Our book promised Puerto Plata was a place like no other. There would be shady figures lurking about, people skulking around with briefcases and dark glasses, and a myriad of older American and European sorts living a life of leisure...under false names and identities. Believe it or not, if you're a white collar criminal looking to evade that pesky embezzeling charge or insider trading suit, Puerto Plata is the posh place to assume your brand new, above the law existance.
Puerto Plata is like most towns along the north coast of the DR; sunny, sandy beaches, a few scattered tourist attractions, and lots of people living life at a slower pace than I'm used to. Aside from this, there are also lots of people who fit the profile I described above. When we first read about the city in our guide book, we laughed and imagined shadowy figures in 1940's silhouettes, straight out of some campy noir film. Well, just change the setting to a balmy tropical locale, and you've got it. There honestly were old men reminiscent of Hannibal Lector at the end of "Silence of the Lambs" wandering around in fedoras and beige suits, with briefcases in hand and a suspicious amount of spare time. There were also more straight-laced folks in the internet cafes relaying messages about schedules, personal habits, whereabouts and other odd things for an internet cafe Skype conversation.
Puerto Plata is an odd, lovely place. Although we didn't actually make friends with anyone on the lam, we saw some lovely sites and had a very interesting cultural experience. When I travel, I try to withhold judgment and gain as much honest to goodness cultural knowledge as I can. I read up on a bit of history, I try to never eat at American chain restaurants, I never stay in resorts or fancy hotels, and I rarely use anything but cheapo public transportation. So, in hopes of getting that true blue DR experience, I went to my first, and last, cockfight.
Naturally, we were the only gringas in the place, thats become obvious and expected just about everywhere we go. We were also the only women period...which made things slightly more awkward. Adding to the awkward, we had no idea what actually went on at a cockfight other than betting and fighting and lots of men getting rowdy. Luckily, our confusion was obvious to a kindly gentleman who couldn't wait to tell us about the customs and rules, and introduce us to his champion rooster. It was a bit strange sitting and stroking the lovely plumes of this hefty bird, when I knew that in 20 minutes, if he wasn't already dead, he'd at least be bloody and battered. Actually, at the time I didn't even know that. I had no idea what to expect. I'd never read rules and regulations on cockfighting, I had no idea if they stopped the birds before it got ugly, and I had no idea just how bloody the event could get.
Our new friend took us all over the arena and betting areas, explaining little bits of the process here and there, and encouraging us to take pictures with all his friends. We visited the betting area where all the birds are on display according to their match and skill level. Then we wandered over to where the birds were being prepped for battle. Talons were being sharpened, feathers shaved, tempers riled. Then we moved into the arena, which was surprisingly clean and professional. The first two birds and their handlers, along with the referee and two judges were already in place, and about 60 men young and old had gathered for the afternoon match ups. The birds were thrust into each others' faces, ensuring they were ready for battle. When they were released they just attacked. There were feathers flying instantly, vicious pecking, and lots of kicking and sweeping of the talons at their opponent's breast and underbelly. There was blood almost instantly. I silently thanked God that these roosters had dark feathers, it made the first bought easier to stomach. At the same time I also prayed silently that I would be forgiven for my attendance, as it felt like it might be on par with sinning, big time.
The bouts are 20 minutes, and usually they don't last that long. A "good" match ends in less than five, with one limp bird being carried away to be butchered. Although there were 8 scheduled matches for the afternoon, we quietly thanked our new friends, invented dinner plans, and bowed out. Honestly, it was too much. Too much blood, too much death, too much noise, too much period. I came, I saw it for what it was, I decided I didn't want to contribute to it anymore.
As we left the arena, we talked about the experience. Beth, a farm girl, wasn't affected so much by the flying feathers and blood, you'd see that on any butchering day. For her, it was more about watching the crowd, learning about the process, and making some unexpected friends. For me, it was interesting and intriguing, but also painful. Watching anything breath it's last breathe is an intense experience. It reminded me of when my brother shot a crow with his BB gun when we were young. When it fell out of the tree I tried to save it, but naturally it died in my hands. Watching their bodies being carried away with the next birds already being prepped felt sad, and disrespectful. The dead birds will serve a purpose of course, and probably end up as delicious Dominican pica pollo. Knowing that helps a bit, but not enough to make me hit up another club gallistico. It made for an strange, exciting afternoon, and I´m happy to leave it at that. This trip is about forcing myself to move outside my traditional comfort zones, and surprise myself in new and unexpected ways. So far, I think I´m doing a stellar job.
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