It was Christmas Eve and sticking to tradition of heading somewhere tropical, Duane and I found ourselves on a remote island in the archipelago of Islas de Rosario, off the north west coast of Colombia. We had been there already for a day and a night and had gotten acquainted with the staff through a dancing session to insanely loud vallenato music.
The hotel staff was buzzing with excitement for two days about a festival in the village of which they constantly reminded us. They promised music, beer, dancing, and the entire village to be out and enjoying the festivities. We really had no idea what the festival was truly for; we could only assume it was to celebrate Christmas.
As the sun set, our dinner was served a few hours earlier to allow the chef and the other kitchen staff to get ready. By 7 pm we were ready to go and we were met by Samuel, the 15 year old that rents out his snorkeling gear to tourists on his summer vacation to earn a few pesos. Samuel guided us from the hotel grounds through the lightless dirt trails leading to the village that cut through the forest. He used his flashlight to mark the path in front of us and to point as we got a guided tour of the dilapidated village houses. We arrived at the first party station or pit stop where we came across countless little black kids dashing after lollipops being thrown into the air like a makeshift explosion of a piñata. Their fathers and grandfathers were sitting around playing dominos with either rum or beer in hand. The females of the crowd danced with the kids trying their best to tame the confusion and chaos.
Samuel directed us the bar and his grandfather, a lanky black man who ironically called himself ‘Mono’ (blondey) told us exactly how much a beer was and insisted that we do not pay more. He also reminded us if there were any problems to use his name. His voice was barely audible over the deafening music, but we got our beer and paid the correct amount. We watched the kids and the locals dance but we made our way through the crowd, the dust, and the lined dirt path to the next station.
On our way, I directly asked Samuel what kind of festival this was and his response, festival de gallos. I translated the word gallos to rooster and quickly wondered if it was like a Chinese New Year celebration of animals, and then it hit me.
“Samuel, tengo una pregunta. Los gallos…,”my voice faded away looking for a verb that I had no idea how to say. Instead, I used my hands to make a gesture.
Samuel understood perfectly the verb I was searching for. He stated it, used his own interpretation of gestures and then answered claro—the Spanish word for exactly or of course.
I started to laugh while Duane wondered what conversation just took place. I shook my head and began the translation.
“I just asked Samuel what type of festival this is. He told me that it was a rooster festival. But I don’t think it is a generic rooster festival…I think we are going to a cock fight,” I answered.
We both shook our heads and laughed off our naïve hope that it would be an innocent Christmas Eve celebration. We had no idea about cock fights and what we did know was the Western animal rights point of view—the brutality and underground societies that continue to practice this evil tradition in North America. Regardless, the suspense started to build. Neither of us had seen anything like it. I just wondered if I was right in my interpretation of Samuel’s answer, but as soon as we got to the second party station, it became very clear at how correct I was.
The cock fight ring was the highest building in the village—it probably stood about 4 meters tall and measured 5 meters across in diameter. The ring was in the centre with a 1-foot high wall separating it from the first row of benches used for the owners, the trainers and the bookies. Behind the first row was a fence over a metre high which allowed standing spectators a clear view but ensured that they wouldn’t be harassed by a fleeing rooster. Surrounding this path like area were make-shift bleachers made from planks of wood that went straight up to the rafters of the crooked structure. A corrugated steel roof sheltered the spectators from rain or sun while the painted blue beams seemed to strain under the stress of the roof.
By the time we got to the ring people were crowded around the entrance and others clung to any piece of the structure where they could sturdy themselves for a 3 minute match. There were muffled cheers and groans and finally applause followed by screams of joy. We couldn’t see a thing. But once the fight was over and people started to shuffle out, Samuel ducked under the first row planks and found us a spot.
We were assured that the match we just missed was only the first out of many.
Our space was secured and Samuel bolted up to the top plank to obtain the highest vantage point. Duane and I stood in the front row, wanting the best view. Music blared from the giant speakers placed outside the ring between the matches. It seemed that volume was of utmost importance and the DJ didn’t seem to care so much about the quality of the sound. But nobody seemed to notice as bodies crammed into the tiny space moving and gyrating to the rhythm provided.
Once a sizeable group of people hung from, sat in, or stood around the structure, the cocks entered the ring tucked under their owner’s arms. The first owner placed the cock within the ring to walk around and to be seen and sized up by the betting individuals. Tail feathers were preened and the cock was tapped and lightly pushed to show its stuff. As the first cock strutted around the ring with its neck feathers neatly trimmed and the body feathers removed. The owner scooped up the first cock and began the process of attaching the fighting knives to its feet.
