Horse(less)-Power

Our remaining time in Coron was filled with a serious lack of horses.

That is to say it was filled with motorbikes, and a failed attempt at riding horses.

Picking up a pair of bikes from a local shop, we spent a few days exploring the further reaches of the island. The first day we headed out into the open country, finding our way over some hills and reaching a beautifully lengthy valley that cradled the gently curving road. Pulling back on the throttle we zipped along grinning unapologetically.

As we made our way back towards town later on, we pulled off near a bunch of other parked motorbikes on the side of the road. A large gathering of people behind a cement wall drew our interest, and as we skipped by the gate (and entrance fee) we found ourselves witness to a large cockfighting ring at the limits of its occupancy.

The crowd would yell and confer as the owners of the avian warriors displayed them expectantly. Two birds at a time were paraded around the ring as people placed bets. Men were screaming, waving their hands, and shaking fistfuls of bills as others were memorizing what bets were being placed, by whom, and for how much. It seemed like a third world version of a stock exchange trading floor.

After a few minutes of shouting, the cocks were put face to face, the provocation of violence being the goal. Their feathers would ruffle wrathfully as they had been trained to. The trainers held the birds tightly as they got more and more aggressive. Then as the fight became imminent, metal sheaths were removed from the blade that had been attached to one of each cock's legs. The hooked shank gleamed with a silver flash as the cocks were walked to separate sides of the ring. A man with a bottle of clear alcohol would come over to each cock and wet his cloth with the disinfectant and quickly wipe down the blade, ensuring there was no poison being introduced into the process.

Then another man grabbed both of the cocks, one in each hand and held them aloft face to face. The crowd went wild. As he dropped them down to the floor to initiate their battle to the death, a momentary wave of silence swept over the crowd, followed quickly by a series of cries with each successive attack. The birds would leap into the air, feathers flying, kicking with the weaponized legs. The goal is simple and is often achieved within seconds. Most fights were ended with one fatal blow. Others lasted for a few minutes, each of the cocks suffering horrible and shameful wounds on their mutual descent towards death. One was always declared a winner.

When one cock would go down, the man would grab both, hold them face to face, "resetting" the fighters, and drop them both again. In most cases, one cock would land on its feet, ready for battle, and the other would hit the canvas will a dull thud, barely clinging to life.

It was hard to watch this tradition unfold, but we stomached it for a few fights before heading back.

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A few days later we made our way by motorbikes to a local farm, where, according to their owner, they had four horses in their possession. Four horses? Four of us? Seemed like a done deal.

We made our way down winding dirt roads which lead to smaller dirt roads, then to dirt paths. Navigating our motorbikes over piles of rocks and through mud puddles, we eventually came a a river in the jungle, over which a bamboo bridge led to the farm where our horses awaited us. Or so we thought.

Apparently no one had informed the horses about our intentions, as we spent half the day waiting for the cowboy to locate and wrangle the equines. It seems he was unsuccessful in doing so, reporting to us at one point that the horses roam free on 8 hectors of overgrown and unmaintained land, and he was unable to locate exactly where they were.

Sipping from coconuts as we grew impatient, we wandered around the farm, making friends with mud-bathing pigs and a curious canine, and just generally horsing around.