12th September 2016.
A recollection of something I saw in Rincon del Mar, a small fishing village about two and a half hours from Cartagena on the Northern Coast of Colombia.
The words swirl around my head as I blink the remnants of sleep out of my eyes.
You what, excuse me.
Do you want to go to a cock fight, Arturo just said it starts in about twenty minutes.
The bearded Australian sitting opposite to me, points to a red building to the left of the wooden bench we are seated on, in the direction of an absolute treat of a fish restaurant, home to the most exquisite thick cut plantain chips, where an ever-growing crowd were lingering. My mind and body jolt speedily into response.
I’ll go get my camera.
I manage to mangle these words out whilst also turning and running up the stairs. I climb two, three stairs at a time. I climb the sand encrusted, oily coloured wood into the rafters where my bed is located. I grab my camera, flick the cover, and hurtle once more down the stairs, no longer concerned about hitting my head on the low-lying poles keeping the roof in place, or the potential of falling, cracking my skull and watching frozen, paralysed as my brain oozes out, causing an already overworked cleaner more hassle in her morning duties.
We approach across the pale sand; my step was somewhat cautious. The sound and vibrancy of the setting quickly metastasized throughout my person. It was evident amongst the men around me, their volume, the way they butted in to each other’s conversations, eager to have their opinions, their wisdom heard and appreciated, that a quite palpable excitement was rising diapirically over the possibility of the morning’s activities. More and more men, ages ranging from as young as 8 to late 30s, were being drawn like flies to rotting fruit to the sounds and growing commotion around the red restaurant.
Amidst all the burgeoning ruckus, I become aware of the morning’s competitors. They cluck incessantly but they remain still, calm, which surprises me. The two camps, or trainers to befit the pugilist analogy I am trying to maintain, keep them settled and stationary as they apply their weaponry. A long, curved hook that glints with menace is tied to the cock’s leg. At this point, I am still oblivious to the nature, rules, the codes of conduct of the fight which will conclude with the victor’s hook latched into his opponent’s skull. Thus, helping to fulfil the villagers need for sport and perhaps more sinisterly, to sate humanities base and primal intrigue for blood sports. Both sides are totally absorbed in the readying of their cock. Within one corner, a boy no more than 8, is tentatively and delicately stroking his pet at a steady rhythm, ridding any anxiety within the thoracic curve before the fight. The two cocks are quite differing creatures. One brown and one black. The brown, whose plumage is well defined, it looks larger, its shoulders and legs appear more powerful. Whereas the black is streamlined, smaller, less feathers. This one has my attention. In my layman’s understanding of what this deadly struggle will entail, I view size as a vital tool in the upcoming fight, the cock’s capability for agile, swift movement, may be crucial in the crazed dance of cockfighting. Suddenly, as my poetic waxing about the art of this barbaric ritual was fully taking hold of my internal monologue, the owners of these two respective beasts, pluck them from their reassuring molly coddlers and start to swing them towards one another. As they get closer they lunge at their opponent, as if to develop a taste or tease the audience for the fight ahead. And from here, I realise that the tension and excitement has reached optimum.
We move. Like a pack of dogs we head towards a more secluded area of the beach. It’s a picturesque morning, but I have no care for the environment, I feel engrossed and my natural curiosity is at its peak, eagerly anticipating what is about to happen. A circle forms with the two corners in the middle, still holding their prized assets, accompanied by the local bookmakers. They holler prices with the crowd crowing back. An orchestra of the gravely voices of the men, their fishing boats waiting faithfully by the shore for another arduous day of patience, whose experience and knowledge of these events have granted them front-row privileges alongside youthful, adolescent baritones, behind them as befitting their lowly status, fill the air, excited to be a part of this man’s pursuit, surrounded by their friends. And me, way outside the inner machinations, at the bottom of the village’s distinct hierarchical system, an eager observer, crooning for a better view of proceedings. They lay their wagers on their favourites, fingers jabbing and flicked in a dramatic flourish, in disgust or happiness I never can quite tell, the bookies scribbling quickly figures and names, exchanging coins, notes, IOUs, promises of material enrichment, before they are shooed off by the demanding crowd.
At this point, the cocks are beginning to strain and move restlessly within the confines of their carer’s embrace. They attempt to peck at their opponent, as if feeding off the frenzy that the crowd is supplying. The loudness and the confined space they are forced to endure, unnatural to these free-roaming beings, is causing distress and frustrations are boiling over. I almost feel guilty for them, yet this sentiment is swept away in the event and theatricality of how this morning is turning out that I do not think about it too much.
Then a temporary silence. The young trainers, the hangers-on, the remaining bookmakers desperate to make a piece from the action, leave the self-constructed ring. All that is left is the two owners and their cocks, whom at the count of three unceremoniously drop their prized possessions onto their wretched claws, hightailing it out of harms way to an accompaniment of a rising wall of sound from the spectators. The cocks circle, pecking aggressively at the air, like that of a boxer discovering his reach, the captivated audience compelling them onwards. And then, the fight descends into a blur. Both cocks entangle themselves in one another, attempting to gain leverage and a position of tenable control over their opponent. In the process of doing so, momentarily it looks like they are forming a disgusting, twisted creature, something whispered about to scare the children that has haunted generation after generation here in Rincon del Mar. They fly a few centimetres from the ground, their battle taking on an aerial theatre, hitting into one another. There is a form of deranged beauty to it. The crazed movements of the two, the wildness of their techniques, no order, precision, simply reactionary, terrified chaos. Returning to the sand, the peck appears to now be the devastating weapon of choice. The black, a real bruiser, is using its weight advantage, getting up close and personal and tearing into the brown’s feathers, they are scattered around the battleground. But with the brown’s ability to contort and move his body in a variety of quickfire directions, neck craning, he is repeatedly getting himself into a position to target the black who is not quick enough to defend and repel the attacks.
The cocks continue to scramble over one another, attempting to harness an advantage, somewhere, somehow. The crowd as if now a living, pulsing organism constricts as anticipation over a possible killer blow rises and then constrains as the action comes to nothing. At this point, my vision of what is going on is diminishing, the crush of the circle pushing me further from the action, as if subliminally telling me this is serious now, you have had your fun, but this is not your place, go back to the safety of the PC gringos, talking about their private schools and what type of techno they like. But I must stay, I must know what will happen.
Tiredness is starting to descend. The fight has gone on for five minutes, the cocks are losing focus. You can see it in the conviction of their movements, what once was stinging, vicious, has now become lethargic. Their animalistic need to defend what they regard as their territory is slowly becoming attrition. This is spreading amongst the crowd, what once were shouts of encouragement are now ones of dismay and frustration that their morning has been wasted, with these fakers, these phonies not doing what they were supposed to do. Shouts to end the fight are becoming common. The sand coated in feathers, both black and brown, and droplets of scarlet make for an interesting impression. Enough! One of the trainer’s wades to the front and plucks his cock from the ring. It is finished. Done. All bets are off. The bookies scurry away with whatever they have managed to muster. You won’t see them for a while, found later this week deep in with a honey and a bottle of Aguardiente, people’s money, no sign of that Mister. I’ve never even seen a cock fight. What village are you from? Never been that way, I’m from the South, see compadre. Do I know you?
The cocks are returned to the safety of their young chaperones, who take them into their embrace reassuring them that their day’s work is now complete. The crowd slowly disperses, walking back to their homes, mumblings for a potential rematch, whispers lost over the incoming waves and the speaker down the beach that has been cranked into activity, blowing minds with Reggaeton.
James Creber 