Another early morning. The van will be here at 8:00 to pick us up for the Chacahua Tour. The sunrise is beautiful—much more violet than the sunset—but I am philosophically opposed to early morning risings, however pretty.

Merry Christmas Dawn from the Terrace

Sara Awaits the Arrival of the 8 am Van Wearing her Snazzy New Pants

From Michael’s web site:

If you prefer an all day adventure, we offer an excursion to the vast Chacahua Lagoons for a full day of boating. This trip involves much more travel time both by vehicle and by boat to arrive at the primitive beach side village of Chacahua, where we will relax midday under a breezy palapa for a swim and a seafood dinner (extra). We will also visit the crocodile hatchery. Be prepared for a full day of sun. (6 person minimum).

The van is again loaded with Canadians. Heather and Dennis Ritchie from British Columbia, married 24 years with two kids at home, 20 and 21. She’s an accountant. He’s in construction. He’s the one, Mitch told me later, that announced, “Can’t get a decent cup of coffee in this town.” Laura and Teddy, (mother and daughter) teachers from Mexico City. Susan, late 30-ish teacher from Toronto. And last, but certainly not least, Kyle and Mark from Toronto. Kyle is a city councilman and gay rights advocate. Mark is a painter with his own gallery, and also runs bus tours for English-speaking tourists in Paris. That’s an interesting day job.

Michael tells me to sit next to Kyle by the door, so I can get in and out of the van easier. (Remember, he had experience with me yesterday.) Anyway, by the time we get to Zapotalito (about an hour’s drive on the coast highway west of Puerto) the lads and I are having a big time, as Wendy says. At the turn-off to the lagoon there are several soldiers monitoring who comes and goes and with what.

We get a bathroom opportunity for a peso that we pay to the village children who run the toilet concession in Zapotalilto. There is a very impressive boat dock for such a poor village and Michael explains that the lagoon is a national park and therefore government property, but that there are a several hundred people who are, and have been for years, squatting and farming the rich bottom land.

A quick look at the map at the dock to see where we will be going and then it’s into the boat. I’m in front with Mark. Not under the canopy, but it’s early enough I don’t think the sun will be a problem and it isn’t. Unlike Manialtepec, this lagoon is huge. Actually, it’s really two big lagoons (Chacahua and Pastoria) with a small canal joining them that doesn’t show on this map. The first one we’re in is Pastoria.

The East End Outlet of Pastoria Lagoon We took a Little Side Trip to Check This Out

We don’t see as many birds as in Manialtepec, but the ride is fabulous. We are soon in the canal that connects the two lagoons.

The Canal Between the Lagoons

More Mangroves, But Much Different From Manialtepec. Are These a Different Variety? I Don't Remember

We make a stop at the little village of Corralito, where the town leaders meet us and are still three sheets to the wind from the celebration of the night before. I get a picture of the church/meeting house/bar/whatever where some obvious merrymaking was going on last night. Michael tells us there are probably about 40 people living here and that they had to erect a jail. That seems right. I think in any group of 40 people, at least one should be in jail.

The elders get into a major discussion with Mike about taking us on a tour into the swamp. (Everyone’s always looking for any angle to get out of the grinding poverty that is the norm in Mexico.) A tour is not going to happen, but Mike listens politely to their proposal. Apparently, the government is giving them money to make a trail that highlights the medicinal plants in the area. Michael demurs by saying he’ll consider it for future tours, but we are on a schedule today and cannot stop. We compromise by getting a nice, young man who is not so incapacitated to walk us through the village and show us some of the trees and plants growing there.

An Ancient Canoe Carved from a Single Tree. Nobody Knows How Old, It's Been There as Long as Any of the Villagers Remember

Remains of the Xmas Eve Party House at Corralito Must Have Been a Good One, Everyone Still Drunk the Next Morning

A House and Corral at Corralito I think the corral was meant to keep critters out, rather than in

Aerial View of Chacahua Lagoon

After our little leg stretch, we’re back in the boat again and into the great Chacahua lagoon. To our enormous pleasure, we spot the glorious roseate spoonbill, an amazing, beautifully plumaged ugly bird.

