We are in Tryon bay, Rossel Island.


I've been getting into the spirit of the barter economy, and I had been eyeing off the chickens in the villages and saying to Jamie "we should get our hands on a chicken". Trust me to open my big mouth. Fast forward to yesterday afternoon and that is precisely what I had my hands, a trussed live chicken.


I had to hold it while Jamie paid for it with buckets. Waves of guilt, pity and fear of the impending act of butchery washed over me as I held the poor thing, the islanders looked on slightly amused. Simon, the purveyor of the bird told me he fed it on coconuts and that it was 'good gris', a pidgin term for generally excellent and very fatty.  


Moments later the transaction done, I walked the captive to the gallows, where Jamie held a machete and an oar as a chopping block. I had a foolish wish to give our dinner one last pleasure on earth, a walk around the deck perhaps? Then my mind screamed at me  'Darren it's a chicken, and you're on a boat, get a grip!" We covered it's eyes with a shirt, the machete fell. Gruesome death throws ensued. I am thinking I can see why this job has been outsourced, top work INGHAM. More gruesome plucking by your faithfull correspondent. Then into the pot, chicken soup. How was it? It was very good gris.