Christmas Eve from a Window in Chiang Mai



Shortly after arriving at the B.M.P. (Backpacker's Meeting Place) in Chiang Mai, Nic, Sam and I rented motorbikes. For the most part, Christmas Eve was spent riding around and trying to find Sam's bike. We parked it after it ran out of gas and and then went in search of a gas station. When put to the test, it turns out, while under stress, I can order gasoline. When stress free, I can't understand when a Thai man is telling me that I will need to get gas soon.

Later that night, as Sam slept, Nic and I watched chickens being slaughtered out our bedroom window. Throughout the day, we had left that window open. Our room persistently smelled like feces. Sam and I felt comfortable in blaming Nic for the unpleasant aroma. It wasn't until the two of us were standing in our underwear, staring at the dozens of chickens coming to their end, did we know the truth.
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A man in the back of the warehouse, standing in front of stacks upon stacks of pink crates filled with chickens, would pick up a chicken with the care of a baggage handler and slit its throat coldly, tossing the dying creature into a bin with the other bleeding birds with the same apathy with which one might throw dirty laundry into the hamper. He was as calculating as a surgeon and equally removed. The bird was picked up in such a way that it couldn't resist: pick it up; tilt it back; grab the head; slit the throat; throw it in the bin; repeat.

Alive.

Dead.

Alive.

Dead.

One life was gone in less than ten seconds. We must have watched him kill 50 chickens. Not one of them fought or even struggled, as if they knew an end better than their existence was upon them. Not a wing was lifted in protest. They were the last autumnal leaves on the trees, waiting for their gust of wind.

Thirty minutes passed. We watched the bin of dead chickens fill twice, each time its contents were emptied into a steam machine for feather removal. I can easily imagine our faces floating in the darkness of our 2nd story window, palely lit from the florescent lights of the slaughterhouse. Our mouths are slightly parted. Our eyes are filled with the intrigue reminiscent of children on Christmas morning. Instead of marveling at mountains of presents and lights galore, we stared in awe at the process that brought food to the mouths of our neighbors.

The workers took a break. Nic and I laughed at the absurdity of it all. We each sighed and walked to our beds contemplatively.

"Hey, Nic. Merry Christams."

"Merry Christmas, buddy,' he chuckled.