Jim Ellinger's Austin Airwaves TravelBlog

April 5, 2005 La Palma The Darien Gap remote Panama
Bloody Night at the Big Cock House

We have made friends with a RTVE Canale Once film crew from Panama City, who are shooting news and documentary footage here in The Darien. A jovial mob of six folks traveling together almost gypsy-style in a van, packed to the gunwales with luggage, tripods, boxes of tapes and two battered but functioning Sony Beta cams. I had forgotten how damn heavy those things are.

My radio partner, Betina from Argentina, had been spotted by the four guys in their TV van earlier in the week and we ended up having dinner. The guys couldn't believe their luck to find such an Argentinean/Italian beauty who dresses so, uh, modern, in such a remote place. They are nice to me too! Dinner and beers were on them. Since then we have crossed paths a number of times. Remember, Meteti is very small, everybody knows everybody, and the very few outsiders stand out. We are always made to feel welcome, ("Buenas!") because the locales are grateful for any help they can get here. This is as close to the end of the road as most folks ever get. No touristas aqui!

I learned today that there are at least 800 Columbian refugees in the Darien. They are referred to as "Temporarily Displaced Persons." They cannot work, at least not legally, and there are damn few jobs in the Darien. "Como como?" I ask. The UN High Commission on Refugees feeds them, I am surprised to hear. Blue Hats, here? in the Darien? We shall see. Many folks in Panama look down on Columbians and blame them for a lot of crime and other problems. There is no crime in Meteti, I am told.

It's the weekend and as Meteti is not known as a big party town, we eagerly accept an offer to join the film crew on a trip to La Palma. It turns out to be quite an adventure.

We all cram into the van and head...in the wrong direction. I am very comfortable in going along for the ride, so I say nothing, until we turn into the well-fortified local army/police station. "What are we doing here?" I ask. "How else were you expecting to get to La Palma? Besides we're staying at La Policia's White House! But the girls have to sleep in the jail!" I suspect my leg is being yanked, being the only yanqui here, but this is the real plan. The women do seem put out about the prospect of spending the night, even as honored guests, in the local pokey.

We present ourselves at the front desk. The place is bustling with young soldiers doing soldier-like stuff. Lotsa' sideway glances to our beautiful, friendly chicas. We are led to El Jefe's office, and lo and behold! It’s Major Machete! The Major has that "you should be doing exactly as I should not have to even tell to you," look down pat. But he is also a pretty personable fellow and we hit it off. I love shooting the shit with cops. One thing leads to another, and I end up agreeing to be the official photographer for some Police/Community event in Santa Fe next week. "Jim Ellinger, Official Police Photographer," should look good on the resume. I suspect that will be a good story too, and I will certainly have plenty of photos! Having gotten the ‘pat on the back and the walk all the way to the van’ by the Major, I am officially "a friendly."

We double back and head to the end of another crappy road until we reach a rickety dock. Think Mexican bus stop...on a river. We unload our gear into the steel river boat, The Arruaca, Police Unit #436. The launch is bare bones; no seats, luggage stacked at your feet, all weapons pointed to the deck.

Life vests are optional, but I put mine on. Job One, ya' know. (Job Two: Don't Come Back Without the Damn Story...) We roar past everything in sight and head out from the dense mangroves of the Magnilla River into the bay of the Pacific Ocean. The usual half hour ride takes just under 15 minutes with these hotdogs.

While a part of the mainland, La Palma is very island-like: It is virtually impossible to get there except by boat. Most of the residents are poor and black. The shacks lean over the ocean, where the night before's trash is swept. Everybody knows everybody else. Dogs sleep in the middle of the only street. It's the weekend so there are a number of events in town. Atlas Beer has brought in some pretty girls, and pretty boys, to shill their swill. But the big event is at the Big Cock House.

Serious Disclaimer:
If the sight of poor animals being tortured to death, just for a few drunken laughs, bragging rights and maybe chicken feed, offends you, DO NOT read any further.

Needless to say, my presence at this, perfectly legal, public, commercially-sponsored, event is not an endorsement of animal cruelty, specifically cock fighting. It is a nasty, ugly, vicious form of entertainment. Not entirely unlike the Congressional Redistricting battle in the Texas Legislature last year.

The enormous bouncer gives us the nod, and we climb up to the top tier of a crudely-constructed arena. No one seems to give a shit about being filmed. The seats around the arena are filled by guys and a few women, mostly drunk, all very loud, and SCREAMING at their bird to KILL THAT SUMBITCH!! The two roosters, with tiny razors strapped to their legs eye each other warily and circle each other like seasoned boxers. With a flurry of feathers, they attack each other to the delight of the crowd. It lasts quite a while, and several times when I thought it was over, with the winning bird walking back and forth over the prone carcass of his opponent, the other bird would leap to its feet and fight on a while longer.

Toward the end it gets even harder to watch. Finally, the clock and some obscure rules I don't know end the fight. It's pretty gruesome.

The loser, near death, ripped to pieces with feathers and flesh hanging off his carcass, is carried away by his despondent owner. The winner, somewhat better, but still bleeding badly, seems hysterical with pride. A cock on the walk. The winner's owner is trailed by his supporters, no doubt hoping to get a free beer from his winnings, which I wager were about $50. Lining the walls of the bar are the next fights' contenders...or next night's dinner. They are colorful, good looking birds seemingly enjoying their high regard.

We eat chicken and rice for dinner. Cost: two bucks. We end up all sleeping in the Casa Blanca, a huge, vacant mansion on the end of a torn up runway behind the police station. The mattresses are hard but the air conditioning is a luxury.

jim Casa Blanca La Palma