The capitaines led the way, starting a parade through town past people who waved at the departing Mardi Gras riders. There is only one stop within city limits: a short show of sorts at the hospital's nursing home. Then it was on to the outskirts of town, to the field next to the Piggly Wiggly supermarket where the riders disembarked for the first real run of the day.
Ready, set, go!
The tradition calls for the owner of the house or property to "receive" the riders. First, the capitaines approach and ask permission, usually in French, for the riders to run. If the property is large, the capitaines will wave white flags to the horse riders, who charge onto the property and perform for the residents: They dance on their horses, do headstands and generally act like buffoons. They also grab women and young girls to dance a two-step. The traveling band plays and sings. Then, the owner stands atop something to throw the chickens.
The riders are competitive and run full speed after the chickens, which they grab mostly by landing on top of them. Caught chickens are handed to the capitaines, who keep score for awards given at the end of the day.
One absolute rule is observed: No chicken is allowed to get away. At one of the first stops on the route, a chicken somehow dashed into a culvert, and the riders scrambled into it as far as their bodies would go. Two other riders walked on top of the culvert. Minutes later, they returned, hooting, chicken in hand.
Behind the Mardi Gras riders, residents and tourists follow in a parade of trucks and trailers equipped with beer coolers and grills. One enterprising group of Louisiana State University students even had a Port-O-Potty. My roommate and I followed in our rented truck, fortified with a few cans of beer and boudin, a spicy Cajun sausage stuffed with rice and pork.
My boyfriend did not take well to chasing the chickens. I watched as he stood on the sidelines, beer in hand, watching the other men and teens jump in puddles and ditches, fall over the chickens and toss them in the air. At a lunchtime break of beer and boudin halfway through the route, he told me he felt bad for the chickens and decided to root for them. He winced as he told me he watched one man bite the head off the chicken, unsure if it was dead or alive.
I could understand his reticence. For outsiders, it might be a strange, perhaps even uncouth tradition. But it is also an integral part of the community here. It is a rite of passage, a day of celebration of Cajun culture, food and music. It's also one last gasp of fun before the restrictions of Lent set in.
