Though dim, the fluorescent lighting stings my eyes after I enter in from the twilight outside. My camera is already in my hand, aperture and shutter speed set, as I give a smiling nod to the staring faces of the family frying chickens, while I walk towards the back of the building. My intent is to document a cultural tradition.
The appeal and repulsion of Foreign
I can see roosters and men. I can smell chicken shit. I can taste stale beer. I can feel the grease of fried chicken. I can hear ramblings in a Spanish I can’t yet understand, although I may simply not be able to decipher it under the chickens’ crows. I do understand some shouting “Hey, Chino!” with smiles at my Taiwanese-American friend, Eddy. Those are the only smiles I notice all night.
Juan, in his pink Polo button-up shirt, invites us to sit down with his acquaintances. He’s a family-friend of our hotel’s owner, and we had just met him when we dined on inexpensive pechuga at Plaza Santo Domingo. We greet the others at the table, and I act as the translator, explaining that Eddy is from Taiwan – a country, I say, most Taiwanese consider independent from China. One of the men claims he speaks broken English, and French, and I don’t hear him utter another word of Spanish the rest of the night, other than when he continues to address Eddy as “chino.” The man’s slurred speech makes it difficult to understand which language he’s speaking. Then I wonder if I am again just seeing his mouth move but hearing chickens, and I don’t know if I’m amused or appalled by his constant finger-pointing. I excuse myself and stand up to search for picture subjects.
Same shit, different land
There are several dozen chicken cages along the walls, with some chickens (I was told they were the injured on their by-weeks) leashed to and perched on beams and pipes above our heads, unable to move more than a foot or two.
In Bijagua, Costa Rica, I visited a farm in the mountains, owned by the same family for I don’t know how many generations. The chickens there ran around freely on a plot of land, actually about the same size as the Gallera, with cashew trees, surrounded by a tall fence. They, like the Gallera’s roosters in their small cages, walked around in their own shit.
Observations
There is a commotion towards the back, where I see the glint of metal hanging from the ceiling beams. I wedge into the crowd that has gathered, and see a robust man in the middle. He has a thick black mustache. He weighs roosters that are passed to him on a hanging scale, and then dictates their weight to a man at a white board, who scribes. Some men own multiple roosters, whose weights are written collectively next to the owner’s name. With every weight that is announced, the crowd dissipates briefly, then recollects for the next rooster’s weighing.
I’m seen smoking a cigarette and am asked for one in English. I respond, “Claro. Hablo español, puede hablar en español, pero su inglés es bueno.” He smiles, and I can’t sense if he believes either of my lies, or even understood me. He thanks me for the cigarette and leaves before I can say “de nada.”
I finally fix the white balance to accommodate for the fluorescent lights, and increase the ISO to be able to take somewhat sharper pictures with a faster shutter speed and smaller aperture setting, though am eventually disappointed by the graininess that I will notice in my photos. A crowd gathers again, and the bar gets louder, as I notice a man yelling with a rooster in his hand. I capture the moment.
The mustached man never looks at another person in the eyes. He just writes on a clip-board and searches for things in his small duffle bag. It is suddenly much quieter, as he begins to carry out some sort of preparation of the rooster for the first fight. Everybody is leaning in around the table he’s working at, attempting to get a better view. Tape is wrapped around the rooster’s shank as he trembles in the hands of his owner. I snap pictures and think, “This is the loser.” An artificial tortoise-shell spur (a curved spike about two inches long) is attached to the rooster’s shank, after a waxy substance is melted and attached to the butt of the spur, acting as glue. I don’t realize that most roosters grow natural spurs, and don’t ask if this one had his removed or is simply young. The crowd once again dissipates when the process is complete, leaving a few men around the table, exchanging money and shots of Guaro.
Realizations are paid for
Most of the money ends up in the hands of the mustached man. More shots of Guaro are taken as I head to the small arena, the cockpit, permanently set up in the back. It’s empty but for a young child who has sat down at the upper level of the bleachers. One extremely bright light-bulb is hanging in the center, far below another fluorescent lamp.
I don’t remember why I am here. I don’t know why I’m taking pictures, or what interests me about this cock fight. I realize that understanding the people around me is a strain. I hope these roosters don’t die. I hope they aren’t cognizant of what’s happening to them, other than that their instincts command them to fight. I stop thinking.
Yelling and cheering ensues, the roosters are displayed to each other, to rile them up, the pecking starting before they’re even on the ground. What looks like a soccer ball of feathers rolls around. I don’t know who is winning or what is being said as I focus only on the snapshots I see of people’s faces and the fight. The fight is stopped; I think to prevent the loser from being fatally injured. At the moment, I believe there is some empathy left in people. When I take my eyes away from the viewfinder, I remember that these roosters are income. Money is involved. Guaro, as well.
The cockpit empties. Roosters, mostly the loser, are checked and treated for injuries. The winner is cheered. Men take their pictures with him.
Eddy says he wants to go, that he’s seen enough. I find Juan to say “Gracias.”
Later, the white board is erased.
