Disclaimer : I'm serious about the warning in the title. Proceed with caution.
Oh. My. God.
So here I am - riding my scooter around Aitutaki. Taking photo's of places I remember.
This place, for example, is where Muri Waka chopped the heads off those chooks on the wooden stump out the back of his house. Others had their heads still attached as Muri spun them over his head breaking their necks. We watched them run around with their heads in various states of disrepair - giggling out loud as we chased after them. Later we watched as his daughters Terri and Taina plucked them. Even later still, we had them for dinner.
At 8 years old we all understood exactly what was happening here; in order to eat and survive, something else must die - yes, even a stalk of celery Niamh.
Still, after all these years, I cant explain what possessed me to stop my scooter to look for that damn stump behind the long deserted Waka house. Maybe it was fate, maybe I just wanted so see if was real or just a thirty years old dream. Maybe, just maybe I was hungry. :)
Still, I did find out yesterday that Muri died three months ago back in New Zealand well into his 80's - I couldn't help but wonder when he passed if he was met by Saint Peter; surrounded by a shit-load of lopsided headed/headless chickens with axes at the ready, wanting revenge - still rueing their lack of opposable thumbs.
Let's just hope Muri wasn't hungry for some buffalo wings :)