A firsthand account of Bali’s longstanding illegal cockfighting culture.
 
I said I wouldn’t get involved, but there I was, standing in the middle of a makeshift cockfighting ring, grasping a white gamecock.  The bird shook as screams from the crowd grew louder, a four-inch blade strung to the its left foot.  It kicked awkwardly trying to wiggle free, nearly slicing me open.  With that same blade, moments later, the cock would decide its fate.  Life or death: a straightforward endeavor. 
 
Several bird handlers danced around me playing to their audience, revving them up in the initial odds-making of the upcoming fight.  The crowd, comprised of toothless leathered creatures and slick bejeweled backyard gangsters, village idiots and town drunks, winced as they sucked on bottles of bootleg liquor called tuwak.  Smoke rose wildly, painting with effortless strokes.  This was a horrifying fusion of Pleasure Island and Neverland, where men, dimly aware of any world outside this small dirt ring turn birds against one another.  I was certain it was only a matter of time before the birds turned on us. 
 
Suddenly, when the opposing cock was brought into the ring, the white bird ceased its shaking, instantly becoming stoic, focused as if it knew of the carnage that would take place.  At once, its pupils dilated, morphing gracefully into a stone cold killer, its glare void of fear.  I could feel its heart beating, lungs collapsing and refilling.  Calm, casual, prepared.  The change was genetic, unknowingly carried within and only showing when activated.   
 
I was terrified, doubtless more than the bird, but the crowd – oh the crowd! – they were roaring and cackling.  Money was flying up and down like some grab-bag game show, as clouds of smoke rolled continuously in the sweaty night air.  Bootleg liquor and Bintang had me forgetting who I was, or perhaps it was unlocking a more primal version, the bird and I changing together.  I couldn’t say no, and so I grimaced, bit my cigarette, and shoved the bird higher into the air.  Me in that ring, holding that bird – the locals thought that was the funniest goddamn thing they’d ever seen.
 
I said I wouldn’t get involved, but there I was, involved. 
 
This was cock fighting in Bali, on the outside of a city called Ubud.  Yes, the same Ubud that thousands of tourists flock to each year to practice yoga and meditate and appreciate art, striving for that ever elusive strain of enlightenment. 
 
Spare me, for while bohemian expats are practicing yoga and unlocking chakras, just down the road birds are slaughtering each other in a ring surrounded by screaming men.  These men show up each night, and some mornings, leaving their wives and families behind, ripping cigarettes, wagering fortunes on which bird will kill the other with the blade they’ve attached to one of its feet with yarn.
 
Feeling enlightened yet?
 
Let me start from the beginning. 
 
I’d been spending most of my time on the southwest side of Bali, near Canggu, a hipster’s paradise, pumped fat with surfing industry hang-arounds and pseudo-models with annoyingly free spirits.  A haven for meaningless tattoos.  If you have a ponytail, you should go to Canggu.  That’s where the others are. 
 
I’d had enough, and was craving something wild, so I began to ask around about cockfights.  As you could probably guess, I wasn’t always met with smiling faces and chipper advice.
 
More often, it was something like, “Oh my God, you like that stuff?  I do not support that.”
 
Or, “Fuck you.”
 
Or, “You’re a monster.”
 
Or, “That is so wrong.  Do you know that?”
 
Yes, I guess I do, but then again – I don’t, and that’s why I wanted to find out more.  Luckily, I have thick skin. 
 
Finally, after hours searching, I locked onto a hot tip from a local girl.
 
“Ubud,” she said.  “That’s where you want to be.”
 
It’s about an hour scooter drive from Canggu, but it took me two because Indonesians drive as if they have nine lives and plan on using them all as quickly as possible.  Zipping and zagging, beeping and honking as they narrowly avoid getting pinched between a truck they’ve just passed and the oncoming sedan speeding towards them.  Squish.  You pass people in Indonesia.  And you pass them hard and fast and you never stop passing.  I’ve been told the traffic flow in Indonesia is more intense than Cambodia and Thailand.  I was in the thick of it – porridge thick.  Also, I get lost, often.
 
Upon arrival I was worried I’d been misled.  Downtown Ubud is hip and fun and quaint.  I doubted a dark underbelly existed.  I asked everyone about cockfighting, and everyone replied, “Yes, yes, yes,” but no one seemed to know where or when or how to point me in the right direction.  Were the Ubudians hiding their underbelly from me?  Hard to say, but that kind of deceit was welcome, because it meant there was something to hide. 
 
