Cockfightin´Gallos (Grecia, Costa Rica)

I left Nicaragua yesterday morning and arrived in Grecia, Costa Rica around 7pm last night, where I will be "couchsurfing" for the next while... that is another post though.

Let me first say this... I eat chicken on a regular basis... I write this post with some hesitation, but also without judgement I suppose... 

3 days ago Silvio, my spanish teacher, took me out on an all day field trip to Rivas and San Jorge. It was him, his brother and myself.  The day started at 10am, in which we took a taxi to Rivas which only cost each of us 40 cordobas (less than 2 bucks each), whereas when I first arrived in San Juan two weeks prior, the gringo price was $10.  Anyway, Silvio took me to the Ticabus office so I could purchase my ticket to San Jose. He forced me to speak to the lady to practice my english, and then made sure that I understood everything she said and even walked me to where I would catch the bus exactly in two days time.  Sometimes I wonder how I am able to travel by myself, but I always manage. I guess it´s because of good people like him. 

Anyhow, we then proceeded to walk through the city, there was lots of festivities going on because of their independence day. Silvio and I both agreed that the fesitivities were a little boring. We then took another taxi to San Jorge to have lunch on the lake which oversees various islands and volcanos.  We chatted over lunch and exchanged stories about... stuff... in english and spanish. I made Silvio practice his english and made sure to correct every grammatical mistake he made, just as he does to me. It makes me feel better when he talks in English because then I don´t feel so lost and uncapable.  

The three of us then headed off to the cockfights... when we first pulled up I thought we were dropping off another lady who was sharing the taxi with us. The place looked like a large house having a family party, with tables set up and music playing, in my head I thought, oh what a nice family function on independence day.  Then, Silvio opens the door and gets out of the car, and I´m like, oh this is the cockfight? 

We each pay 50 cordobas at the entrance and enter a very innocent looking place. Men are gathered around tables chatting, laid back, tranquilo. A few women linger around and chat as well. In the corner lays a few vendors selling beers, sodas, and some typical foods. In the background plays loud old school Mexican country music, the kind you would normally slap your lap with, as men in sombreros do-si-do, with accordians and guitars overtaking the lyrics.  

Once we walk past the crowds, Silvio points out all the roosters (gallos) that are lined up in blue cages.  I ask him where his is, but he says that his friends are bringing his two fighting roosters in a bit.  As we browse the potential winners, others follow suit. We bump into one of Silvio´s friends and he introduces us, but as what often happens, many people are afraid to speak to the guy who is learning to speak spanish. The man asks questions about me via Silvio, and Silvio prompts the guy to ask me directly. I answer as best I can. 

A bit of time passes while we all wait in anticipation for the first match.  I pull out my SLR camera which Silvio had advised me was safe to take with me because I am with him, my local protector. I take some shots of the , silent, empty, hollow ring. Imagine a blue octagon shaped arena with white lines on the ground to mark the centre and initial fighting stances, all surrounded by scaffolds of wooden benches for the on-lookers, the gamblers, the playa´s. 

Before the first match, I see two roosters getting weighed in by their attendees, their coaches, so to speak. As well, Silvio takes me behind the arena to see one rooster getting his fighting blade stapped onto his foot where one of his claws once was, but has now been shaved down for this specific purpose.  Quickly thereafter, I see the crowd all head into the arena... we rush in. There appears to be no more room, but of course, there is always more room. Silvio spots a some free wood too stand on the top bench, he grabs the beer out of my hand and a stranger 8 or 9 feet above me grabs my hand as I climb up. 

There we are, all standing, hovered over one another, reaching in to see the first match. The referee (a well dressed, light skinned Latino man from Costa Rica, tall and buff) holds a clanging bell in his hand, along with a wooden board to seperate the roosters on their assigned marks. Prior to this, the two coaches must decide on an alotted time for the match, maybe 5 minutes, maybe 10 or even 15.  The match is not until death, but until the end of this time.  As well, each rooster is antagonized with another rooster that is swatted in front of their faces a few times to get them riled up, ready to go at it with a vengeance! 

