Cockfights in Cebu City

What we found in our neighborhood uptown was somewhat disturbing. There was a large traffic circle nearby called Fuente Osmena Circle. It was packed with pristine new buildings filled with a variety of local and foreign fast food joints, hotels, and upscale shops. This was a popular place for the richer segments of society. Interestingly, there was a lot of poverty downtown, but it was in this rich uptown commercial district that we encountered more beggars. It seemed unlikely that we would find a cheap and casual eatery in these parts, so we pushed further uptown. We were looking for a place that supposedly had live music and a youthful crowd. We eventually hopped on a local jeepney, getting off where it was supposed to be. Unfortunately, nobody around had ever heard of the place we were looking for. So we kept walking in search of something interesting.

We wandered into a surprisingly narrow side street that made us feel like we had stepped miles away from the glitzier “uptown” commercial area. This was about as average as a neighborhood gets, but it was surprisingly alive. Every shop, street vendor, eatery was open for business and it had a bit of a street festival feel to it. We also no longer felt like we were in a big city. The people greeted us as if we were walking through a rural village. A little shop caught our eye with its big brown jugs of tuba (coconut wine). We sat down and asked a teenage girl for a couple of glasses. Although people generally speak very impressive English in the Philippines, this girls’ abilities were exquisite. She was so excited to be getting some practice with native speakers. We could see her family behind her, lounging in their living room, watching a basketball game. This shop was just an extension of their home. They all smiled and waved to us, also intrigued with the unexpected presence of foreigners, especially since we were drinking the local brew. We chatted with the girl for a long time, and she talked about how she had family abroad working as nurses. The Philippines is one of the world’s biggest exporters of labor. Many are maids throughout richer Asian countries, nurses in the west, laborers in the Middle East or boat workers all over the world. This girl seemed open to working abroad, but did not seem too excited about being a nurse. She had started university, but wanted to do something different than her older sisters.

When we finished our glasses of tuba, we thanked the girl, said goodbye to her family and proceeded down this sociable street. We met a few more curious people before sitting down at a street stall where a teenage girl was making French fries. Even though it was just a cart, it was some sort of franchise, with a professional-looking sign and she wore a uniform. Filipinos have really taken this franchising of fast food to a new level. We asked for one serving of the fries, and she pulled out a bag of frozen fries, weighed out one portion on a scale, and threw them in the fryer. This bean counting and uniform and all really took the spirit and charm out of eating on the street. Worst of all, they were not really that good.

We went across the street to a dark karaoke bar. When we got there, only two other girls were there, drinking beer and singing. They actually had a wall running through the bar, creating two karaoke rooms. There can never be too many karaoke bars here. I wish I could remember all the ridiculous songs we would shamelessly sing. I do know that on this night we debuted our duet of “Barbie Girl”, which, to us, went over very well. One of Lise’s specialty’s was “My Heart Will Go On”. When she first said she was going to do it, I thought it was very ambitious, as it is probably the most famous and most played song worldwide (still, like 13 years later). She actually pulled it off quite nicely though, and would always get lots of applause with this choice. One unfortunate feature of the karaoke here, is that every machine has karaoke files from who know where. Each time you sing a song, the background music and lyrics could be completely different. Sometimes the lyrics are just plain wrong or don’t match the tempo of the music. This night, I tried “By the Way” by the Chili Peppers, but it lilted along painfully slow, and I had to make a huge effort not to get ahead of the music.

When we finally tore ourselves away from this little neighborhood, in the direction of home, we stopped at a casual little open air bar with a karaoke machine. We met a very interesting guy there who had spent years working in America for some sort of production company (putting on concerts I think). He had toured all over the country, so it was fun to hear all of his impressions of where he had been. He mentioned that he had noticed many Filipinos in Seattle, but was disappointed that nobody wanted to identify with their heritage. It was like as soon as they were in America, they lost their Filipino identity. It was true, I felt, that for how many Filipinos there are in Seattle, they were not that noticeable. Unlike other immigrants from Vietnam, China or Mexico, there are few Filipino-oriented businesses. Though he did say that the ones that were born in America do have the tendency to want to connect to their roots. I eventually asked him about something I had been curious about since arriving in the country: Cockfighting. I knew that the next day, Sunday, was the big day for it, so I wanted to know how I could go. He gave me all the details about where to go, when and how to get there. By this time, Lise and I were wondering why nobody was singing. This was a problem. So we asked the bartender if we could have a turn. He said at this hour they were not allowed to do karaoke because of the noise, but eventually relented and gave us one song each.

The next morning, we packed our bags, left them at the reception desk, and went on our mission to find the cockfighting. On our way there, we went to a restaurant to have a dish that Cebu is famous for: lechon baboy, or whole roast pig. Well, no, we didn’t eat a whole roast pig, just a portion of a big that was roasted whole. What can I say? The skin, which is bathed in coconut milk during the roast, was a perfectly crisp little chip of porky goodness. The meat was ridiculously tender and flavorful. Sure, it was a little greasy, but that’s the glory of pork. It’s one of the rare instances where I would say that western imperialism and colonization turned out for the better. If Magellan hadn’t arrived and sowed the seeds of Christianity, the Philippines would still be Muslim, and therefore porkless (not to mention probably San Miguel Beerless, which would imply karaokeless).

