolling up the rim of a Tim Horton’s cup. Luckily for me I quickly realised that my homesickness had more to do with all the corporate advertising on the boards than any real affection for my homeland, leaving me happy enough to take part in the chicken drop.

By the time I got to the chicken drop shit was about to go down. For those who have never witnessed this perticular manifestation of animal cruelty, a chicken drop is when you shake a chicken a lot before letting it loose in a pen where beligerent tourists yell at it and try to get it to shit on their number on the ground.

“Don’t worry, I bet on lots of numbers for us” said the Swede, handing me the dredges of a cuba libre.

So the fun began, and the gamblers were all, literally, trying to scare the shit out of a chicken. The Americans had strangely become less loud, calmed perhaps by the possibility of winning $50 cash.

The poor chicken, unaccustomed to such a leading role, ran straight for the corner and stayed there, sticking its ass defiantly into the air. Then, after a few more shouts and taunts, the chicken shat, squarely, and unmistakably, in number 88.

We had won.


2 Responses

  1. i didnt´know that past tense of “to shit” was written “shat” …

    • That might be the best response to a blog post that I’ve ever seen.

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