Chickens without a survival instinct

First grass became greener. Then cob walled huts dotted the landscape. And then sheep, watched over by their shepherds. Then trees appeared sporadically and neat green lines provided evidence of arable farming. With such excitement did I notice all these things - so keenly and with a happiness I must not forget, did I feel myself immersed again - into all that sustains and makes life rich.

I found a cafe and a cheap hotel in the middle of nowhere. The bed cost 10 yuan and every so often the unclosable door was pushed open by chickens, seeking escape from the rain.

The sky cleared and the chickens and I were happy again to be outside. They moved around, pecking at the dusty earth - only occasionally venturing from the fenceless grounds before returning again to eat.

Someone in the cafe ordered chicken. The waiter came out and caught one easily. He held it in his hand and it dangled, pre-emptively lifeless, as he stood and talked. He walked across the yard and the chickens avoided his steps. He knelt down on the floor and took a knife from his apron. The chicken was silent as he bent its neck toward the sky. And silent as the knife cut a precise slit down its throat. The man held the chicken still as the the blood ran in a slow, steady stream to the ground and the other chickens gathered around - pecking at the dust and lifting the blood in strands. For several minutes the blood ran steadily as the chicken's body convulsed violently. The slit was made deeper and as the blood rushed quicker, in pronounced, pulsing beats, the dying chicken clucked - the sound breaking in its open throat. Then the chicken lay still and died, leaving the others to devour its remaining blood.

Two hours later the process was repeated again and the chickens again were fed. In my new, meat-eating phase, I suppose the act of killing should be something I could manage. But I am afraid I would have failed as Jude and made an angry Arabella of my Chinese host.

What amazed me most was the stupidity of these chickens. The world was open and unguarded to them and several times a day they witnessed another of their number killed in front of them. But I suppose this is an inevitable amazement if your knowledge of chickens' intelligence comes from films like Chicken Run!

The next day I discovered that crossing the Gobi had cracked my rear hub and that a 600km detour to Beijing was needed to get a new one... still, at least I wasn't a chicken...