Perusing the neighborhood for leads, I failed to see the telltale signs of cockfighting, which, most visibly, would have been large wicker baskets in which cocks were kept.  For hours, I wandered the city, stopping into local warungs (small family-owned restaurants) for nourishment and knowledge, but finding only nasi goreng, a fried rice dish full of local chicken and vegetables and egg, and soto ayam, a chicken soup type dish with turmeric and local vegetables.  Each dish cost me ten thousand rupiahs (less than a dollar each), but they would have gone better with some information about cockfighting.  Come to think of it, the chicken in both dishes may have come directly from the cockfight I was in search of.  A nice bite of hot irony.    
 
I was about to give up and mope on over to the sacred monkey rainforest, sell my soul, and partake in an afternoon yoga class with a group of Chinese tourists, when I met a sleaze at my hotel.  For those not privy, a sleaze is a person who noticeably enjoys the darker corners of the world.  In these corners they take comfort.    
 
His name was Sam and he emigrated to Bali from North Africa with nothing in his pockets, which he was sure to tell me often and emphatically.  Now, he told me, he owns a hotel – which is not the same kind of hotel you’re thinking of, but an achievement and source of income, nonetheless.  Sam was the owner of the hotel at which I was staying.
 
Sam is a little man with dark eyes, a block head, and peppery hair buzzed short.  He never stops moving or changing positions.  One second he’s lounging in a chair, watching soccer highlights, smoking a fag.  The next, he’s lounging sexually on a red cushion, his head propped up by an arm, legs flamboyantly crossed as if he were stretching for an upcoming yoga class. Then, he’d disappear entirely, re-emerging when you least expected. 
 
Initially, I refrained from asking about cockfighting at my hotel.  I didn’t want to upset anyone.  Cockfights are illegal in Indonesia, and I wasn’t exactly in possession of a playbook for seeking one out.   It seemed like a bad idea to refine my search to where I slept, but I did it, anyway.  
 
“Meet me right here at eleven tonight,” Sam said immediately, seriously.  “Don’t be late.  We leave right at eleven, yeah?”
 
Of course. 
 
I arrived at ten o’clock and sipped casually on large Bintangs, smoking the Indonesian cigarettes, waiting for Sam.  The cigarettes are clove-ish, turning your lips sweet with each drag. 
 
As if planned, just as Sam arrived, it began to rain.  He held an envelope filled with money and nervously paced around the common area as we waited for our drivers. 
 
“I don’t drive,” Sam said, frustrated, when asked why he didn’t just drive us. 
 
Me, Sam, and two others saddled up on the back of two different bikes driven by locals – they couldn’t have been older than eighteen, nineteen.  Three per bike, the fit was snug, the roads wet, and very little light guiding our way. 
 
“Sometimes you have to go nuts to butts to get to a cock fight,” joked the enthusiastic man sitting behind me.  He and I would be the only white guys at the fight. 
 
Our drivers wound us through the wet streets, finally stopping at a van, whose driver stood outside smoking a cigarette.  He waved us down as we neared, grinning wildly. 
 
“My name is Norman,” he said eagerly as if he’d been planning the greeting for days.  A large white bandage stuck to his forehead.  I didn’t ask.  He’d probably been in a knife fight the night before.  Norman looked like a knife fighter.
 
He was bald and sported a long, stringy goatee to go with his excitable demeanor.  We piled into the car and he taxied us to the arena – a tarp covered structure that looked as if it had been erected that very day.  In fact, it most likely had, for I would learn that cockfighting rings move from location to location to avoid detection, trouble. 
 
Light seeped from the tarped arena, yelling could be heard audibly.  That’s when I got nervous.  Men in the parking area stared at me as I passed, whispering things in Balinese, Indonesian and smirking.  At the time, I thought the smirks evil, the words derogatory. 
 
As I entered, a large group of men were gathered to the right, huddled around a mat painted with six animals: snake, tiger, frog, fish, zebra, and butterfly.  One man sat huddled over a bucket, under which were three large dice, each side representing one of the animals.  Bets were made by tossing rupiahs (the local currency) onto the desired square.  Like roulette, lines can be straddled to increase chances – although winnings are cut.
 