Roseate Spoonbill

Wood Stork

Soon we have motored to the crocodile hatchery in Chacahua. LOTS of crocs of all sizes. All in separate pens according to age. The cute little biologist talks to us for awhile about these prehistoric reptiles and answers questions.

Crocodiles at the Hatchery in Chacahua Village Everywhere You Look There are Crocs

Crocs, Crocs

More Crocs

Back in the boat and across the river to our palapa on the beach. Michael has an arrangement with one the cafes. Carlos owns this palapa and he has prepared a table in anticipation of our arrival. He brings out a platter of fresh fish, to show us what we will be eating. I order a Rubello (sea bass fried in garlic.)

While Carlos is preparing our lunch, we investigate the beach, which is magnificent. Some go swimming, some walking, or some just hang out. The beach is about a mile or two long, gently curving with the mountains in the distance—a gorgeous spot. Great for wading which I enjoy for some distance up the beach. Sara loses her watch somewhere in a wave, but does not seem too upset. She has achieved bliss in paradise.

Chacahua Village in Paradise (Carlos’ palapa is first one next to the dike)

Sara, like Venus, Rises From the Sea at Chacahua

Mitch and Kyle at our Table at Carlos' Palapa on Chacahua Beach

At 2 pm we are all back at the table to enjoy our feast. We just veg out after, chat and enjoy the cool breeze under the palapa. All the hammocks are occupied by other guests of babies, or I’d be out like a light. About a quarter to four, Michael herds us back to the boat. Several people help me over that damn dike. Everyone is very nice about helping me up and down and in and out.

We get back in boat "trimming again" and speed back to Zapotalito with very few detours. I sit up front again, which is the best place to be. What’s wrong with these people? Shortly we are back in the van and on our way back to Puerto.

Kyle and Mark are driving to Oaxaca City tomorrow, and we tentatively make plans to meet them for brunch on Sunday.

Some last minute packing and then we go back one last time to the Adoquin for dinner. This time at Jardin de la Mer. I have one more entrée of camerones gigantes before we leave the coast and a couple of margaritas.

And we are revived enough to go to the cock fights. Mtich had spotted a poster in town, but we had to wait ‘til Sara could translate to make sure that’s what it was. The cocks are international stars and have managers. We have gotten the details earlier from a cab driver, so we know where to go: a vacant lot downtown with a tiny, makeshift arena with bleachers on one side and a few rows of lawn chairs on the other. The event is sponsored by Pepsi-Cola and there is a 10-foot blow-up of a can of Pepsi next to the tents, which function as a green room for the chickens. The cocks are beautiful and they know it.

A Painting From the 30's of a Peleas de Gallos

To begin each round there is a lottery to spur on betting. 14 tickets are sold for 10 pesos each. After that the actual betting for a round begins. The cocks are carried out to the ring by their handlers for viewing. Four or five guys with name tags take book for either the cock at the red side or the cock at the green side of the arena. Similar to going to the paddock to check out the ponies at a horse race.

Then the complicated business of approving and attaching the spur to each cock’s leg begins. After each bird is ready, a sparring cock is brought out to get the cocks in a good enraged mood. During this process all the birds are held and either stroked or blown on or spit on poked or whatever the handler thinks is appropriate to the moment.

Finally, they are set down on the ground and the actual fight begins. It doesn’t take long. Once a cock gets his spur in, the other one pretty much gives up. There appear to be 3 rounds which I don’t quite understand. When the cock refuses to get up? Elapsed time? Dunno. The betting and booze is spirited. Unlike the bull-riding contest, the spectators for this event are mostly guys. A few more stoned-out surfer dudes and their mamas show up. These are my impressions of what happened that night. Let’s see what’s on the web:

… I watched my neighbor Roberto as he hand fed chopped fruit, vegetables, and meat to some big chickens he proudly introduced to me as "fighting cocks." Caged separately in spacious pens, these exuberantly plumed and healthy birds didn't look like any roosters I had ever seen, but I took Roberto's word for what they were. Only weeks later did it become apparent why these roosters looked out of the ordinary - their combs and wattles were missing. Sure enough, these really were fighting cocks, and I found myself invited to Sunday's peleas de gallos (cockfights).

