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The captain nestled The Viva Soccoro up to the pier with a mother\'s gentleness. The initial impression from the boat suggested Coron, in the Calamian Group of islands in the western part of the Philippine archipelago, was nothing that adorned oil paintings. A stretch of colourless wooden houses with thatched roofs built upon stilts was the landscape. It was Sunday, and the Filipinos combine their two religions on the same day. Staunchly Roman Catholic, they attend mass in the morning and then prepare for the afternoon service - cock fights. |
The only women were selling San Miguel beers, Cokes, chips, and a few candies from a canteen. Also in attendance was the couple who arrived with the guest of honour, the lechon.
A lechon is another sacrifice of battle - a whole roasted pig. A bamboo pole is slid unceremoniously from north to south through the gutted pig and wired down; then, poised over smouldering coals, is slowly hand-rotisseried for three to four hours resulting in a succulent, dripping, barbecued hog, and a routine ingredient of the weekly festivities.
The swinemaster hacks off chunks with a machete, grease and juices flying (in the movie Apocalypse Now, the bovine sacrifice scene near the end was a bona fide ceremony from a tribe in the Philippines). I dove into a half kilo, and with no room for manners, I did my best to eat the meat only, but with all that fat, it soon proved to be a lost cause.
I was rehearsing an apology to my cardiologist when the preliminaries began on the first bout.
The roosters are beautiful birds. Some are snow white throughout. Others have black tails and wings with a cream chest, complete with matching headfeathers cascading over their shoulders and backs like a lion\'s mane. Others are brilliantly coloured with teals, greens, harvest golds, burnt oranges, burgundies, and liver reds.
The owners raise them from chicks, feeding special food and vitamins for strength and health. After 15 to 18 months, the gladiators are ready. On the big day, each scrapper is outfitted with a razor-sharp, curved sabre about the length of a man\'s first finger - tied with fishing line using artistic science - pointing straight back from their right ankle. Fiercely hateful of their opponents, instinct incites them to fly up and attack with their feet. The winner, quite obviously, is the rooster that remains alive.
To prime them for the fight, each cock is held by the tail and permitted to approach. Their feet dig into the ground or run in the air in a desperate attempt to storm their foe. The owners then cradle their birds and each cock takes a few pecks at their opponent. One holds his bird\'s head stationary, while the other is allowed a few stabs. Then the opposing bird returns the favour.
During the warm-up, a series of hand gestures determines wagers. Holding fingers straight up indicates denominations of 10\'s, holding fingers sideways is for 100\'s, and pointing the corresponding amount straight down is for 1000\'s of pesos, of which there is no shortage. A bet of 1,350 pesos requires three movements. In the first, one finger points straight down, signifying "one thousand." Immediately three fingers extend horizontally, to signify "three hundred." Finally, all five digits point up, for five times ten, or fifty. A wave of the hand to the left or right indicates which bird the bettor wants. Odds are set using another round of finger semaphore that requires Filipino DNA to understand.
With the ref signalling the close of betting, and the fowls foul, sheathes are removed from the leg-knives with the utmost care (two men are needed: one holds the bird still and the other delicately slides off the protective encasement), beaks touch (like boxers touch gloves), each man takes a step back, and drops his bird to the ground.
Approval ratings by the 35 or so watchers are high, expressed by shrieks, yells, and that distinctly Filipino effusive, thigh -slapping laughter.
One owner, about 20, is clearly nervous. In his youthful exuberance he would like nothing better than to knock off the much older man in what must be an old boys\' game in a macho world.
The older man\'s bird is bleeding and cannot walk. Its knife-bearing leg has been slashed. The bird is unable to kick. The aggressor flies up and lands on his opponent, thrusting pecks once, twice, three times, then backs off and circles, confused. His foe is unable to move, protect himself, or fight. The referee picks up each battler by its back; each pecks once and they are dropped facing each other. The injured one tumbles on his side. The ref continues trying to revive the fight, sometimes eliciting a brief flurry, but the ten minute maximum expires with neither combatant expiring. Muffled sighs and grumbles indicate a draw with all bets off. Both birds are wounded and exhausted and have lost any will for combat.
Bouts carry on into the evening. Few survive ten minutes to result in ties. Most matches finish in under a minute - many in a matter of seconds; a fatal stab registers somewhere in that fracas of feathers. Between matches, in a real-life Far Side cartoon, life imitates art when a fight breaks out between two owners.
