by John Greet
Cockfighting rules also stated that if a bird retreated twice, the fight is forfeited. Once again, the two birds were pitted against each other. The white bird charged but stopped in front of Ali, who stood wings flared and hackles raised. Once more the white bird turned and retreated, with Ali in pursuit. The fight was over. Ali won by default. The crowd’s spontaneous burst of applause stopped as Mahmood Bas came to the centre of the pit, holding the white bird under his arm, looking directly at Anak. His face contorted with rage. Bas held the cock out in front of him and wrung its neck with such force that the white bird’s head separated from its body with an audible snap. Thin lines of blood shot out from the severed neck and sprayed over Bas’s white kaftan. He stood gripping the head in one hand and the bird’s bloodied, thrashing body in the other. He threw them on the ground in front of Anak and shouted ‘Tiga! Tiga!’ (Three! Three!). The crowd started to chant ‘Tiga! Tiga!’ but Anak seemed oblivious to it. He kept his eyes fixed on Bas, as if he expected the man in the bloody kaftan to lunge forward, drawn kris in hand. He shook his head slowly from side to side, motioned to Gusti to gather up Ali, and then, turning his back on his adversary, walked away.
I felt relieved it was over. We had achieved what we’d set out to do. Both Geno and Paolo collected a million apiece, and between us we’d won three million rupiah for Anak. Furthermore, he had humiliated and antagonised Mahmood Bas in front of a large audience. And now, it was time to leave.
We were almost at the temple gate, when I looked back and noticed that the atmosphere had changed. There were no cocks fighting in the pit anymore. Some of Bas’s men were arguing with the referees while another group of his men, including Bas himself, were walking towards Anak’s saronged enclosure. I saw no sign of Anak or his crew, and guessed they must be inside. I sensed something was wrong. Leaving Geno and Paolo, I dashed along under the cover of the temple wall and arrived at Anak’s enclosure. Bas was about thirty metres away. I pushed through a sarong at the rear and entered.
It took only seconds to understand what I was seeing. Gusti held Ali under his arm and, with his free hand, pried the bird’s beak open. Anak sat next to him on a mat, with the bloodstone placed in a glass of blood water, just as I’d seen it on the night of the full moon at his compound. Anak had a plastic syringe in one hand and was drawing the blood water into it. On seeing me, Gusti put a finger to his mouth. I now knew why the silver bird’s spurs did not cut. Ali was under the protection of the bloodstone. Anak was forcing the blood water down Ali’s throat with the syringe.
‘Anak! Bas is outside.’
He tossed the syringe aside immediately, and retrieved the stone from the glass, pocketing it. Then, flashing a strange look at me, opened the enclosure to find Bas standing before him. A heated debate erupted. Bas, keeping his eyes fixed on Anak, reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a note. He handed it to his man, and in a halting voice, the man read aloud: Mahmood Bas would gift the Bali Haj to Anak if the fighting bird Ali were to win the third fight. Should Ali lose, however, Bas would be given beach access through the Sandika grounds for his Bali Haj guests and a signed contract to that effect for eternity.
When I grasped the enormity of this wager, I swallowed hard. Bas was going to stake his entire hotel on one cock fight. Gusti’s face paled. Anak instantly agreed. ‘Give me a minute to prepare.’
‘No, you must come now. My men cannot hold the fights off any longer. The crowd is impatient. You must come this instant or it is no deal. Where is your bird?’
There was a brief pause.
‘Gusti!’ Anak called. ‘Bring Ali.’
Gusti crawled out with the bird.
Before I left through the back entrance, I pocketed the plastic syringe and emptied the remaining blood water onto the earth, an offering to the local bata and kula. I made my way back along the temple wall towards Geno and Paolo. I couldn’t help grinning at the audacity of what Anak had done, but I was feeling anxious over the fight about to take place. Did Anak’s cock have enough of the blood water in it to survive? I realised that if Anak had refused the third fight he would have aroused suspicion. Perhaps Bas suspected foul play already? Had he also seen those spurs fail to penetrate Ali? Had he wagered such a large bet because he knew he would win? It came to me in that instant; I knew what I had to do.
