I forgot about the chickens.
Everywhere you go Kauai, you see feral — but recognizably domestic — chickens. They’re scratching at the red dirt alongside the road. They’re on the beach. You’ll even see them pecking away at palm tree seed pods, which stand a good twelve feet off the ground.
Several of them claim ownership of our rental house, including a pair of roosters competing to see who can crow the loudest (and the earliest) every morning.
Probably a good thing I left the shotgun home.
Their origins aren’t clear; some say they’re the descendants of red junglefowl brought in the 1700s and 1800s. Other say the real chicken explosion didn’t occur until the 1992 hurricane demolished Kauai’s chicken coops alongside its hotels.
Aside from rental cars and the occasional (hungry) local, they suffer no natural predators, so the chickens flourish; more of them dot the countryside (and smear the centerline on the roads) than the last time I was here.
So maybe this is paradise after all; the sun shines a lot, it’s always warm, and free-for-the-taking hackle runs in herds.