I caught up with our esteemed editor this week and the discussion inevitably turned to various travels – many we shared in years gone by. One place that we never visited on a shared trip was to the Island of Cuba, a place I love.

The people (and the incredible struggle they have endured for decades thanks to the iniquitous US embargo), the music, the rums, the cigars and the fabulous fishing drew a group of us back, year after year.

Sadly, it has been a few years since I was last there but all the talk about traveling brought back a few memories. Every visitor to Havana makes the compulsory trip to El Floridita, Hemingway’s legendary drinking hole, where he would so often share daiquiris with his local friends or visiting stars like

Errol Flynn, Spencer Tracy, and Gary Cooper. It is worth a stop, though one wonders whether the constant stream of tourists or the $8 drinks would have first driven Papa elsewhere.

A few yards away, around the corner from Calle Obispo, is Bar Monserrate. Drinks are much cheaper, the atmosphere livelier, and the cast of characters could well have filled one of Hemingway’s novels.

Enjoying a late-night mojito there early in 2004, a group of us was approached by a friendly local lad who had been hanging around, doing his best to dint the bar’s stocks of cheap rum.

Keen to bum cigarettes and possibly a drink, he claimed to be the bouncer, though he was also part-time janitor, as he spent half his time leaning on a rarely used broom.

When the bar was later raided, he was one of the few locals allowed to stay, so perhaps he was. The other locals filed back in shortly after the raid.

Soon he was insisting he’d be selected in the Cuban boxing team for the Athens Olympics, later that year, and shaped up, throwing a few shadow punches, before lighting up again. I thought I had more chance of winning Wimbledon.

We bought him a few rums, as he was good company, and he gave me a scrap of paper with his name, Lorenzo Aragon, and address, as Cubans are wont to do.

He later took us to a few dive bars for locals, and we had a ball, but I thought little more about it until a few months after the Olympics when I found that scrunched-up note in the depths of my wallet behind the moths, and thought it might be fun to see if he had made the team. So, I hopped on the internet. Our friend not only made the team, he won a silver medal!

Turns out, Lorenzo Aragon was a ten-time Cuban champion, had lost in the ’96 Olympics quarters by a single point to Floyd Mayweather, and also won two World Amateur Championships. Visiting the bar in the following years,

I quickly discovered that Lorenzo is no longer the bar’s bouncer but their most honoured regular. Cuban royalty.

In Cuba, a land where most people have so little, he is a hero. Perhaps not Teofilo Stevenson level but a hero, nonetheless. Boxing and baseball are the Island’s major sports, but there is another sport many Cubans follow passionately – cockfighting – but you won’t find it in the guidebooks.

Once prevalent throughout Cuba, when the Revolution banned gambling, it was driven underground. Aficionados, however, see betting as integral to cockfighting. Not to wager on a fight would be like going to a casino and asking to play with matchsticks.

Rarely seen around Havana, there are farms in the countryside set up for tourists to witness a sanitised version in which claws are covered and if either bird looks like getting hurt, proceedings are immediately halted, so no Western sensibilities are offended.

Keen, though a little apprehensive, to see the real thing, I contacted a friend before a visit to Cuba and asked if there was any chance that she could arrange something. I had no response from her in relation to the request, and had been in Havana for several days before she casually mentioned that tomorrow, I’d be going to a cockfight. She had no interest herself, very few women attend.

The instructions were that I was to wait at the casa particulare (many Cubans rent their homes to travelers and these are a great way to immerse yourself in local life, away from a more sanitised sojourn in a Havana hotel) I had rented. Someone would come by to collect me. It could be any time. It fell through but a few days later, we were on again.

As it turned out, I didn’t wait for long. A beaten up, broken down old Lada pulled up shortly after nine in the morning with a driver looking for all the world like a Cuban George Clooney. He spoke no English and never told me his name but flashed a genuinely warm smile at every chance.

As with any Cuban, the most important part of their vehicle is the music, closely followed by the horn. And George’s car was no exception. Cuban rhythms blasted forth at airplane decibel level, while we held onto the doors to keep them shut and caught glimpses of the road below, through a rusted floor.

But the sound system worked and so did the horn, despite incessant use!

We had only gone a couple of kilometres around the backstreets of the neighborhood when we pulled up outside a small house. No mistaking the cackling cacophony emanating from the rear as we headed down the side, past several rusting vehicles of indiscriminate origin, piles of rubbish and some timid dogs hiding in an overgrown garden, before emerging in a small clearing where four or five guys sat around, smoking and tossing handfuls of grain at several cocks tethered to the ground.

Another 30 to 40 birds were in individual cages. The guys didn’t look overly pleased to see me but as I was with George, there was no problem. A few minutes later, we were back in the Lada, joined by George’s brother, also sporting a million-dollar smile, and his friend, one of the widest humans I have ever seen. He could have formed a rugby front row on his own. With his chain-smoking, tatts, shades, goatee and singlet, he could have doubled for Hollywood’s idea of a Cuban hitman.

Our new friend had one bird in a bag and cradled another like a child. Another local followed us on his overladen motorbike, and for the next 40 minutes we picked up and dropped off a series of mates, relatives, and girlfriends. Others gave George wads of cash.

