This is a two way road

On a ten point scale from Wolfe Island to the road into San Marcos, Guatemala, the roads of the highlands of Tana Toraja are a solid 16. 

Imagine our driveway on Fern Hill, in New Hampshire, after the first good spring rain, following the snow melt. Then magnify that times ten. Imagine that it’s dual carriage way twisting down the side of a mountain. Add trucks, and mopeds competing for the remaining flat space. Then add water buffalo, pigs, chickens and children to the traffic flow.

We drove for about seven hours today and covered exactly 45 km. Granted, some of that time was spent supervising the electoral process and placing bets on a cock fight.

Yes, you read that right. A cock fight.

Sadly, Tony and Ezra both lost. Stop sniggering, this is a PG blog!

We found out about the fight from the election officials in Palawan. Our guide was keen to go, “It’s like, big casino!” He illustrated with his hands. And so, we went.

I don’t know if I’m equal to the task of describing the scene, but having been to the Bellagio, I can assure you it bears no resemblance to a big casino.

Imagine, if you can, several hundred men with serious faces and cocks in hand. They mill about comparing their birds, eyeing the competition critically and trying to find a good match for their contestant. They squat in the dirt, bare feet and plastic sandals, toe to toe, and talk with furrowed brows. They swap birds and feel the fighters with practiced fingers, stroking their necks to keep them calm, squeezing their strong thighs, palpating their chests and assessing the odds of a win for their entry.

Eventually, a match is made. A razor sharp knife is attached to the leg of each bird, like a metal spur to maximize the bird’s lethal capacity to his opponent. Then the birds are delivered to the experienced handlers, who’s professional ranking seems to hinge on his ability to sufficiently rankle an already nervous cock.

The betting process ensues. The throng erupts in shouts of wagers offered and accepted. Bills change hands, fast and furious. Someone accepts Ezra’s blue 50K Rupiah note and the boy shouts hard to our interpreter that he’s betting on the WHITE chicken, held by the man in the BLUE shirt.

The old man, blind in one eye and wearing a jaunty cap, clenches his cigarette between his betel red teeth and claps Ez on the shoulder, congratulating him. Tony sips his sweet coffee. He’s somehow been moved to the seat of honor, on a raised platform beneath a rice barn, on a woven mat, next to the event organizer. Standing head and shoulders above the next tallest Indonesian man in attendance, he didn’t exactly blend in. The other men pepper our interpreter, wanting to know what the heck we are doing in their back water village, the sole representatives of the caucasian population in attendance. Who knows what the interpreter told them.

The fight starts with a shout. One man with an orange and green sarong pulls it from his shoulders, doubles it’s length and begins to beat back the crowd of men pressing forward. The white bird leaps into the air and comes down on the back of the red one. There is a whoop; Ezra is hopeful.

“You have cock fight in America?” The head man, seated with Tony, asks. Tony shakes his head, “No.”

“No cock fight? No dog fight? No bull fight?” He is incredulous… “But you have man who fight each other?! We think this is more better.” Indeed.

I look down to count my knit stitches and another roar fills the air, followed by a loud crack and scrambling: one of the bamboo platforms has collapsed beneath the weight of the crowd. The fight to the death rages on.

“This is like The Hunger Games, for birds,” Hannah succinctly sums up. “…do you think I could get one of those long green tail feathers for my hat?” She’s as compassionate as Effie Trinket.

The white bird is down, and bloody. Ezra has lost his bet. Our interpreter commiserates with him, he too lost a fifty.

The white chicken is carried, humiliated, from the ring and stretched, unceremoniously on a board. His leg is chopped off and tucked into a basket hanging from the house. The fight is in celebration of the completion of the house. The rest of the dying cock is given to the owner of the winning bird. It’s a bloody, harsh scene, that is hard on our sensibilities.

The men watch the birds fight. Hannah and I watch the people.

There are several hundred in attendance, but the women we could number on our fingers. Most of them are serving tea, or tending food. One seems to be a money keeper. There are old men, with wizened faces who look like they’re made out of cinnamon bark over bamboo frames, and young men with eager eyes and chicken blood to their elbows. One guy flips through a file of spur knives, looking for just the right one. Another twirls a prize feather between his fingers and winks up at the girl and I. They bet fiercely, as I wait for them to come to blows, but no one does.

I close my eyes and breathe in the memory: it smells like blood, and cigarette smoke, sweat and testosterone.