I came out at the temple entrance and found the brothers. I was thankful to Gusti for explaining the finer details of the game. Cockfighting rules stated that the referee must call out the amount of the central bet. After conferring with both contestants, the referee announced, ‘In a third fight against Anak’s bird, Mahmood Bas bets the Bali Haj Hotel against the granting of right of access through the Sandika Hotel grounds.’
A shocked silence descended on the crowd. Geno looked at me in disbelief. Men stared with mouths open as Bas and his crew moved about making preparations.
‘Never has such a bet been placed on a single fight,’ an awestruck punter told me. Anak stood at the side of the cockpit, while Gusti squatted in front of him doing a most extraordinary thing: he was stuffing a split red chilli up Ali’s anus. I recognised it as a bird’s-eye chilli, the hottest chilli in Indonesia. This was not against the rules but a common practice, I had heard. The burning chilli would drive the bird wild with aggression.
On the other side of the cockpit, Bas’s crew were preparing for the fight as well. The handlers’ solemn expressions indicated that their entire livelihoods rode on this single fight. Referees paced nervously around the cockpit, making sure the correct amount of arena space was available. The crowd had fused into a single body, packed tightly around the ring, brought together by a collective awareness of what they were about to witness: a fight that would surely be talked about in the villages for years to come.
Bas had chosen a speckled black-and-white bird. The spurs were tied to the referee’s satisfaction. The cocks were massaged, fluffed, pulled and prodded. Ali was agitated. The chilli was clearly working. Finally, the two birds faced each other in the centre of the cockpit. Gusti held Ali, and Bas himself held the speckled bird. Both men squatted. The cock’s beaks were inches apart. The birds’ hackles flared. Their owners waited for the sound of the gong. The referee allowed for the betting to start. It was clear that every man with a rupiah in his pocket was going to wager.
I pulled in Geno and Paolo close so we would not be overheard. ‘We are going to place three bets. Two million a man – all on Bas’s bird, the speckled cock,’ I said evenly. Geno looked at me as if I had lost my mind. He mumbled something in Portuguese to Paolo, who opened his mouth as if he were about to say something then closed it. Chaos surrounded us. Men yelled at bookies, waving money, making unfathomable signals with fingers and hands to the deafening sounds of, ‘Merah, Bintik! (Speckled! Red! Red! Red!)
We had to place our bets quickly. ‘I can’t do that, man, you fucking crazy?’ Geno cried.
‘Trust me!’ I grabbed him and yelled in his ear,
He looked at me for a brief moment then relented, nodding at Paolo. We each grabbed our wads of rupiah and headed separately into the fray calling, ‘Bintik! Bintik!’ (The speckled bird!)
With our bets placed, we pushed our way to the sidelines. Both birds had been teased into a fighting fury. The handlers retreated five paces. At the sound of the gong, they released their charges. The birds went at each other in a flurry of feathers and flying spurs. My eyes could hardly follow the feverish action. The birds met in mid-air with their spurs beating together, seeking a lethal strike, but failing as they dropped back to the ground. Regaining their feet, they flew at each other, battling savagely with beak and wing. Dropping to the ground, both birds seemed unharmed, but stood panting with beaks opened, necks stretched menacingly, circling each other as they sought an opening. Then the speckled bird charged, knocking Ali off balance, drawing a gasp from the crowd. A louder cry arose as Ali, on his back, managed to sink a spur into the speckled bird’s wing, holding the bird long enough to plant his other sp
ur into its body. Blood haemorrhaged from the breast of Bas’s bird. As the birds lay immobile on the ground, Ali could not be declared the winner, so the referee called for a separation. Gusti and Bas rushed in to retrieve their birds. My heart thumped. I had just bet all of Anak’s winnings on his opponent’s bird, who was about to lose. Geno glared at me, squeezing his fingers together in the Latin sign for ‘asshole’. Bas’s team worked frantically on their wounded, but still-standing, cock. They tried every trick to revive it. Some kind of paste was pressed into the wound. One handler blew into its beak, forcing air into its lungs, while another massaged its legs; a third plucked at its hackles.
