April 06, 2007, Letter from Mexico—A different kind of Sunday, By Jerry Davis, Letters to the Editor

My “machismo” was being tested. Flying down a country road, trying to keep up with the kid in the souped-up red and blue striped vehicle ahead took me back more than just a few years. I don’t know why it was important to keep the respect of some guys I didn’t even know, but I was trying.

This morning’s sermon was about feminism.

Was this the reverse or the antithesis? Fortunately I know the road; there are few curves, and little traffic so the only real hazard would have been a cow wandering in front of me.

I had driven out to Tierra Blanca de Arriba last Monday to list a warehouse for sale. Inside was a cock fighting arena, benches, concession stands and a sign announcing a match the following Sunday. I have always been curious about the sport, and remember Lawrence Dugan showing me how he trained and conditioned his roosters by exercising them on an old bedspring covered with canvas. I was just a kid, but remember well how he scooped them from their cages, dropped them on the taut canvas and gently guided them as they bounced like kids on a trampoline. Gus Holmes was proud of his flock too, and liked to tell how faithful his hens were.

Gamecocks are beautiful birds; proud, lusty and vigorous. Their iridescent black tail feathers turn green, then blue, and then back to black as they glisten in the sunlight. They can be red, white, blue, multi-colored, speckled and spangled. A storekeeper downtown is apt to bring his prize chicken to town with him and keep it in a cage in front of the shop so the public can share his pride in the ownership of so fine a bird. Gamecock owners are easy to find. Simply listen for crowing roosters night or day.

When I arrived in Tierra Blanca there were only three vehicles in front of the warehouse. Wrong day, I wondered? Asking some men loitering outside I found that not enough people had shown up yet, but that when they did come, there would be some action. The owner came out of his store/cantina/card hall to shake my hand and welcome me.

This is a leaning culture. Country folks lean against the fence, prop themselves on the doorframe, are supported by a tree trunk or rest on a truck. José and I draped ourselves against his pickup while he attempted to explain what occurred at a genuine feria (fair) like the one they were going to have on the 25th. There would be several teams, each team fielding four cocks, the betting would be heavy, and US$50,000 was not unusual, he said. A designated person holds the money for a fee of 10 percent, which is used to pay the judges, impartial men selected by the sports association and not from that locality. There would be food, plenty to drink and good music; in other words a family affair and whole families would attend.

Meanwhile, back at the warehouse, we scuffed our toes in the dust, made desultory conversation and waited. All of these guys are “dedicated to agriculture,” as they say, which sounds very elegant and uplifting, but in reality means that they are farm workers, the men who harvest broccoli, spinach and strawberries. Life out here on the “rancho” is difficult, dull and impoverished. With a handful of corn every day, one can raise a fine fighting bird that might, someday, make the owner money. A rooster, a hen and a clutch of eggs can become several birds, and you can always eat them. It is a pastime within their budget and, after sex, is their most cost-effective pleasure.

A call on the cell phone gives us the news that no one is coming. “Let’s show this gringo a cockfight,” says one. And telling me to follow, they pile into the car and roar off. We are going to San Jacinto, another rancho just outside of San Miguel. There we stop where some pickups are parked, shake hands all around, make small talk and wait for others to show. Finally there are enough and we continue down the dusty track to the fields on the edge of town.

My hot-rodder guide gets his rooster out of the box, which resembles the carton used for Chinese take-out, only larger. Apparently drug companies distribute them, as ads for chicken remedies and tonics are printed on the sides, beneath the silhouette of a gamecock. The men tell me that they buy little medicine, mostly tonics and pep pills. He and his challenger “weigh” their birds by holding one in each hand and, with an expression of extreme concentration, try to guess if they are of equal heft. If not, no match is possible.

First the tip of the left spur is sliced off with a razor, which results in blood, staunched with dirt, then spit, and finally pressure from a finger. Red felt, sticky on one side, is wrapped around the leg above and below the spur, padding for the wooden block that is tightly bound on with waxed twine. Then a steel spur—sharp, curved and wicked-looking—is bound onto the block. Only the left leg is so equipped. Now a “haircut” is given, the feathers on the flanks trimmed off so as to not interfere with the deadly work.

We gather in a rough circle, the judge appears and carefully we watch the preliminaries. A third bird, a “teaser,” is brought out and used to excite the other two into a deadly fury. Held back by their handlers gripping the tail feathers, they crow and peck, hackles raised into a perfectly round ruff that magnifies their apparent size. Now all is ready.

