I'll go anywhere

Three of us are holding the chicken, and a fourth has a machete in hand. We’ve been discussing the death of our dinner over the course of the last three weeks hiking, and today is the day. Sarah, the vegetarian in the group, has opted out and is nowhere to be seen. Maria, our host for the day and sister of our guide Felipe, supervises from a far. I suspect her children are getting a kick out of this group of Canadians/Americans who clearly have never done this before.

Our trek here began on the Caribbean coast near Limon, Costa Rica, weeks before. The hike has been humbling. We’ve all had our share of knee-deep mud, lost footing, and uphill battles. The team has been forced to pick up my slack after an initial evacuation (stomach bug), and a second injury (partial thickness burns to a large part of my hand). They have carried my weight and literally held my good hand up “Cerro del Meurte” (Death Mountain) before arriving here to Piedras Blancas, where we will slow down and enjoy the hospitality of our jungle surrounds.

And today dinner is in our hands. Catching the damn bird was a feat in and of itself, which may be why we feel the need for three of us to hold it still. We don’t want this to be a painful experience for the chicken. We are accustomed to our chicken coming peacefully, neat and tidy in plastic wrap at the store. I’ve closed my eyes. I’m willing to hold the bird’s neck, but I’m not willing to watch. As someone leans in, I know that the machete is coming closer. Eyes shut tight; I feel warm blood spurting on my arms as the chicken slowly gives up its fight. Of all the wonders this beautiful country has offered, this is the moment that stays with me, the feeling of warm blood on my hands.

In an instant, the experience is over.

The moment is both powerful and sad. As we carry the chicken over to Maria to see the next steps in the slaughter, we talk eagerly about the experience. We talk about our disconnection with the food chain and about how everyone should have to have this experience. We agree that given the opportunity, we’d kill again for our dinner, and that perhaps we should have to kill one of everything we put on our plates to appreciate it better. We feel empowered and less graceful in the same breath.

After plucking, gutting, preparation and cooking – dinner is served hours later. It is just chicken, but it tastes different this time. It’s delicious.