Cradled in the owner’s arms, the cock was nestled with its legs stretched out. Another individual, who I can only assume was a team member, joined the pair and delicately opened what looked like a manicure kit. It was unzipped on three sides and then folded open to expose its contents—horn-like knives with a knob in the middle of them, scissors, a candle, tape, and a lighter. The team member took out the candle and lit it, waiting for wax to accumulate. Once there was enough wax, he selected the knives and dripped the wax quickly into knob and then pushed it onto the cock’s leg. It was then wiggled to test the snugness. The man then repeated with more wax and pushed the knife on tighter. Once it was secure enough he began taping it up to ensure that it would stay. The whole time the cock was buried in the owner’s arm with its tail feathers being stroked. Once the first leg was complete the team member continued to do the other leg.
The opponent cock was being pushed around the ring, encouraged to jump and strut. And once the spectators had a good view of it, the second cock underwent the knife process.
Bookies now entered the ring and started scribbling down bets and shouting to various audience members, either to clarify their bet or perhaps encourage a larger sum—either way it didn’t seem like child’s play.
The cocks were now ready and still in the arms of the owners. The piercing music was muted as the two owners walked into the ring. The bookies slowly maneuvered their way to the outskirts of the centre while taking last minute bets from the sidelines. The referee, holding a small lime, approached the first cock, took its leg knives and pierced the lime with them. He then did the same with the second cock. Apparently cock fighting is fierce competition and dirty cock fighters will actually dip the knives in poison so that the opponent’s cock can be killed with ease. The lime juice insures that any poison is essentially removed.
The owners untucked their prized possessions from their arms and grabbed them around the bellies to lift them chest high and allowed the cocks could ‘greet’ each other. They pecked at each other and grabbed onto head and neck feathers in a ritualistic meeting. The crowd grew silent.
The cocks were placed on the floor of the ring while still in the grasp of the owners. The referee gave the signal and the cocks were released. The first owner quickly flipped over an over-sized sand timer and the cocks were at it.
They pecked at each other’s bodies and they jumped and lunged at each other. With each movement the audience lurched and cheered. With every jump the cocks tried to impale each other with their leg knives. After the first sand clock ran through, both cocks were showing the signs of injuries—the white feathers turned red with blood and bits of feathers floated into the crowed. Another sand timer was flipped and the cocks were continuing with the battle.
Duane didn’t bring his camera and to be honest, I wouldn’t have felt that comfortable taking pictures. The whole scene seemed quite shady—bets being placed, money changing hands, and odd characters walking about. We knew that this was a spectacle for our eyes only and not through the eye of a camera.
The crowd was cheering louder, egging on the one cock, while others were screaming at the bookies, perhaps to change their bet or place more, it was hard to tell.
And then with one swift jump and few more pecks the first cock had its opponent down, lying on the blue cement floor. The naked belly was exposed and looked more like a turkey waiting to be stuffed with the exception of the rise and fall of it with each gasp for breath. The referee pointed to the winner which was then scooped up by the owner and held for the cheering crowd to admire. The knife guy jumped into the ring along with a few others and danced around the owner and the cock. The cock held high and fists of glory were punched into the air.
And the loser picked up his rooster and whisked it away. I don’t know if it went to a make shift butcher’s block right then and there or if there was even an attempt to nurse it back to health.
Duane and I looked at each other and I was at a loss for words. I felt mortified that I had just witnessed this, but wondered if that was a Western perspective I was taking. I will admit that seeing these two animals fight, twitch, jump, and lunge was exciting, but to see them haggard, fatigued and one at the brink of death seemed to quash the excitement for me.
I was torn and twisted. It was brutal, but who was I to judge something a world away from my own. I was an invited guest to a cultural celebration—a very different culture to say the least—and I started to wonder how much different our lives truly were.
If I were back home right now, I would most likely be digging into some crab pate or shrimp cocktail with the folks, listening to A Miracle on whatever Street drifting in the background on the boob tube. But here I was in the front row of a cock fighting ring. I shook my head and laughed it off. Some worlds are just too different to even compare.
Needless to say, my curiosity got the best of me and I stayed for a few more rounds. Samuel was showing his cockfighting prowess as he had chosen three winners in a row. The downy chicken feathers that clung to my shirt and a chunk that seemed to be in my eye was a sign that it was enough and time to move on.
“That was one hell of a Christmas Eve, wouldn’t you say?”
The trouble was I really couldn’t say much of anything. I was still digesting the whole evening but I think somewhere along the dim path I had nodded whole-heartedly.
