WHEN FEATHERS FLY

An inspector unsheathes the four-inch steel blade attached to a rooster's leg before a fight.

Cockfighting is huge in the Philippines, its popularity surpassed only by organized religion (and maybe basketball, but more on that later). If you see a crowd beside the road you can rest assured folks are either paying their respects to Jesus and the Virgin Mother or betting their meager paychecks trying to guess which one of two roosters will end the day as someone’s dinner.

Driving our rented motorcycle along the coast, we rounded a curve to find a throng of people milling around beside the highway. Curious, we turned the bike around to take a closer look.

NOTE: Before we go any further, we should say that if the idea of cockfighting bothers you, please stop reading now. We’re not supporters, but we did watch a few matches while here. From what we saw and learned, it’s worth noting that if you have ever eaten chicken at KFC or McDonald's, the animals you ate were likely raised far less humanely than those we witnessed in the Philippines.

Before we got within 10 feet of the all-male crowd, someone shouted, “Hey, Joe!”, a friendly greeting left over from World War II days when most foreigners here were of the military type, aka, G.I. Joe.


A shirtless, one-handed man in baggy red shorts hollered our way from the middle of a make-shift cockfighting ring, pointing to us as he cleared a path in the crowd. Bald and wearing a gold hoop earring, he looked like a 5’1” version of Mr. Clean, but the naked lady tattoo on his chest and the beer and cigarette in his hand said otherwise.

He directed us to the front row, right up against a waist-high wooden fence under a canopy of coconut palms, and he quickly went back to work. Mr. Clean, whose name we later learned was Noel, served as ring master of the show. With his one good arm, he stirred the crowd, announced the fights, took bets, and then refereed. He was the Don King of the cockfighting ring, a highly-skilled promoter and businessman. He even managed to squeeze 20 pesos (about 50 cents) and a beer out of Kip. No small feat.

Liz's new best friend, Noel, aka Mr. Clean.

After odds were set and bets taken, Mr. Clean would bring the competitors face to face, or beak to beak, as it were. Held head high and inches apart by their owners, the birds would lunge at each other, the feathers on their heads and necks sticking straight out. Then it was time.

Noel silenced the crowd, holding up one hand and pointing his nub to the middle of the ring. The competitors lowered their birds to the ground, looked at each other intently, and then placed them carefully on the dirt near the center of the ring. The men retreated. Quickly.

Freed, the roosters would converge in a fury of feathers. Within seconds, one bird emerged as the winner. The other would be gathered up in the hands of its disappointed owner.

For all the buildup and drama leading up to the fights, the bouts themselves lasted maybe 10 seconds, thanks to the four-inch stainless steel blades secured skillfully to one leg of each rooster. Death was quick, at least in the matches we witnessed.

As soon as the action stopped, fistfuls of pesos would be exchanged. And immediately, Mr. Clean would start revving up the crowd for the next match.

A specialist attaches a blade to a rooster's leg. The man's carrying case is in the background.