Even more amazing was the equalizing unity among social classes that the cockfights brought to a rigidly stratified society. More than the influence of a male culture at play, some greater symbolism brought these men together, blurring markers of power, wealth, ethnicity, and privilege. Over 150 years ago, Fanny Calderón de la Barca, Mexico's version of Tocqueville, observed this phenomenon during a Mexican president's attendance at a major cockfight: "The gratifying spectacle may not infrequently be seen, of the president, leaning from his box in the plaza de gallos, and betting upon a cock, with a coatless, bootless, hatless and probably worthless ragamuffin in the pit."

The Ritual of Combat

Cockfights are legal in Mexico. Regulated by the same ordinances applicable to bullfighting, charreadas, and jaripeos (rodeos), the impresario's license to sponsor the fights requires him to maintain order during the event, hiring auxiliary police if necessary, and to observe the rules and traditions of the sport.

Cradled in specially-made cardboard valises, the gallos de combate were weighed, one by one, until each had been matched with an opponent of comparable weight. The rules permit only a small deviation between the contestants, weighing between two and three kilos. Proud iridescent blue-black tail feathers glowing, bright and sleek copper-bodied, wattles and combs trimmed, horny spurs blunted, the competitors stoically awaited their handlers' negotiations as the proper matches were made. Calmed by their handlers' slow, deliberate near-caresses and soothed by words muttered sotto voce, the normally high-strung and excitable birds were unusually quiet.The first stage of the sport was over.

Veritable velvet-lined jewel boxes yielded up an assortment of shiny precision stainless steel knives which each handler studied carefully, measuring with calipers, before plucking the one which would arm today's combatant. Weapons selected, the handlers strode into the sacred territory of the plaza de gallos (arena) where the handler and his aide would gird the knife to the gallo's own blunted spur, lashing it with what appeared to be catgut (but probably was dental floss) with surgical precision, taking care not to slash himself with the razor-sharp blade, cleaning it with a halved lime. Now was time for the referee to measure and verify each contestant's fighting equipment. During this second stage of the game, spectators sized up the gallos, deciding the odds for the match, and made private bets.

After a teaser bird whets the combatants' adrenaline, each handler revs his bird back and forth, building up energy and speed much like a toy car, and, at the referee's signal, positions his warrior about a foot away from the line drawn in the dirt.

The fight begins, taking a fraction of the time devoted to its preliminary ceremony and ritual. And often a nanosecond's flurry of feathers brings the denouement. Quickly separated, the loser will find himself in tomorrow's stewpot, and the triumphant, after a brief bow and accolades, is allowed to rest.

A fight may take several timed innings, as the birds are separated, repositioned, resuscitated, dust and grit swabbed away, and encouraged to go at it once again. Each may advance slowly, sizing up the competition, daring the other to strike first. The dance begins to resemble a boxer's pattern of provoke and parry, searching for the opponent's vulnerable zone. Never let it be said that gallos are brainless. More than scent and instinct choreograph the battle.

One cock may surrender, opting no longer to do battle. Or both roosters may mock everyone, daring the handlers to yet another round, neither crossing the line, each staring in silent accord at the other, waiting out the carefully timed bouts until impasse is finally declared. Blood and gore? What little sangre the gallos may have shed was unremarkable. More likely to suffer slashes were their handlers.

Dating back 3,000 years to Asia, cockfighting spread across India and into Europe, and put down its roots into Hispanic culture after English colonists introduced it to the New World. Legal in Missouri, New Mexico, Oklahoma, Arizona, Louisiana, and Puerto Rico, cockfighting matches are held in Ireland, Colombia, Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Cuba, Jamaica, and the Philippines. And, of course, frequently illegal matches are held to feed consumer demand.

