Glimpse - Your Stories from Abroad

I arrive at the derby and find a huge gathering of men smoking, drinking, and spitting: male bonding at its finest. A few children and women are also scattered throughout the crowd, some enjoying the festivities, and others managing stalls that sell coconut beverages, beer, and meat-on-a-stick. The smell of marinated pork on sticks fills the air, sold in skewered juicy chunks, with a thick layer of fat and crispy skin. I can also opt for skewered chicken heads, butts, or gizzards—not exactly the parts of the bird I am used to.

Sundays are official fight days. Bird owners arrive early to register at the check-in tent, where tournament match-ups are prominently displayed on a billboard. Announcers bark out instructions through a set of loudspeakers. After filling out a sign-up sheet, most owners hold their birds until it is their turn to fight; some tie their birds to a tree and go off to gamble. The fights are of course the main attraction, but other gambling games, like roulette, are set up in small booths throughout the tent.

As it grows close to the first fight, spectators cluster around the dirt rings, which are caged in Plexiglas or metal bars. Anticipation hangs thick in the air. In a typical afternoon, these rings will host between 30 and 40 fights.

Men shout bets over the din of crowing cocks. Anyone betting simply has to pick a bird and agree on an amount of money. I’m a bit intimidated at first—everyone is shouting and making hand signals to the kristos (official bet placers). Their job is to call out the odds for a particular match. The llamado cock gets the higher odds; the underdog is the dejado. People also make informal bets, backing them up with their palabra de honor (word of honor). Before the first fight begins, I place my bet on a mean-looking black bird. I’m here to truly experience this sport, after all.

This young breeder told me has been attending cockfights for as long as he can remember. Bird owners receive a sizable sum of money if their bird wins a fight—ranging from hundreds to thousands of pesos, and in some cases, millions (one peso is equivalent to about two cents). If the bird loses, owners must pay money to the house.

Instead of ordinary chicken mash, bird owners feed their gamecocks grains, ground meat, fresh vegetables, milk, vitamin supplements, and even steroids. Some bird owners hire veterinarians, farmhands, or trainers to exercise their birds and increase their chances of winning a fight.

Imported “trios,” a rooster and two hens for breeding, can cost up to $1,300, equivalent to about a third of the country’s average annual family income. Although cockfighting is illegal in the United States (the last state to ban it was Louisiana in August 2008), American breeders supply most of the best fighting roosters in the world.
 

Before each fight, shiny, razor-sharp three-inch blades are attached to the birds’ legs, which both speed up the fights and raise the stakes. Interestingly, most of these blades are imported from England, where cockfighting has been banned since the 1800s.

After all bets are placed, the owners bring their birds into the pit. They hold the birds close to one another, causing them to cluck and flare their neck feathers. The noise in the tent swells as this fight begins.

Most fights are over within a few seconds. The judge monitors the fight and watches for signs of defeat, which are displayed when a losing bird loses its capacity to defend itself. The judge then separates the birds by picking them up and facing them off again until the victor delivers its obligatory two pecks to its opponent. Fights do not always end in fatalities, and if the winning bird fails to deliver the two winning pecks it loses, while one peck results in a draw. In the unlikely event that a fight lasts the full allotted 10 minutes, a draw is also declared.

After the fight, the loser wads up the money and throws it to the winner. With thousands of pesos changing hands, it’s difficult to tell which is more thrilling: the fight itself or the potential profits from gambling. I end up losing my bet, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying the scene.
 

Surviving birds are given medical attention from a team of “bird surgeons.” Whether it wins or loses, each bird fights only once in a single competition. Most can fight again in two weeks.

Dead birds are taken out back, where they are beheaded and dunked in a pot of boiling water to remove their feathers. They are then hung, and their vicious wounds are left visible for all to see. Each bird is tagged with a number so that its rightful owner can pick him up at the end of the day and, in most cases, enjoy him for dinner.

People all over the world have long struggled with the moral implications of animal fighting, or what PETA dubs “blood sports.” The Philippines does have a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, but for now, it doesn’t stand a chance of making headway when it comes to cockfighting. Says Rolando Blanco, the society’s vice president, “How can we fight cockfighting when our lawmakers are cock fighters and breeders?”

Admittedly, this violent ritual is not for everyone, but there is no denying that cockfights are a pillar of Filipino culture. They date back to at least the 1500s and currently contribute over one billion dollars to the Filipino economy each year. Every Sunday, they bring townspeople together to relax, socialize, and experience the thrill of a good fight.