I approached fluidly, I didn’t think hesitation would serve me well in this situation.  They stopped when they saw me.  Jokes or insults, which become one in the same in their foreign tongues, were immediately thrown and absorbed.  Laughter.  Good.  Reaching into my pocket, I took out twenty-thousand rupiahs (less than $2 USD) and tossed it into the center. 
 
“Snake!” I said, raising my eyebrows at the odds maker.  Slightly shocked, more impressed, he gave me a thumbs up and replied, “ular,” rolling his tongue with the ‘r’.  Ular is Balinese for snake.  I repeated and the crowd mellowed, seemingly happy to have me join in the game. 
 
I won.  Then I won again.  And again.  Then I lost.  That damn butterfly.  Should have known.
 
I retreated from the game, which I learned is called krocokan, pronounced kro-cho-khan. It was only the lighthearted warmup. The opening act to what would be a bloody show.
 
Shortly, men began to migrate to the bamboo ring in the center of the tarped arena, several of them grabbing their roosters from one of the many bags that lined the perimeter.  Cocks in waiting were kept in small bags, crowing and wiggling as if they’d been recently captured. 
 
Fighting cocks are prized in Hindu culture and given royal treatment until their day of reckoning.  It’s a celebrated warrior’s existence, but freedom never comes, only another fight.  It’s been reported that some fighting cocks have had careers as long as ten years.  I doubt it. 
 
 
…
 
 
A short history on cockfighting in Bali:
 
I’ll keep it brief. 
 
Bali, an island in Indonesia, is more than eighty percent Hindu.  Cockfighting has long been a tradition in Hinduism, especially in Bali, dating back to the 10th century AD. 
 
In Balinese Hinduism there is a practice called tabuh rah, or “pouring blood”, a ritual of animal sacrifice used to fend off evil spirits.  For centuries cockfighting has been used for tabuh rah, and is still legally practiced on official Hindu holidays and ceremonies. 
 
Over the years, cockfighting gradually morphed into its more secular, back alley version, prompting the Indonesian government to ban this more casual, profane form in 1981. 
 
This ban has done little to curb money-waging cockfighting, and most people accept it with a smile and blind eye. 
 
I believe that’s enough.
 
 
…
 
 
Gamecocks were distributed amongst four distinct handlers, the ones who would do the majority of the handling throughout the night.  My favorite handler was a thickly built man with a red mullet.  He wore a white shirt with thin horizontal stripes. French flare. 
 
I also liked one other handler with a fleeting hairline and large, doughy eyes.  He wore a satchel over his shoulder and locked his knees aggressively, feet pointed outward, as he strutted around the ring interacting with the crowd.  Always, he held thick wads of money. 
 
The four handlers squatted in the middle of the ring tossing birds back and forth, judging their weights and ruffling their feathers, slapping them on the heads, raking their necks, pulling from them every ounce of rage they possessed.  This practice was the matchmaking portion of the fight.  The handlers were testing each bird’s physicality and temperament, seeking to put together an equal, entertaining bout. 
 
Gamecocks come from all over the world, each with a different skillset, size, allure. Many cocks there that night came from the United States, the east coast mainly, I was told.  American cocks are known for their speed and lightning striking ability. 
 
European birds are known for their size and strength, but are often slower.  Some birds are crossbred – one bird there was Thai, Filipino, and Balinese.  It’s an international bloodbath. 
 
Once the matches were set, the handlers took their cocks to separate corners, where blades, four to five inches long, were strung to one of each bird’s foot with attractive red yarn.  The handlers speedily, casually, secured the blades, their wrists circling centimeters above the blade’s tip.  One false move and it would be their blood mixing with the dirt below their feet.
 
The first bout was between two massive birds.  The handlers, only two this time, squatted in the middle, raking their bird’s neck and slapping its head.  They then moved closer allowing each bird the opportunity to peck at the other – fostering a real hatred for its opponent. 
 
There were two very different reactions to this treatment.  Some birds became immediately enraged, skitzy, flaring their feathers and lunging for the other bird.  This cock usually lost.  The other bird, the one that stood still, striking a pose and remaining calm – this cock usually won.  Its poise, possibly, a sign that it knew its fate and had accepted it.  One of two: life or death.
 