Chickens are polygamous, and millennia after millennia of natural selection has resulted in aggressive males that will kill any rival who tries to take over their harems. Now, add to this hundreds of years of selective breeding and the result is a super pugnacious fighter.

The action is rapid, almost faster than the eye. Feathers flash, wings beat, beaks peck and spurs slash until the two birds are entangled. The judge gives the handlers a signal to intervene; the birds are separated and combat starts again. Hot-rodders’ bird is injured on the lower leg and the judge ends the contest. The hurt bird goes back into his crate and will live to fight another Sunday afternoon. The owner of the winner collects his bets, the only way he can make money to support his flock.

The second contest results in two exhausted combatants lying side by side. The handlers hover over them, desperately hoping that the judge will allow them to pick up their birds and resuscitate them. This consists of a lot of blowing, thumping and spitting. Several strong puffs under the tail feathers, spit rubbed on the head and legs, the toes pulled until the joints crack and thumping on the back. Similar to human boxers slumped in their corners, being sponged off, patted and rubbed, the roosters are revitalized by their handlers treatment. The judge gives no sign. Suddenly the two rivals revive, erupt into a flurry of feathers until one is struck in the thigh, falls bleeding and is unceremoniously carried away by his owner, dropped behind a rock and left to die.

There is no emotion. Birds are never named; never do the owners become sentimental. They are objects, possessions, sources of pride and hopefully of monetary gain. When a bird is killed the owner is sad because he lost money, because his hopes are dashed, because his efforts in raising and training his bird were for naught. Regret is fleeting as there are other birds, other Sundays, other times to get together with friends, socialize, drink a few beers and to forget the monotony, drudgery and poverty that you experience when your are “dedicated to agriculture.”

Letter to the Editor

Editor,

Ah, life in a small town. First I’m chastised in the street, then my name is defamed in the local paper! And, what was my crime? I used the term “insiders guide” in the title to my 1½-hour lecture about Semana Santa. To shed some light on the subject I invite Mr. Dean and you dear readers to google “insiders guide”. On Sunday, April 1, 2,500,000 entrees showed up. Mr. Dean’s book was listed on page 5. My short talk was too insignificant to be listed.

I am a bit baffled as to why the title to a lecture about Easter should cause any conflict with a book in its 17th printing about San Miguel. If anything I would think Mr. Dean grateful for a little free publicity that the use of similar words might infer. Although I must admit I haven’t seen his book in years and had forgotten all about his title when creating one for my lecture. Oops!

Well, I wish him all the best with his new addition and I hope that someday he will translate it into Spanish for the thousands of Mexican tourists that visit this lovely historic town each year.

Charlotte Bell

Editor,

As the author of nine books, I feel qualified to comment on Archie Dean’s letter in last week’s Atención, in which he stated that “This title [The Insider’s Guide] is also protected by international copyright and trademark laws.” In fact, titles are not protected by copyright law and cannot be trademarked. I googled “Insider’s guide” and found nearly four million (!) results.

Charlottle Bell did nothing wrong, ethically or legally, when she used the words “Insider’s guide” in an ad and article about her book on Holy Week in San Miguel.

Robert de Gast

Editor,

I, like so many in SMA, have been getting outrageous electric bills recently. I received two bills in excess of 2,000 pesos which is more than double the average bill received in the over 5 years I have been living in my small home. Two months ago I changed all the bulbs to lámpara fluorescente, live practically in the dark, run the pump to my outdoor fountain only a few minutes a day to destroy mosquito action, and stopped using my microwave. I use only gas for heat and to cook with, and have an energy efficient refrigerator and no clothes dryer. I no longer leave the porch light on, so I have to feel my way into my home at night. I am a woman living alone and I don’t feel safe doing that.

After making all the changes two months ago, I just got my new electric bill, and it was for 3,000 pesos! I know that it does not reflect my usage, and yet know not where to turn. That is a huge percentage of my once doable Social Security check. I simply cannot do it and may have to move.

I live in an all Mexican neighborhood, away from el centro, and several of my neighbors are getting the same treatment, which I believe is abusive if not criminal. And they have no Social Security checks to help them either. It is sporadic and without reason. One of my neighbors, a young couple with three children have a small tienda with one light bulb and a small refrigeration unit. Their bill exceeded 2,500 pesos and they are desperate. You can stand in line for hours to complain, and are simply told you either have to pay it or your electricity will be cut off. Do you or any of your readers have any suggestions or is there any indication that help is on the way?

Name withheld upon request

Editors note: The CFE has received numerous complaints of over-charging and has installed a special module at the offices on calle Loreto. Adjustments to accounts are allegedly being resolved there.