I’ve always despised cruelty to animals. As a kid I was so enraged by fox hunting that I used to spend weekends traipsing through woodlands, trying to sabotage the huntsmen’s sport. Strange then, that years later I’d find myself in the Peruvian Andes, dressed in the cloak of a cock fighting manager, watching birds slaughter each other.

The thought of watching two cockerels rip each other to shreds held no appeal whatsoever, but rather than chicken out, I decided to wing it.

The feather weight championship

While cock fighting is illegal in most of North America and Europe, it’s still a big hit in Peru. Gamecocks, specially bred and given the finest care possible until the age of two, can cost thousands of dollars. The Cock Fighting Championships of Peru attract tens of thousands of spectators. So when the regional qualifiers were held in the Andean town of Andahuylas where I was living, it was huge news.

The thought of watching two cockerels rip each other to shreds held no appeal whatsoever, but my Peruvian friends insisted I go. Rather than chicken out on this once in a lifetime opportunity, I decided to wing it.

A cockfighting man

Picture this: A small amphitheater with a few hundred spectators. 90% are men. 100% are drinking beer. Spotlights shine on a circle of sand. When a pair of gamecock managers and the master of ceremony, a small man with a big grin, enter the stadium the crowd erupts. The managers glare at each other like prizefighters.

Come out winging

Holding their gamecocks aloft, the managers blow on the birds and ruffle their gamecocks’ feathers. Squawking, the birds are held close enough to peck at each other. The owners step back behind two lines and, with a roar from the crowd, throw the birds into the circle. There’s are a few seconds of total silence as we all hold our breath, and then a frenzy of feathers and flapping as the cockerels launch themselves at one another.

To make the spurs they fight with much more deadly, 5 cm blades are tied to their legs.  One direct hit and a bird flops to the ground. The distraught manager rushes to its side. It moves its wing once and lays still. The master of ceremony rings a bell and points to the victor. The crowd cheers its approval. This spectacle is repeated twenty times in the evening.

The shame game

How did I feel to watch it? Well, it wasn’t as gory as it sounds. You see no blood. You smell no fear. The fights normally last no longer than a few minutes, but it’s still a sickening sight. Yet as the night progresses the beer flows and the bets get bigger, and the atmosphere more intense, you get numb to the suffering. And, by the end of the evening, much to my shame, I was cheering as loudly as the next man. In fact, I was so enthusiastic, one of the managers asked if I’d like to see his birds.

Blade runner

Curiosity got the better of me and the next day I visited his house. In his garden he had twenty birds in separate cages. “Would I like to fight one?” he asked.

He took my shrug as a yes, and before I could refuse, he gave me an Old English gamecock to hold, while he grabbed another cockerel from its cage.

“Fighting is in their genes,” he said, grinning. “They’d kill their own brother if they could.”

Feeling the way the bird squirmed in my arms, desperate to lunge at its opponent, I knew he was right. But tying a 5cm blade to the bird’s leg makes that killing a whole lot more effective. Rather than see that again in the cold light of day, I said my thank yous and did a runner.

Thankfully, I’m not a cockfighting man.