The chooks didn’t make a peep as we continued through the ‘burbs of Havana. The Russians may have given Cuba money but they certainly didn’t contribute to the architecture. Suddenly, there were no Russians, no cash, and no aesthetics. Head to Habana Vieja and the Spanish influence for stunning architecture, but much of outer Havana is a drab place indeed.

Before long, we were on the main highway out of Havana, an extremely wide road in case of the need to move troops and tanks quickly around the country should Uncle Sam invade (seriously – they also don’t believe in road signs in case any invading army used them to find Havana, the concept of GPS and modern technology having been lost).

Then into the surrounding hills and a pitstop for a breakfast burger and beer. George, his brother and the Hitman, who scoffed one burger while waiting for his other two to be cooked, couldn’t have been nicer but Aussie manhood took a severe blow when I suggested just an ‘aqua’, rather than an early cerveza. The Hitman ignored this and tossed me a couple of Bucanero beers, with a big grin.

We continue on through the fields and farms, before suddenly the Lada pulled off onto an unmarked, deserted dirt road with potholes that would stop most 4WDs. We inched out way along: untended growth on one side and on the other, a manicured orchard, which usually indicates Israeli capital (their huge investment, including alleged training of the Castros’ security in the absence of the KGB, is rarely mentioned, but interesting given their unsupportive voting record in the UN in matters pertaining to Cuba).

At the end of the road, two men step out. They are friends and the one called Ivan takes our birds. We are directed off the road into a makeshift parking area, half of which is Lada’s and the rest the wonderful old fifties cars so prevalent in Havana. More than a few have government number plates.

I ask if it is okay to take photos. It would be generous to call my Spanish basic, but through a few shared words, much waving of hands and instinct, we communicate well. No problem at all with the camera, I am assured, so out it came. The reaction would have been less frenzied if I’d pulled a gun and started firing.

Apparently, they are okay with photos inside, but not where the entrance, or the number plates, might be identified.

We head along a small track through the undergrowth for a hundred yards and come upon a clearing. George arranges for my entry and we are through to where some enterprising farmer has set up a mini covered stadium, in the backblocks of his farm.

The ring is about twelve meters in diameter and ramshackle benches, arranged three deep, surround it. They look flimsy but hold together, even when several hundred Cubans get very excited and start bouncing up and down.

Cock fights are already underway. It seems that they go all day and spectators come and go as they please.

When we arrived, there are already about a hundred people in attendance, all Cuban and only two or three of them female. The crowd, which doubles throughout the afternoon, is making about as much noise as a stadium of fifty thousand football fans in full voice.

Beers, cheap bottles of rum and even cheaper cigars are passed back and forth. Security is handled by one man, the biggest, scariest human I have ever seen.

When things get overheated, as they often do, the bare-chested giant, with coal-black skin, the most dazzling smile imaginable and a few well-placed scars, did little more than stand up to restore order. If things really got out of hand, he’d wave his hand and tranquillity and serenity would reign.

I meet him later, and it would be hard to imagine a more gentle soul.

Many are here because they own birds that are fighting, or their friends do. There are local peasants, workers who have made the trek from Havana and, I am told quietly, a few officials. It is whispered that the only reason that this illegal cockfighting ring is permitted so close to the capital is because it is a favourite of some high-ranking members of the government.

I find myself next to Ernesto, a young doctor with a passion for the sport, for cigars and one of the few people I meet on this day with decent English. He tells me his pride and joy is a ’55 Chevy. More surprisingly, he turns out to be a big fan of Aussie 400-metre runner, Cathy Freeman, who won Gold back at the Sydney Olympics. The world is a strange and small place.

I hand Ernesto a Montecristo II cigar, and light one myself. His eyes widen and he tells me that he is amazed that I have found such quality on the street. I explain that I bought them in one of the local cigar stores, but he is not aware of them. Most of the crowd would be lucky to earn more than $8 or $10 a month (not certain things have improved much in recent years).

Even the doctor would be earning around $20-$30 a month. It means that such cigars are an impossibility for locals. During my visits to Havana, I have met numerous taxi drivers who were once doctors and even some international airline pilots. They all gave it up as those jobs paid so poorly.

Any position which provides contact with foreigners is much more highly desirable, as it offers the opportunity for tips and therefore an income far in excess of that provided by the government.

Surely, that cannot continue.

During a bout, only the birds, the owners and one official are allowed in the ring but often emotion sweeps the crowd and they will rush across the pit to argue. Our large friend would stand up and the ring would quickly empty.

When a bout is over, the ring fills as though at the end of a heavyweight boxing match and large amounts of cash change hands, though how anyone keeps track of it is beyond me – it is even more chaotic than kickboxing fights in the backstreets of Bangkok.

Often, the only way to clear the ring is to start the next fight. Embarrassed losing owners scream at their dead or dying birds, which seems overkill. Not far from the ring is a roped-off section selling drinks and lunch – chicken sandwiches. No one seems to appreciate the irony of this. I start to wonder if this is the fate of the losers.

