Ringleader

In a distant and Thai past, I was once persuaded to visit cockfights in Isaan again.
A mistake, I can tell you. The only point I can make in my defense is the fact that I had the illusion that the second time would be more fun.

More fun in the sense of: something other than hordes of provincials who, without any reservation, place their scarce baht at the disposal of fate and their feathered friend with a territorial urge.
The first introduction to this pecking order thing, an idea from my mother-in-law, took place about ten kilometers from her village.

Under a large canopy, populated by gambling enthusiasts and their trained fighting cock who have flocked from the surrounding area. Coaches turned out to be more excited than their own poultry, loudly celebrating the victory while brushing up their plumage and their own ego.
The fact that a large percentage of the winged ring enterers were quickly reduced to a pitiful and crumpled pile of knuckles could only worry a few farang present.

I soon saw it, this local folklore.
A scorching hot bald plucking abattoir, for both people and animals. Not very uplifting for the undersigned, who preferred to see roosters where they belonged, namely on a farmyard, wearing out vocal cords and pouncing on chickens.
The latter brought me to the next letdown this afternoon. Namely the complete absence of any feminine beauty among all the cocky behavior.
The local ladies probably feared light beard growth after an afternoon of ring hanging between clouds of testosterone and flying machismo.

Having hitched a ride with vague acquaintances of my mother-in-law, who once arrived on the scene quickly turned out to be enthusiastic animal abusers, I could also forget about an early journey home.

Then we headed for the only eatery available, a small oasis in a desert of vulgar entertainment. I turned out to be one of the few customers there.
The rest of the crowd was too busy boning the opponent's cock, albeit mostly verbally.
It was considered madness to spend money on lunch when you could just as easily see it disappear into your neighbor's pocket. Bringing up a topic other than chicken-splitting only brought confusion on faces, so I quickly gave up and called Brother Chang for an audience for a liquid chat.
There and then embracing the good intention to stay away from this brutal form of Thai entertainment from now on.

But the road to hell is paved with good intentions, as it turned out again.
Because years later, while visiting my mother-in-law again, Mrs. Oy got an idea for a change. She suggested, while I had just desperately sought shade and coolness under the only significant tree on my mother-in-law's property, that I should visit the cockfights with a neighbor's boy.

Only a short moped ride separated us from a pleasurable afternoon of watching roosters and smelling healthy rice field scents, so I was told.
If she had suggested having some molars extracted without anesthesia by a geeky dentist, armed with rusty pincers and a moldy washcloth, my reaction would probably have been the same.
So cautiously positive.

She was therefore forced to add in the same breath that the spectacle would take place somewhere in the bush. In a secret location, and out of sight of the local hermandad as he had not received a bribe. A real moped ride followed by tough strong-arm evasive sneaking turned out to be required.
So, like a naive little cock at the front, I still took the bait.

Because the idea of ​​real action, and a more interesting interpretation of an otherwise dull afternoon, cheered me up and anticipated an exciting adventure.
With the added benefit of being able to encourage brother-in-law Oth, who had recently traveled with his favorite beak under his arm.
Not, however, after first giving his projected winner an injection of 'vitamins' at wing height.
Good preparation is therefore at the forefront of my brother-in-law's 'fighting chicken handbook'.
The fact that he then nonchalantly shoveled the used syringe away under half a centimeter of soil, endangering many future generations of playing children, only seemed to worry me.

What followed was blistering and sobering.
The adventure part came down to sweating the last hundreds of meters and having to trudge on foot over a loose dirt path, because my neighbor could not combine my farang weight and staying on the right track.
Once on site, the location turned out to be secret to the extent that only a large row of parked mopeds and loud cries from the shrubbery indicated that there was something to do here.
With some farmers' sons dressed in army dump jackets on the lookout, it looked most like a poorly camouflaged guerrilla camp, full of lost rural youth.

A little further away, in the middle of nowhere, they had erected a cardboard ring that apparently once housed a large model refrigerator of Korean origin.
Inside were two emaciated fighting cocks, who, although toothless, still diligently tried to bite each other's throats off.

Encouraged by groups of enthusiastic people all around, waving money as if it were on fire. Once again, no Thai ladies to be seen for miles around, just an abundance of burnt rice fields, wasteful gentlemen, and seriously bloodied rooster heads.
I would have liked to call it Déjà vu, but that certainly didn't work out.
What was also missing was a food stall, so edible or liquid relief was next on my list.

Returning home quickly also proved impossible for the second time, because the boy next door had already happily taken root and was now leaning over the cardboard, betting heavily. Indistinguishable from the rest of the pack.
In dire straits, and just wanting to have something to do, I tried to put some baht on my brother-in-law's rooster, but in the end I decided against it.
Simply because after ten seconds of kicking heads and chopping beaks I could no longer distinguish one rooster from the other, thus reducing my already limited viewing pleasure to zero.

Later, once back home, I learned that I was not the only one looking back on a miserable afternoon. For brother-in-law Oth had had to pull the apple of his eye out of the black snow by the cock's comb, after a heavy beating.
This one now staggered, slightly dying, on the edge of my mother-in-law's soup pot.

The latter, however, provided little consolation.

Namely that the family would soon be delighted with a lean, but very stimulating broth.

About this blogger

Lieven Cattail

Lieven Kattestaart (1963) lives with his wife Oy on the beautiful Goeree-Overflakkee.
Works as a harbour master and has been visiting faraway Thailand since 1993, where he met Oy in 98' and persuaded her to say goodbye to the sun and settle in this chilly swamp behind the dikes.

Nowadays we usually spend our holidays in our mother-in-law's Isan home, alternating with some beach time in Pattaya, or getting stuck in a bus or train to visit other and unknown Thai regions.
Intending to move to Thailand with Oy after retirement, both can hardly wait for that to happen.

Hobbies: whenever a spark of inspiration strikes, but usually plagued by writer's block, touching the keyboard in order to provide the beautiful Thailand blog with a new piece, practicing physical activity by means of jogging (in moderation of course), online chess, and occasionally drinking an excellent Single Malt while smoking a cigar of Cuban origin.

Read the latest articles here

Older posts from this blogger

• CultureApril 13, 2026Born for happiness
• Living in ThailandApril 10, 2026'Beach fun'
• Living in ThailandApril 8, 2026'Thai logic'
• Living in ThailandApril 5, 2026'Bangkok.Ink'