Inside the Ring: My Night at a Cuban Cockfight

//
This is one story in a series of stories about Cuba. Images from this story are also available in my gallery.

The fight had run its course and the stronger bird was becoming apparent. Strangely, the crowd was becoming quiet—satisfied or resigned to the outcome. Finally, the outcome had become clear as a bird lay motionless on its back. The winning bird made it clear who the victor was.

Silence.

The expression of some overlooking the result was one of deep satisfaction—I was unsure if it stemmed from the money won or the brutality on display and the finality of the result. .

Silence.

The victorious bird stands at the edge of the ring, the defeated one lying still on its back. Around them, the crowd is quiet. Some watch with deep satisfaction—though it’s unclear if it stems from winning money, witnessing dominance, or something more difficult to name.
The victorious bird stands at the edge of the ring, the defeated one lying still on its back. Around them, the crowd is quiet. Some watch with deep satisfaction—though it’s unclear if it stems from winning money, witnessing dominance, or something more difficult to name.

—

Three months ago, cockfights in Viñales weren’t in the itinerary. Not officially. Back during the planning stages of my Cuba project, I’d floated the idea to my fixer’s agency. Maybe, they’d said. Possibly. Too dangerous, especially to photograph.

Nothing ever materialized—until I at Michel’s farmhouse, on the tobacco farm I had been documenting for the last two days. Several people were gathered; this seemed to be the village’s meeting place. Another farmer wandered over and casually mentioned that there’d be fights Tuesday night. Just like that, the door cracked open.

A tobacco farmer from the Viñales region, photographed at Michel’s farmhouse. His casual mention of a local cockfight provided rare access to a cultural practice that remains largely undocumented and inaccessible to outsiders.
A tobacco farmer from the Viñales region, photographed at Michel’s farmhouse. His casual mention of a local cockfight provided rare access to a cultural practice that remains largely undocumented and inaccessible to outsiders.

My fixer hesitated. “I don’t think we can attend. It’s not possible,” he said, nervously avoiding my eye. But I wasn’t asking permission. I asked him to translate: Can we come and take photographs? The farmer, with barely a shrug, said, “Yes.” As if—go ahead and try.

The gears turned fast after that.

There was just one glitch: our rental car was due back Tuesday in Havana. I had to verify—what were the penalties if we returned it a day late without notice? I combed through the printed contract in the glove compartment. A clerical error: it wasn’t due until Wednesday at 9:30 a.m. That gave us the perfect window. We’d attend the cockfights Tuesday night, drive the three hours back to Havana overnight, and return the car in the morning. Cuba’s system glitches were suddenly working in my favor.

Michael sits outside his farmhouse near Viñales, where I first met him while documenting tobacco farming. Later that week, he would guide me into the world of local cockfighting—opening doors that would have otherwise stayed closed.
Michael sits outside his farmhouse near Viñales, where I first met him while documenting tobacco farming. Later that week, he would guide me into the world of local cockfighting—opening doors that would have otherwise stayed closed.

That night, I drove toward the outskirts of Viñales with my fixer and Michel’s son, Michael. Known locally for his daredevil horseback racing, tonight he was our key to getting past the unspoken barriers of trust. I stood out—six-foot-three, white, carrying a camera. It would take finesse to blend in.

But finesse wasn’t what followed. At one point, my fixer asked me to pull over. He and Michael leapt out and disappeared. Ten minutes later, they returned, breathless. I asked what that was about. The fixer muttered, “He got a gun.” That was it. I’m still unsure what exactly happened.

It was a twenty-minute ride out of town. The final approach was rough. A steep shelf acted as a kind of threshold, leading to a rutted dirt road. I bottomed out the car hard. The muffler groaned. If I’d damaged the undercarriage, getting back to Havana might not be an option. We kept going.

We traveled deeper until the road narrowed to a single lane. It led to a small clearing, a makeshift parking lot with only two cars. It felt oddly quiet. We got out. I grabbed my gear. I had no idea what to expect next.

At the edge of the lot, a narrow path appeared—foot traffic only. We walked through, winding between dense trees until we hit a checkpoint. A man stood at a barricade. Michael approached him while we hung back. After a brief exchange, Michael motioned us forward. I didn’t understand the formality here, but I followed. We were in.

