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The Main Event

A shanty town of scrap wood cages and breeding pens fill the entire backyard. In the larger cages the breeders, cocks of Spanish and Asian descent, stand proud while the cages around them house their progeny, every last one of them born to fight.

Desus shows me his favorites, each one raised with the hope, love and insufferable intent of a career minor leaguer. Using a hack saw blade and a firm grip he cuts the sharp points off the rear talons of a young well-fed brown and yellow feathered rooster. A pinch of dirt stops the tiny trickle of blood. In two months this cock will prove his worth he tells me. Until then however he will be exercised and sunned daily, fed a special diet and receive regular vitamin injections.

I am intrigued by the 'Guantes', tiny round boxing gloves that fit over the roosters talons to protect them from each other during sparring matches. Even more intriguing is his collection of tiny, razor sharp blades fashioned into miniature horseshoes. The blades come in different sizes which are carefully matched with a competitors' weapon and weight.

As the sun begins its downward trajectory I am one of twenty-one two legged passengers- twelve men and nine roosters- packed into a Toyota pick up en-route to the big fight. For ninety minutes we drive past tiny pueblos, schools, churches and pickers looking down from heavily loaded plantain trucks posing as mobile green mountains. Those of us not in sacks endure the long and bumpy ride with hopeful anticipation though in my case it is to simply arrive intact. The roosters see none of it.

The arena is comprised of a large tin roof, a boarded ring approximately twenty feet in diameter and several tiers of rough-hewn planks as stands. Over centre ring hangs a watch and bell, two of the three tools used by the official. The third is small pecked-though sheet of plywood used to separate the cocks at face off. Opposite the stands is a wailing wall of competitors cages which open and close with the arrival of Nicaragua's finest competitors. By four o'clock the crowd is four deep and Desus takes me aside to explain the rules.

Each fight lasts fifteen minutes. If a rooster falls or refuses to fight then time is called and the handlers have a count of twenty to revive their animals before they are faced off again. The proximity of the face off is determined by the deteriorating condition of the animals therefore usually they get closer and closer as the match progresses. This process continues until one of the cocks is unable to continue due to death, injury or dismemberment.

Passion runs high in this sport and by the second fight of the afternoon there have been no less than five serious shouting matches between handlers and various members of the audience. Desus is up next. After weighing in (a tin cone with protruding chicken feet hangs from a produce scale in the corner) he and his opponent expertly wrap the blades to their cocks with twine. A final wrap of electrical tape completes the process.

A flurry of betting takes over the arena and the cock's waste no time getting into it drawing blood almost immediately. Leaping and pecking they attack each other with reckless abandon seemingly oblivious to their own carnage until finally, Desus' cock falls under the wing the other and time is called.

Essentially there are two types of fighting, jumping and kicking (with bladed talons) and pecking the head and face of your opponent. Since the cocks need little encouragement to attack each other the effectiveness of the handler is most evident during time outs when they try their best to revive their roosters.

To clear the wounds quickly Desus puts the head of his rooster in his mouth alternately sucking and spitting out the blood in quick succession. As the official begins his count to twenty Desus deftly applies pressure to other wounds and strokes the animal reassuringly. At twenty the official draws two lines in the dirt, places the starting board in between and the fight resumes.

This scene repeats several times with both handlers keeping a keen eye on the watch. With three minutes to go the roosters and handlers are covered in blood and both competitors have fallen several times though Desus' charge seems the worse for wear. Determinedly Desus keeps up the coaching, sucking and spitting and the match ends in a draw.

The fights go past ten pm and, with all but two of the nine roosters dead, there is room to fit another three people in the back of the pick up.

Posted by pike at February 13, 2005 04:38 PM