You know what the Australian version of my American white-picket-fence dream is? Keeping a chicken coop.
I only discovered this being a thing, a contemporary Australian culture thing, during the pandemic—when I developed a habit of eavesdropping. My friends lived far away—mostly in the eastern suburbs—so I found myself unintentionally listening to strangers within a 5km radius.
One day, I overheard a girl saying that she once felt isolated and depressed, so she got herself a backyard chicken coop and some chickens, of course—and life had been all rainbows ever since, even when we were in the thick of the pandemic.
Never in my life had I felt such intense jealousy.
I immediately texted Fafa: “I want chickens.” He replied, thinking I was trying to be cute: “You are my chicken.”
No time for cuteness!
The next day, I marched into our neighborhood bookstore, The Chestnut Tree Book Shop, and bought a book on raising chickens. I spent days reading This Chicken Life, completely captivated by the idea—fantasizing about owning chickens, the complete opposite of my life in Jakarta, Singapore, and even the Melbourne apartment.
I learned far too much about chicken rearing before realizing that with our tiny backyard, it just wouldn’t work.
Once again, my farmer dream was put on ice.
I then daydreamed about buying a plot of land in Bali, complete with a sauna, a permaculture garden, and, of course, a chicken coop.
But there was a small problem—moving—and an even bigger problem—money.
Time is passing, and so is my life in WeFo, and one day, a new family moved in diagonally behind our house. They have kids who are loud and most of the time fighting in their backyard, which is connected to ours.
For the longest time, I pretended the loud kids were my chickens.
That was until last month when a fat, brown, chicken-like quail—which I suspected was theirs (therefore, the kids were forgiven for being loud)—started visiting our backyard regularly.
I named it Qun Qun (pronounced Gun Gun).
I fed it, talked to it, and found solace in its presence—especially during the most stressful moments of my studies. I created a public Google album for Qun Qun and discussed him (I assumed he was a he) with Fafa. I told everyone I knew about him and wrote far too many journal entries about him.
What I’m still missing is just the chicken coop—even if it’s a temporary Airbnb-style home for him.
So, Fa, what’s your take on buying me a birthday gift six months before my birthday?
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