On the other side of the cockpit, Ali appeared undamaged and ready to fight. The birds were released once more at the sound of the gong. The speckled bird faltered in its step, attempting to rally its fading strength. Ali sensed the weakened state of its foe and moved in, head extended, circling with wings spread, preparing to charge. Any last glimmer of hope for us vanished as we waited for the death strike. Again the speckled bird stumbled and almost fell as Ali careened in for the kill.
But then, as if drawing strength from some unknown source, Bas’s speckled cock burst into the air with wings beating, as if pounding at drums, and as it came down, it sank a spur into Ali’s heart. The big red bird died instantly, blood oozing from his beak. Seconds passed before the crowd realised what had happened. Ali was dead. Then, as one, they erupted screaming, red-faced and wild, shouting, ‘Bintik! Bintik!’
The speckled bird stood, wandered a few wobbly paces towards its handler and collapsed on the floor of the pit, blood seeping from its wound. It died in the hands of Mahmood Bas as the referee declared it the winner.
Bas’s team burst into a frenzy of back-slapping jubilation. They lifted their boss onto their shoulders and, while still holding the dead-speckled cock, paraded man and bird in a victory lap around the pit.
Anak conceded formally to the referee then tossed a grim nod to Bas. Geno, Paolo and I collected our winnings. Over three bets we’d collected a total of twelve million rupiah – about twenty thousand US dollars. We stuffed the money into a shoulder bag and moved away as quickly and quietly as possible. We slipped out through the crowd to the Jeep. Another series of cockfights was about to begin as we drove back down the rutted dirt track and out onto the main road. As soon as we were safely away, Geno and Paolo roared with laughter and slapped me on the back.
We spent a rough night in a pension somewhere between Singaraja and Kuta. On the following morning, we pulled up under our banyan tree in the hotel courtyard. Never had the Sandika felt so welcoming. An offshore breeze carried a soothing coolness, and the familiar scent of freshly lit temple incense greeted us. The morning sun reflected off our swimming pool and shone patterns of light on the palm fronds. The flame trees and bougainvillea blossoms were a palette of brilliant colour. Wayan and Ketut rushed out with a pitcher of iced tea. News of the cock fight had already reached them through the bush telegraph. It was the talk of the town, they told us.
I slipped away and, after a brief explanation, Ketut and I deposited the cockfight winnings in the hotel safe. Geno and Paolo were leaving the next day on a surfing trip to Java and returned to their room to prepare.
Anak’s chariot soon swung into the courtyard with Gusti at the wheel. ‘Adam!’ he called, ‘Come with me.’
We walked down the pathway and came out behind the hotel. Through the barbed-wire fence, we stared at the Bali Haj Hotel. Anak spoke quietly, as if to himself, ‘I was thirty seconds away from reclaiming that.’ Then he turned to me with a disturbed look on his face. ‘For my father,’ he said and stopped suddenly as if he didn’t like where his mind was taking him. Once again my curiosity piqued. What had happened between him and Bas? The expression on Anak’s face told me that now wasn’t a good time to ask so instead I said, ‘Anak, I bet your stake and winnings on Mahmood Bas’s bird. There’s twelve million rupiah sitting in our safe.’
He turned and looked at me with surprise. From one gambler to another, I saw on his face a twinge of grudging respect. He placed a hand on my shoulder, and then he turned and walked to a small shrine housed in the shade of a mango tree. Several deities were represented there on a covered pedestal, with a basket of recently offered fruit, lit incense and frangipani petals. He held the incense sticks between his palms and prayed. Then, placing them again in the holder, he turned to me with a serene expression. ‘Thank you, Adam. With that money we are going to build the best lady-grass roof this island has ever seen.’
8
That evening, I went to the Blue Ocean terraces for a farewell drink with Geno and Paolo. A thin moon hung low in the sky amidst a smattering of stars. The sea hummed and rolled. Fire flies shone in the darkness beneath the shade trees that lined the beach, and a soft breeze danced in the oil lamp flames, casting shadows over the group of expats on the terraces. Geno gestured impatiently for the waiter. ‘If I have to wait any longer for this motherfucker, I gonna get my drink myself.’
‘Hey, man, relax. What’s the hurry,’ said Paolo.
