Life is quite boat oriented these days, and I found myself once again headed for ‘the islands’ for the May Day weekend.
Close to the heaven that is Tintípan, is a small chunk of land called Santa Cruz del Islote. El Islote is the size of a football pitch, but with a population of 1,200 (900 during term time) it is considered to be one of the most overpopulated spots of land on the planet. This has been verified by no one as far as my research tells me, but more important than statistics, it’s also an excellent place to buy Spiny Lobsters right out of the sea, for next to nothing. That I can guarantee.
You can only arrive at Ea Islote by boat (preferably no bigger than a dinghy), and you park wherever the waves aren’t crashing against the rocks too roughly. This is invariably in someone’s yard – no space to be wasted on ports or docking for visitors. To get out of said yard, you walk through one or two houses, and emerge into the heart of the place, a small square with a roughly made crucifix garlanded with flowers, an overstuffed village shop/ bar, a school house and what appears to be a giant stack of brand new solar panels.
It’s a riot, not only of colour, but noise, smell and people. The kids are tanned, skinny and mostly blond – gorgeous. The adults, less so. It’s exactly the kind of rough and ready organised chaos that you see in the National Geographic or that annoying traveller friend’s Facebook page. Everything looks half finished, like it might collapse at any moment, but cleanly swept, neatly stacked and brightly painted. Without the colour it might be depressing, but the pinks, blues, turquoises of the lean-to houses and the impossible gold of the children’s hair makes it feel like you’re looking at it all through some kind of perky Instagram filter. I make a note to post on Facebook. #nofilter.
We had been invited by one of the fishermen, a friend of Captain Edwin’s, to the year’s main event so far: La Pelea de Gallos. I’m getting used to understanding around 30% of what is being said around me, a percentage that diminishes as the number of Colombians in the room increases. But it turns out I did actually hear that bit correctly. Yup, cockfight. And our fisherman’s cock will be fighting. I’m not turning this invite down.
The action starts at 1pm and the last fight is at 9pm. We are advised to come early on, as it can get pretty raucous. Arriving at 7pm (we had some sunbathing and lunching to fit in), we land in the middle of a pretty violent brawl. We get a brief look at the ring (which incidentally had to be rebuilt recently as a Christina missionary arrived at La Islota and turned the old one into his church, because that happens). It’s blood stained and full of drunk, roaring Colombian men. The sound of champeta thunders from nearby. People are rushing around with scrawny, vicious looking cocks tucked under their arms. One stops to show me how he attaches metal spurs to his cock’s feet. Ouch. We are pushed, and shoved, and the brawl inches closer.
Without notice I am dragged from the street by wise locals and deposited into someone’s living room, where one lady is just coming out of her shower, towel and hair wrap and all. She doesn’t seem to mind our sudden presence, especially as we had the good sense to bring a bottle of tequila along just in case. Before I know it, we’re sharing tequila shots around the table with granny and some kids while she explains that the really, really angry guy outside just lost his house to another man’s chicken. This is serious stuff.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=youtu.be&v=Gpyztb2OBgM&app=desktop