The birds are prepared for their fight by, if they are “fighting virgins”, having their back talon removed from each claw, apparently painless, and a specially molded spur attached. Experienced birds simply have the plastic spur tied on. Birds are graded by the length of these spurs and watching an expert fasten them is just like watching a fisherman tying a fly.

They even keep the different spurs in small boxes, much like a fisherman might keep his favorite flies.

Each bird has a line shaved up its back before the fight. The reason is unclear, but it seems the Cubans believe it channels energy. For each bout, a double box contraption is lowered from the roof and the combatants are placed in adjacent sections, with a barrier in between so they cannot see each other, ensuring they remain calm until the bell.

At that moment, the barrier is lifted and the birds find themselves facing each other:  the fight is on.

Bouts can last a minute or an hour. Apparently, there is provision to call a halt after 20 minutes but it would be a brave official who dared to do so. This is a cruel sport. Sometimes, birds will circle each other, sizing up their opponent and seeking an opening. Other times, they fly at each as though deranged.

One bout will be ferocious: the next it seems more likely that the birds will die of old age than in the ring. Birds have been known to completely lose interest in each other. Often, bouts need to be restarted and the owners give their charges a form of mouth-to-mouth, which supposedly helps revive the wounded.

Sometimes, one will chase the other for several minutes, rather like an old Foghorn Leghorn cartoon, but in a good fight, each bird tries to get on top of the other. Beaks and talons flash and the winner will pin his opponent to the sawdust. It is surprisingly rare for the loser to be killed, despite what myths and rumors would have us believe.

The loser, if it survives, can fight again but one suspects more often, a disgraced bird is headed for the pot. The winner will fight again in a month. For reasons I didn’t want to know, the winning owner usually spits on the bird’s behind and sometimes inserts his finger. It seems to calm the bird.

If a bird survives around half a dozen fights, it is usually retired as a hero and becomes a family pet, often treated better than the owner treats himself and his family.

Finally, it is our turn. For reasons I never comprehend, this fight has attracted far more interest than any other and when the birds are released, the noise is deafening. Our bird, in his first fight, is dwarfed by its giant white opponent, surely the Mike Tyson of chooks, but ours is from Pinar del Rio, home of the greatest tobacco on the planet and apparently famous fighting cocks.

Soon, the big white bird is throwing its weight around and things look grim. White pins our bird but, as can happen, seems unaware what to do next and doesn’t finish the job. It is a fatal mistake and in a flash of claws and feathers, it is all over. White lies debilitated in the dust, and pandemonium is unleashed.

My friends are waving fists full of cash (which in truth, probably total only a few bucks) and the bird is paraded around like he has kicked the winning goal at the World Cup final. The bird is covered in kisses and I am swept up in the whole thing, even planting a big kiss on the winner’s head.

The Bucanero beer flows, my friends are beyond happy and the bird is declared a ‘bueno caro‘.

A little later, the crescendo reached with our bout is eclipsed. Two birds fly at each other in undisguised fury from the moment of release. Neither takes a backward step. Usually, dominance is established early and then the bout heads to its inevitable conclusion. Not here. Sawdust and feathers fly as the warriors go at each other time and time again.

The crowd is at fever pitch. This must be a little like being front row for one of the Ali-Frazier fights. We are all on our feet cheering and even my heart is pounding. I say to Ernesto that this is what it would have been like if ever Ali had fought Teofilo Stevenson, the legendary Cuban heavyweight. Ernesto agrees.

Still the birds go at each other, with incredible energy. This is why the crowd is here. For people with so little in their lives, it is easy to understand the excitement cockfighting brings, even if horribly cruel to us.

Finally, exhaustion sets in and there is a moment when both birds are on the dirt, straight out of one of those Rocky and Apollo Creed fights when both boxers are on the deck. Then they are up and going again. Their fight spills out of the ring, and they keep at it under the benches, before being dragged apart and returned.

Finally, one gets the upper hand, pinning his opponent but for the first time, seems puzzled as to what to do next and actually pulls the other cock to its feet: a mistake as the positions are soon reversed but he escapes. These are gladiator chickens.

Eventually, both birds collapse again. A winner is declared. I don’t know which or why, but the crowd is close to insanity. I’m delighted as both birds survived and will fight again or be retired. No emperor would’ve dared give the loser the thumbs down.

Finally, the afternoon sky starts to darken with an impending storm. We depart, and limp home in the blaring Lada, while my still ecstatic friends continue to kiss their ‘bueno caro‘. They drive me past one of the mansions where Fidel Castro used to stay on occasion – no one seems sure if Raul also used it. Fidel was said to move residence almost nightly, among his various mansions, for reasons of security. I’m told the locals could pick which mansion was in use by the increase in military personnel.

Cockfighting is an undoubtedly barbarous sport and nothing here is intended to give it approval, however tacit, but in a land where the people are denied so much, where they have so little beyond music and dancing and their amazing love of life, it seems churlish to criticize from afar.

Cubans take what small pleasures they can and enjoy them to the fullest. Meanwhile, the Castros and the leaders of the government have their mansions.

It was an extraordinary day, just one more piece in the puzzle that is this amazing island.

You can follow more of Ken Gargett’s reviews at www.kenfessions.com

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