Chick fight in Otavalo, Ecuador

July 25th, 2009: Walking through the doors, I look down and see a large red carpeted ring and in the depths of my brain I can clearly hear the words of a famous announcer…”a-r-e y-o-u r-e-a-d-y t-o R-u-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-b-l-e?!” I have been waiting to see a chick fight for about…36 years – actually 37 years and about 8 months if you count when I was hanging out in my mother’s womb. Before you gasp I must remind you that the chickens fighting are not the cuddly chickens that can do tricks and play catch. Nor, are they the gazillion pound immobile feeder chickens that the fast food industry has genetically altered – though if these birds did fight…it would be more like a sumo fight. These chickens fighting tonight are lean, mean, pecking machines that are trying to extend their lives before taking a dip in the local deep fryer. So if you think this is cruel and inhuman…it…it is.

Arriving early, I was told by a group of individuals stumbling near the ring that the fights weren’t going to start until another hour. Leaving to get something quick to eat, I rushed back so that I wouldn’t miss the first pulled feather. I was now told…It wasn’t going to start until another two hours. Hmmm…truthfully, I don’t know if anybody knew when the first fight was going to be. About to leave again, I was invited to have a drink with the individuals who were stumbling near the ring. Thinking about what happened in Colombia, I had a feeling that history might be repeating itself. Unfortunately, my only options were: wait in my room and watch some Spanish TV – which is more like porn, go to some internet café and read the status of my friends on Facebook (such as how they just went to the store to buy some cigarettes and they didn’t have Marlboro lights), read someone’s boring ass travel blog or…hang out with the stumbling individuals. It was a tuff decision but I chose to sit down with drunkards.

To assist me in being able to easily turn down the foul alcohol and to help my newly acquired temporary friends to save their breath, I told them that I was taking medication and couldn’t drink. Now, I will not have to drink the backwash of a complete stranger and will be able to make all my inaccurate calculated decisions on my own with a completely functional brain. Also, with two of the guys bandaged up from fighting…I thought my ability to pull someone’s hair, scratch with great precision or to run faster than them might be necessary sometime during the night.

Once the chick fight started, it was not what I imagined. They didn’t have the Rocky theme song playing in the background, no strobe lights, no smoke coming from the cages as the warriors were brought into the ring, no blood spurting into the audience throughout the match, no deaths…not even a lousy ring girl walking around in a bikini with some unimportant number above her head - nothing, nada, zilch! I must say though…it was exciting when the chickens were set free into the ring with a metal spike attached to their freshly shaven legs as the feathers on their neck would stick up, running at each other bumping breasts in the middle of the ring. The fights lasted anywhere from a few seconds to several minutes, winning when they injured the other to the point it can’t get up or until the time runs out. Just like a chic fight…there was great potential that the fighters might leave the ring with some bald spots, as they ripped each other’s feathers out with their beaks.

Not betting any money, I just sat and watched a few fights before heading back to my place. My friends told me it wasn’t safe and for me to get a cab, even though I was only a few blocks away - this is the reason I didn’t drink. Walking out the front door there was not a cab in sight…just an extremely dark, quiet, dirty street. In my mind, the street transformed itself into a running track. Ready to show my speed…I quickly walked back to my hostel and safely made it to the front door. Standing there for about 15 minutes, I was abusing the buzzer and banging on the door, trying to wake up the people inside to let me in. Fortunate for me…there were no thieves, because if so I would have definitely woken them all up.

Going to bed tonight, I have a new respect for chickens. If someone ever calls me a chicken…I will have to thank them – that is…as long as they don’t call me a feeder chicken.