Blood and Feathers
Your plan was to spend most the time outdoors snorkeling, kite surfing, and filming from the sky. But as it turned out —Novia got sick on boats, you couldn’t kite surf for shit, and your drone wasn’t delivered before your flight to the Philly Philippines. So instead you venture to find the Filipino past time sport. It’s not MMA, as the local gym was full of foreigners with hangovers. And it was definitely not any of the water sport activities which were filled with local guides but really just a tourist activity.
Outside of a karaoke night at a bar, the place to hang with the Filipinos — clarification — the place to hang with the Filipino men is the stadium. An arena that was not made for the next Pacquiao but more for Foghorn Leghorn at a gladiator colosseum.
You can ask just about any local, and they will give you a time and place. And if you walk by a home with enough dirt for chickens, best believe there is a fighting rooster or two in the flock. A Filipino tuk-tuk can get you to the weekly event. But you save yourself a few pesos by hopping on a motorbike with the driver in the front, Novia in the middle, and your ass in the back. It goes to the non touristy side of the island where you won’t find a sex on the beach cocktail anywhere. Just cock fights for blood and Gold Eagles for drinks.
Inside, the noise is like a festival of people cheering on Thai-boxers. Yet nothing of the sort. Your foreign eyes just want to see and understand. However, every gambler wants to stick to you like the new hot chick on the block. Urging you to bet at every round. You haven’t even taken a seat, yet you gamble some pesos away on something you know nothing about.
Do you bet on a rooster based on its claws or peck?
Or do you look at a trainer and decide on him?
Each bird is displayed before the crowd. And then in a non-romantic manner, a ref grabs the two competitors and has them peck at each other. If tension is felt between the birds, the unofficial official takes them away in order to have blades attached to each bird’s claws.
The match begins and the birds circle each other and hiss. Their movement is like something…something out of Jurassic Park. And further convinces you that today’s Kentucky Fried Chicken was once Earth’s apex predator. Then suddenly like two undisciplined fighters swinging for the fences, the two roosters start clawing at each other.
The fight ends within seconds. The ref pulls the victor off the dead bird and baptizes him with his victim’s feathers.
Two bets and money lost later give you a bad taste for it all. You can afford it, but it still sucks to watch your chosen bird get sliced apart. Novia watches in disgust. There isn’t a lady her age in sight. Just some dude’s mom who must have come out to support her baby boy and his cock.
After a few matches and many plucked feathers, Novia gets bored. You do too. But the show is over anyway.
Based off something you read a decade ago, you head to the back to see if the fallen are being cooked up for tonight’s dinner. You find blood and feathers in the hallway. A man holding a dead plucked rooster welcomes you to the back yard. Here, to your big surprise, you find a wounded winner being treated by the local vet. The cut is so deep you can see the inside of the bird’s neck. But like a bird whisperer, the young veterinarian sows up the cut while the bird relaxes on his lap. You walk away amazed by the post fight medical treatment.
By the exit a trainer and his champion smile at you. He pets his rooster with the kind of cariño a dog owner would give their loving canine. Just a moment ago, you watched these birds fight for their lives. Now you find yourself fascinated by their place amongst the Filipinos.