As much a part of Mexican folk culture as bullfighting or charreada but ignored by mainstream travel literature, cockfighting suffers a Rodney Dangerfield complex.

Los gallos are as much a metaphor for Mexico as maíz. Subsisting on scratch and scrap, nourishing the hungry, hens renewing each day with huevos, roosters' noisy cacophony breaking dawn's silence, cockerels jockeying for position, chickens signal home and hearth. Even the street price of pollo rostizado (roasted chicken) is a benchmark of the local cost of living. The chicken is Everyman.

Not every rooster has the right stuff to become a fighting cock. Bred from strains of Hatch, Claret, Black, Round Head and White Hackel for height, strength, speed and "gameness," or the ability to stay and fight instead of surrendering, a prize fighting cock may sell for as much as five thousand dollars.

A teleological totem, the gallos are the transcendent symbol of the ordinary world of poultry. Elites of the species, fighting cocks overcome formidable odds of becoming broilers before maturity or risking castration to enjoy a few more well-fed weeks as capons, grow to full sexual maturity, and enjoy special rations and living quarters while training - in exchange for bravery and valor. And ultimately, sacrifice. Not in the least unlike the Aztecs' human offerings to appease and feed the gods, cockfighting restores ritual and structure to dissonant chaos.

And from another site:

The contests are held in a fighting pit, one side painted red and the other side green. The owners bring their roosters to the judge, who weighs them on a scale, and examines the bird. Owners oftentimes bring more than one bird to fight.

The judges examine the birds and determine the odds. They also sell tickets. If you purchase a ticket on the favored bird, and he wins, you win, but not as much as if you chose the "underdog." If the winner of the fight is the "underdog", you are paid almost double your bet. The judge accepts your bet and pays out to the winners. At a recent cockfight held in a neighboring town of Manzanillo, the minimum bet was 100 pesos, or about $9 dollars.

Before the fight starts, the birds are given a trial run. The owners deliberately get them aggravated by letting them do a mock attack (without knives). They literally toss the birds at each other, then pull them back, over and over again. This action also gives the audience an idea on which cock to bet on.

The cock owner brings his own blades to the fight, and they are carefully measured and checked for poison. They all must be of uniform length (about one inch), and are cleaned by rubbing a lime on the blade to remove any toxins. (Since cockfights are to the death of the loser, the judges want to make sure there's no poison to help them along.)

The blades are tied on to the rooster's back claw with string. It is inspected by the judge before the fight starts. The blades are honed razor sharp, and don't take very long to tear through feathers and flesh, once the fight has started.

As the fight begins, two roosters stand beak to beak, puffing out their colorful feathers. Suddenly, they fly at each other, stabbing with their beaks, slamming into each other, crashing and slashing until one dies.

It is a bloody and brutal battle, but usually it's over in less than a minute. In the event one of the cocks goes down, but is still alive, the judge will make the decision whether it is mortally wounded, and will call the winner of the fight. Sometimes more than one judge will be called upon to decide the winner.

The judges make their money by selling tickets, getting 10 percent of the ticket price sold. If your rooster wins, you may also tip the judge who sold you the ticket. Thousands of pesos are bet every Sunday, and there is one fight after the other. Toward the end of the day, the dead roosters start piling up around the back side of the arena. In Asia, it is considered an honor to eat the loser, but in Manzanillo, the losers are thrown in the trash bin.

Cockfighters say the birds are naturally antagonistic, but you can also see that the owners do things to aggravate the bird, such as taking a mouthful of beer and spraying it on their animal. The mock fight without blades is another way they incite their cocks to fight. While the rules require one bird to die, supporters of cockfighting say that no one forces the bird to fight. Cockfighters take this sport very seriously. Cockfighters admit their sport may seem brutal and cruel to outsiders. But in Mexico it's a tradition, and there's money to be made.

By now, it's late and I’ve had way too much fun for one day. Exhausted from our nature trip and all that fresh air and water we stumble out to the street and hail a taxi home for more packing and bed. Tomorrow: Oaxaca City!!