Geno slid his green-eyed gaze to me and pointed a finger, ‘You got some style, man,’ he said. ‘That was some fucking bet.’
We ordered Long Island iced teas as Geno talked about how cockfighting worked in Rio, ‘Very different, man. People kill each other over those fucking birds.’
A young guy came up to our table. A gesture, a look, and without words Geno left with him. Paolo ordered me a drink.
‘Thanks for keeping it away from the hotel.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You know, Geno do most of that stuff, and sure, we make a good money, but it’s really not my thing. I’m the kind of … the watch-out guy, you know. I keep an eye on my brother, make sure he don’t go too far,’ Paolo explained. ‘Surfing’s our main thing. The other thing we do so we can stay here in style.’ He flicked the rim of his cocktail glass.
‘You guys got family in Brazil?’
‘Yeah, we from the favelo, you know, what you say in English, the slums. Big family, man. Our mama, she still there. Sometimes I think we should send some of this money to her, but I know her, and she know Geno too much anyway. She wouldn’t take it.’
‘I heard he was an Olympic pole vaulter?’
‘That’s true, he was, man. Probably one of the best ever. You know, when we were kids, we hang around the beach. Our thing was collecting bottles and cashing them in. We always took the money home. Sometimes it was the only money our family have. Volleyball was a big thing on the Copacabana. We were very young, you know, just teenagers. Geno and I, we sitting there with our basket of bottles, watching the game. Then Geno ask one of the players if he can join in. This black guy who was the top player said, “You dreaming kid, what can a bottle boy do with a volleyball?” Geno, he stand up and he only come up to the black guy’s shoulders, and he say “What can I do with a volleyball, I show you … I take that ball, and I jump over the volley net with it!” The black guy started laughing. “Hey, listen to this kid,” he said, and the other players and beach people come around. Geno say, “If I do it, I want to be on the team,” and the black guy say, “Kid, you got yourself a deal”.’ Paolo paused, savouring the memory of his brother’s audacity. He took a long drink and leaned back in his chair. The waiter came over, and I ordered two more drinks.
Then, with a faraway look in his eyes, Paolo continued, ‘Both teams stood aside. You could see the looks on their faces, a bit of fun between games … Watching the bottle kid make a fool of himself … They sure Geno never make it. That he hit the net and fall in the sand like a donkey. But Geno, he always had conyos bigger than his mouth. Anyway, he take the ball and then he take a net pole. He go way back, way, way back. Then he run like fuck, pole out in front, ball under arm, like a mad warrior. Then he plant the net pole in the sand, fly up higher than the net. While he in mid-air, he throw the volleyball above him and as he land on the sand, he roll and catch it. It was an incredible jump, like an acroba
t, and everyone burst out clapping. Players came over and gave him money, but the black guy say, “You not on the team, kid. That wasn’t a jump, it was a vault”. Geno was pissed, and I have to pull him away from the black guy before he got a slap on his head. But after that, every time we go to beach they ask Geno to do his trick. He got better and better. He was doing backflips, juggling ball in mid-air, all kinds of crazy stuff! And of course, I pass the hat after he finish. We make more money off this than bottles.’
He leaned back and stirred his drink with a straw. The last embers of the sunset faded between a darkening sea and sky. Fishing boats lights flickered faintly in the distance.
‘Hey, I boring you, no? With my kid story,’ said Paolo breaking the silence.
‘Not at all.’
‘Anyway, I cut it short,’ Paolo said. ‘One day a Swiss guy saw Geno do his thing. This guy was sports promoter back there. He find some sponsorship money from corporate companies and get Geno into professional sports academy in Switzerland. My brother had only one condition: that I got to go with him too. Man, it was fucking cold up in those mountains, but after a couple of seasons, Geno was winning every pole vault event in Europe. By nineteen he become a world champion.’ Paolo’s tone became measured. ‘Adam, you know what that meant? A bottle boy from the favelos becoming a world-champion sportsman. Every time he was in an event, they run it on Brazilian national television. The whole favelo stop to watch. That’s my brother’s story, man. He was a hero. Every street kid look up to him, and think “if he can do that maybe I can too”.’ Paolo exhaled. I felt his pride mixed with regret.