Actually, there were three outcomes.
 
Then, the crowd was called into play, and they performed their role with veracity and range.  The odds were made on the fly, each member of the crowd, including myself, raising their hands and shaking them as we yelled in unison “gasal, gasal, gasal” and pointed at the cock we so desired to win.  Each handler would hold the bird above their head and beckon the crowd for more gasals.  In Balinese gasal literally translates to “odds”.
 
Once the odds were very loosely understood (and never by me), the money was brought out.  Several men roamed the edge of the ring taking bets and accepting wads of cash – or in my case, a single bill worth 50,000 rupiahs (less than $4 USD). 
 
Now, with money collected and betting closed, we were ready to fight. 
 
The two birds went at it hard, flailing their wings, leading with their feet with each attack.  Sometimes, a bird would duck and slide under its opponent.  Occasionally, they would land on top of each other and claw rapidly, before being shaken off.  Like two heavyweight fighters, the birds sometimes would stagger close and tie each other up, biting down fiercely on the neck of the other – blood pouring.  When this happened, the handlers would step in and separate them.  Then, after one more slap and rake of the neck, they’d drop them back into play, attacking with venom once more. 
 
When the birds retreated, or were not performing as the crowd required, the wicker baskets would come out (the ones I had been looking for on the street earlier), and the two cocks would be placed inside one small basket, forced to fight chest to chest.  Quickly, the basket was thrown away, the fight continuing in its regularly outlined dimensions. 
 
This first fight lingered on and on and on, each bird slowly taking hits, gathering more and more blood within its coat of feathers.  They were rapid and elegant and angry.  The same could be said of the crowd.  Finally, after almost ten minutes of fighting, the cocks barely standing, the bout was ruled a draw.  Money was returned. 
 
Both fighting cocks were ushered away, not quickly.  Oftentimes, the birds were left to linger in their pain outside the ring.  Eventually, however, they were taken to the slaughtering tent paces away from the fighting ring, where their heads were promptly chopped and their bodies separated, readied to be disbursed to members of the crowd or cooked immediately and skewered and put up for sale.  I ate several skewers, myself.  I feel guilty for it.
 
When a clean victory was achieved, the body of the loser was awarded to the victor, as is customary.  Several more bouts were completed, and slowly more and more people were approaching me with questions and greetings and smiles.  I stood out like a sore thumb, and word had started to circulate that I was from California, a place Indonesians are infatuated with.  Like a new schoolboy I made friends, shaking hands and slapping palms, and before long, I was summoned into the ring.  The best I could gather was that they thought it would be good luck for me to hold the bird before the fight. 
 
It was the white bird.  This is where we were before.  
 
And so, there I was, amongst the birds and back alley creatures of Ubud’s illegal cockfighting underbelly.  I said I wouldn’t get involved, but there I was, involved.  Infectious, maybe that’s the word.  Maybe it’s not. 
 
Handing it back to my man with the red mullet, odds were made.  I wagered a bet of 100,000 rupiahs (less than $8 USD) on my white bird, and retired to my corner.
 
Within minutes, my bird was stained red and stumbling, its breast torn wide open.  Although hurt badly, it still stood.  The fight, however, was over. The handlers called. My bird had lost. Barely clinging to life, one of the handlers grabbed the it and shoved it in front of the lens of my camera.  I snapped the last photo of it alive.  It was then taken to the slaughtering tent.  Chop went the cleaver, head bouncing away from body and into the dirt.  Fed to the dogs. 
 
Five more fights would take place and we’d leave at three-thirty in the morning. 
 
Once away from the arena, I began to feel strange.  Almost as if it had all happened too quickly and without my consent.  I’d been the one who had searched it out, yet I felt like it had been forced upon me and now I was stuck with it forever.  My stomach ached. 
 
Ancient.  That’s how’d I’d describe it.  Ancient, yet never going away.  So long as men and liquor and money exist, there’ll be a dark corner where fighting cocks are going at it. 
 
I said I wouldn’t get involved.  I won’t again. 
 
 
 
 

Do You Know How Putin Rose to Power? 

In early September of 1999, a succession of four bombs were set off in two weeks.  Each bomb targeted an apartment building in a different Russian city, including Moscow.  The Russian government immediately blamed Chechen rebels for the bombings.