So the bell rings, the gate lifts and the two cocks encounter one another, already pissed off, the crowd starts to cheer, shouting out words I do not understand, at times perhaps it is simply a rooster´s name that they want to win.  The roosters start attacking each other, at times they will stare each other down with a look that says I will effin´kill you, as their manes stand up straight on edge, tense and threatening.  One jumps in and starts pecking away at the other, as the other retorts. Wings fly up and down, legs and the attached blades go in and out.  The referree will stop the fight every now and again and give the roosters a break, or if they have gone astray, the referree will get the two coaches to step in and align them again for another round. As we wait for the break to end, the referree takes his bell and counts down... clang.... clang... clang... clang.... In the meanwhile, the two coaches, the men that are essentially the assigned directors for the roosters nurse their rooster back to health. At times they will suck the blood out of their rooster and then spit it out to the ground, or they will take a cloth and wipe the blood away, or adjust the blade so that it is still effective.  Clang.... clang... clang... round two... round three...eventually the match ends, one rooster has no more fight in him, he can barely attack or move, the time is up and the referree walks away and the crowd is content.

The referee never really clarifies who the actual winner is, and the crowd always just seems to know who has won. For me, I was sometimes confused as to who won.  At one point, during a break, the coach walks out of the ring, after giving the referree a signal. I look to Silvio´s brother in confusion, and he simply signals with his one finger sliding accross his neck that the rooster is basically dead.  

As time goes on, I wait and wait for Silvio´s rooster to take the stage. A few beers pass, and the sun sets. Between matches, I go outside and take a break from the large crowds, the sweaty pushers and yellers, and grab some fresh air and stand by Silvio´s other friends who, once again, are shy to speak to me, and vice versa. Nevertheless, there is a sense of solidarity amongst us. At one point, Silvio´s friend tries to explain to me that I am his amigo simply because I am connected with Silvio.  I suppose Silvio was being a little over protective of me, at one point in the arena, he gets his brother to stand on one side of me, and another friend on the other side, and tells me that I have two policemen on guard for me. Haha, I think he may have been worried because of my camera, but I had no fear about it whatsoever. 

Eventually, around 7:30 or 8:00 Silvio comes into the arena and stands by us, and I see a dark black gallo in the ring... it´s Silvio´s. Prior to this, Silvio had been busy with a little piece of paper he kept in his pocket that he would pull out every now and again and he would be surrounded by gamblers. He would scribble names and bet amounts down, crumple the paper up and put it back into his pocket, only to pull it out again 3 minutes later. Some would bet 50, 100, 300 cordobas at a time.  

As the fight goes on, I watch, at this point confused and tired as to what was exactly happening. Camera away, trying to concentrate.  Next thing I know, the match is over, and Silvio signals to me to come outside. He tells me in spanish, I have no luck tonight, and only then do I conclude that his gallo had lost.  A sense of empathy comes over me. 

We, Silvio, his brother, his group of amigos, and a bunch of men I had seen throughout the day, all jump into the back of a truck with a large flatbed. We wait until departure, as the guys all discuss the day, most of which I tune out because of the language barrier.  The ride back is somewhat drunken and rowdy, and also  somewhat sad and sombre. Silvio tells me that he had a good time even though he lost, he asks how my day was, concerned that I was bored and I tell him how cool the experience truly was.  We talk in English amongst the crowd of Latinos and no one seems take notice.  The ride, about 45 minutes or longer in length, was accompanied by a lightning storm which I have written so fondly about previously. Eventually, we encounter wind and rain! Those in the front duck down behind the truck´s cab, and the rest of us all duck down onto one another for some kind of shelter. At one point I ask Silvio what is in his large white bag made of plastic twine, and he says it is his dying rooster. I was going to use it for shelter, but decided, no thanks!

We finally arrive back to San Juan del Sur, it´s been a long day it seems. Silvio jumps out and I follow, along with this guy from Costa Rica. The Costa Rican guy takes me into a cab, because Silvio is too concerned (once again) that it is not safe for me to walk home alone, and I get home in minutes.  My clothes are covered in dust and grit, I wash my hands and the sink fills with brown water. I eventually go out into the twon and grab a bite to eat before going to bed, my head still swirling from the day´s events.