The heat is oppressive. I start to sweat the moment I walk in. I don’t notice it yet, though, as I am deafened by the sounds.
Men screaming, yelling, flailing about with mad intensity. Words reduces to shouts, repetitious, guttural, filled with hope or despair. Hands always in motion, signaling, gesturing, figures up, out, curled, then wrists dipping in unison, a match made in sign, owners still yelling, but now to each other.
This a cockfight in Manila and I haven’t even seen the ring or the birds yet. This is just the stands, where action is overwhelming, then silent.Read More