Local Coqs
Michael Altschul
15 jaunt to Tulamben, where there the USS Liberty was towed and
abandoned (during WWII I think). Amed's the kind of small tourist
town where locals and tourists mix quite a bit (and well)...a breath
of fresh ocean air after the tourist-heavy spots I'd hit on Bali over
the past couple weeks. After the memorable ceremony on the beach,
complete with kids helping this ignant gringo through a few namastes
and offerings, I returned to my bungalow on the beach and attempted to
get a good night's rest in anticipation of my 3-day diver training.
The locals had a different idea though. They roped me into a bonfire
on the beach, complete with Arak (Indonesian moonshine which seems to
vary in potency from region to region between 80-120 proof by my
estimates), fresh-caught tuna cooked over the fire embers,
conversation, and a healthy mix of top 40 guitar hits (Roxette's "It
must have been love" is big in the region...don't ask, I'm still
puzzled about that one) and Balinese chants. The chants, intense and
aggressive in nature like the region's volcanoes, seemed to erupt
rather haphazardly, sometimes when locals stumbled with the lyrics,
other times when conversation lulled. Gede, the owner of 2 new
bungalows (including mine), had only just constructed the lodgings and
had waited until an appropriate time according to the Hindu calendar
(which to the best of my understanding consists of 10 months, 35 days
in each per year...I'm still trying to figure out what happened to the
other 15 days annually) to host this beach BBQ and Balinese blessing
of the bungalows. On one hand, I considered myself lucky to witness
the spectacle; on the other, I counted the minutes until the Arak
slurred their speech so heavily that I wouldn't understand a single
word over a 15-minute stretch. My body was tired and took itself to
bed after a couple hours and some insisting that the chants would not
disturb my sleep. In fact, when I did fall asleep, it was deep. The
chanting did not keep me up for a second. Something else did.
Not until Amed was I exposed to island roosters; since Amed, they've
followed me everywhere. Not having grown up on a farm, their
"cockadoodledoo" cockamamie was always a bit amusing to me. When a
coq outside my room started its crow at 3am, amusement quickly morphed
into disdain. Apparently, coqs in Indonesia are either blind or have
1000 lux vision. At any given hour, one can simply burst into morning
song. That night, it was 3am. You can try to reason with them, but
they'll discuss it with all the other coqs in the neighborhood before
they realize it's still nighttime.
Coq 1: "Cockadoodledoo!" (translation: "You guys know what time it is?")
Coq 2: "Cockadoodledoo." (translation: "It might be time.")
Coq 3: "Cockadoodledoo?" (translation: "You think?")
Coq 2: "Cockadoodledoo." (translation: "Well, I fell asleep after that
chanting ended...seems like 8 hours ago.")
Coq 1: "Cockadoodledoo!" (translation: "Wake up, fuckers! It's time
for you to make that stinky stuff and take my wife's eggs!")
Coqs 4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,13,14,15,16,17,18,19,20,21:
"Cockadoodledoo!!!" (translation: ditto, not in unison)
Coq 22: "Cockadoodle." (translation: "Ummm, hey wait, no one's getting up.")
Coq 2: "Cockadoodle?" (translation: "Huh, yeah. No one over here either.")
Coq 3: "Cockadoo!" (translation: "Coq 1, you coq sucker. It's too early.")
Coq 1: "Cockadoodledoo!" (translation: "I am a coq sucker,")
Coqs 2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,13,14,15,16,17,18,19,20,21,22:
"Cockadoodledoo!!!" (translation: "So are we!!!!!", not in unison)
Coq 23: "Cockadoo!" (translation: "You coq suckers, I'm trying to
sleep", from coq in distant village)
Coq 1: "Cock..." (translation: "That's me.")
Coqs have quickly crowed themselves to the top of my must-eat list.
Every day, I try to eat at least 2-3 eggs in addition to some form of
chicken for lunch and dinner. In addition to bird brains, they have
the loudest and most obnoxious crow. They're not particularly cute,
either. In short, they've little going for them, so eat up, America!
Now that I am fluent in coqinese, I will offer a bold statement: the
French have lousy coqs. Ironic that a country's national animal can
be among the world's worst, but you need look no further than the
onomatopoeia in the language to draw the conclusion. In English, we
say, "Cockadoodledoo," 5 syllables; in French, "Cocoricoloco," 6
syllables. French coqs are even more annoying than American coqs --
they've tacked on an extra syllable for no good reason. Then again,
they're French; and French anythings have an affinity for dragging
things out longer than imaginable. Take your pick from slow films to
slow meals, long ashes on cigarettes to long pauses in speech, the
career of Gerard Depardieu to the legacy of Albert Camus (really, it's
time to offer the world something new).
I digress. At 3am, a bunch of coqs woke me up and I vowed vengeance.
I'm stuck on some remote islands, so I haven't yet found a blowhorn.
But when you read this headline in the paper, please start a
collection: "Tourist jailed for rousting roosters."
IndoMike (I promise, someday I'll write about wonderful diving!)