Now it was off to the cockfights. The jeepney route was a little bit complicated, requiring two transfers. We weren’t exactly certain where we were going but had some key words to help us along. On our second jeepney, we asked a young dude who helped us out. Turned out that he was actually heading to the same area. So he took us to the next connecting bus, and before we knew it, we were heading into the “D & C Coliseum”. I had always pictured cockfights as being fairly underground and informal. A few dozen guys waving money around in a circle on a dirt floor in a remote village or in an urban basement. The fact that it was referred to as a “coliseum” made me picture vast seating areas, light-up scoreboards, a sound system with music and an announcer, etc. Well, it was somewhere in between there. We could hear the pandemonium from about a hundred yards away. It was a good sign. The standard entrance fee was something like 75 cents, a buck 25 for VIP. Now, Lise and I won’t spend extra on hotel rooms with attached bathrooms or aircon, or meals in more formal restaurants, but we will throw down a little extra to have the chance of getting blood on our clothes during a cockfight, that is certain.

The Coliseum.

Tats were sick.

So many countries in the world (including New Mexico!) have cockfighting as a popular pastime. I was nearly ashamed that this would be my first chance to actually see one. Now, you can always criticize me for taking part in a sport that would fit under the category of “cruelty to animals”. I could argue against it by saying that at least the loser cocks end up on plates at the end of the day, or maybe that until the fighting, the fighting cocks are probably treated far better than the average fowl. But I don’t really think it matters all that much. I am not going to this because I am into cockfighting, but it is something that happens all over the world (not making it right) and I am simply going to see what actually goes on there and try to understand this phenomenon. I guess it is similar to my visit to the bullfight in Mexico City.

Placing bets.

Although we had paid extra for VIP seats in the section closer to the ring, it was already overcrowded and the usher (funny to think of an usher at a cockfight, funnier to think of Usher at a cockfight) tried to treat the individual seats as bench seats. Therefore, I would get a seat, and Lise would get the concrete slab between two of the seats. Being a man, I had the seniority to get the seat, but I explained that this would not do. Eventually all the other guys around squeezed in, letting us each have our own seats. Although we were completely out of place, everyone was very welcoming. One young guy, with a haircut identical to mine when I was eight, appointed himself as our guide. He sat very close to me, explaining everything that was going on and telling me who he was betting on. Everyone was trying to get us to place bets, and I couldn’t tell if it was just because that is what you’re supposed to do at a cockfight, or they figured that we would not know who to bet on and we would just be making the pot bigger. We actually considered betting a couple times, until we found out that the minimum bet was 500 pesos, or about $12.

This adorable little dude was our voluntary guide. He cleaned up on the gambling too.

Some of the high rollers sitting in front of us.

Lise's "Shinkansen" bag promoting the Japanese bullet train.

Everything was so overwhelming. Other than the fact that the rooster that doesn’t die wins, we had no idea what was going on. All of a sudden cheers would go up, or people would start yelling furiously, putting various fingers in the air, or throwing wadded up money around. We eventually figured out how it went. First, the two cockmasters (that is the name I am making up for the rooster trainers) would come to the middle of ring, holding out their cocks, letting them peck at each other and get all riled up. Based on this, people would place their bets on which cock would come out victorious and odds were made. Once all the bets were in, the covers would be taken off the razor blades strapped to the cocks’ feet and they would go at it. I had a tough time being able to tell what exactly was going on and who was winning. To me it just looked like two birds jumping around and running into each other. Everyone else, though, could follow every detail as if it was in slow motion. The guys next to me would explain to me who was winning. Most matches didn’t last more than a couple minutes before one of them fatally sliced, sometimes squirting blood all over the ring. Sometimes it was gruesome and seemed to go on forever, both cocks near death while the referee kept throwing them at each other trying to make one of them finish the other. Other times it ended so quick and painlessly I barely realized what had happened.

Picking up the two nearly dead roosters, dropping them to restart the fight.

As much as I wanted to throw my hands up and cheer, I had to be careful that I didn’t accidentally place any high dollar bets. Every round, the guys asked if I was going to place a bet. I would decline, but say that if I was betting, I would bet on such and such cock. Usually I was right, except when I bet on the funny looking blonde bird. They told me they call the blonde ones “gay cocks”. It was ignorant, but still kind of funny.

This man appeared to be something of a bookie. He would yell stuff, then after the fight people threw little wadded up bills at him and he would always catch them.

The novelty wore off after an hour though. This goes on basically all day every Sunday, and I really understand why it is all about gambling. The entertainment is not the actual fight, it is the excitement of betting. Of all the vices in the world, I find gambling the hardest to understand and I have never been able to enjoy betting. Some of the more serious people (including our self-appointed guide, who turned out to be an unstoppable gambling force) had official “D & C Coliseum T-shirts”. I wanted one, so Lise started asking around if it was possible to buy them. One guy said it was for “members only”. Another guy said he could get us one. He yelled something out to someone and told us to wait. After 15 minutes of waiting we gave up and decided it wasn’t quite worth it. Plus, we had an evening boat to catch and had to navigate about 5 different jeepneys to get there.