A rural cockfighting arena built from lashed saplings and plastic tarps on the outskirts of Viñales. The central ring was surrounded by pay-to-enter benches, with food and drinks served at informal stands behind the structure.
A rural cockfighting arena built from lashed saplings and plastic tarps on the outskirts of Viñales. The central ring was surrounded by pay-to-enter benches, with food and drinks served at informal stands behind the structure.

What I found was unexpected: an improvised arena, trees lashed together to support a sagging canopy of plastic tarps riddled with holes. Sunlight pierced through in shafts. A 40-foot ring was the centerpiece. Benches ringed the pit, themselves fenced off with more lashed saplings—pay-to-enter space. Behind the structure, women prepared food and drinks at makeshift stands.

It didn’t feel clandestine. It felt… festive. Like a small-town fair, even if the main event was blood sport.

Families were there. Kids. Elders. Women. It didn’t match the dangerous, underground vibe I’d been warned about. But I moved carefully. I couldn’t speak the language, but I could show respect.

I began by kneeling to photograph a rooster. Then I gestured to its owner with my camera: You? Can I photograph you with it? A nod. Click. Trust—earned in small increments.

A local handler poses with his fighting rooster on the edge of the Viñales arena. It was one of the first moments of mutual trust that allowed me to begin photographing the event up close.
A local handler poses with his fighting rooster on the edge of the Viñales arena. It was one of the first moments of mutual trust that allowed me to begin photographing the event up close.
A seasoned handler, around 40 years old, proudly displays his fighting rooster near the arena entrance. He reflects the pride and seriousness many bring to this tradition.
A seasoned handler, around 40 years old, proudly displays his fighting rooster near the arena entrance. He reflects the pride and seriousness many bring to this tradition.

From there, I worked my way across the tent—slowly, patiently. Blending in. Pretending I was supposed to be there. Some people welcomed me with Cuban thumbs-ups. Others were hesitant.

A man approached. Calm voice, decent English.

“What are you using these pictures for?
If it’s personal use, it’s OK.”

I nodded, but was surprised. Others hadn’t asked. Why him? Maybe he’d been burned before.

Off to one side, a faded rug—like something pulled from a Cuban doorway—was laid over the dirt. One end propped up to form a gentle ramp forming the gaming floor for High-Low, a fast-paced dice game. Three dice, a single roll, and a rush of voices. Men huddled tight, pesos fanned between calloused fingers. The dice clattered, tumbled, then settled. This wasn’t a sideshow—it was financial prep for the fight. A quick chance to win money to place on the upcoming cockfights.

Participants gather around a worn rug to play High-Low, a local dice game involving small cash bets. Winnings from the game are often used to place wagers on upcoming cockfights, linking informal gambling directly to the main event.
Participants gather around a worn rug to play High-Low, a local dice game involving small cash bets. Winnings from the game are often used to place wagers on upcoming cockfights, linking informal gambling directly to the main event.
A closer look at High-Low, a local dice game played beside the cockfighting ring. These informal gambling practices often precede matches, offering a chance to quickly raise cash for betting in an economy where formal income is limited.
A closer look at High-Low, a local dice game played beside the cockfighting ring. These informal gambling practices often precede matches, offering a chance to quickly raise cash for betting in an economy where formal income is limited.

My fixer warned me. “Don’t take pictures of that,” he whispered.

I ignored him.

I gestured to the pit boss. A nod. Yes.

After each match, cash is exchanged among spectators. Informal betting is a central part of cockfighting culture in rural Cuba, reflecting both economic hardship and the deep local investment in these events.
After each match, cash is exchanged among spectators. Informal betting is a central part of cockfighting culture in rural Cuba, reflecting both economic hardship and the deep local investment in these events.
A participant in the dice game looks up, noticing my camera. He didn’t stop me—just observed. His quiet acceptance signaled I was, at least for now, allowed to witness.
A participant in the dice game looks up, noticing my camera. He didn’t stop me—just observed. His quiet acceptance signaled I was, at least for now, allowed to witness.

By the time the roosters were being fitted with their gaffs, I’d earned enough trust to photograph it. The gaff is a metal spike—tied and glued to the bird’s lower legs. It’s designed to puncture. To slash. To kill.

Two men attach gaffs—sharp metal spurs—to a rooster’s legs in preparation for the match. In rural Cuba, cockfighting remains a traditional practice where these custom-fitted spikes determine the speed and severity of injury during the bout.
Two men attach gaffs—sharp metal spurs—to a rooster’s legs in preparation for the match. In rural Cuba, cockfighting remains a traditional practice where these custom-fitted spikes determine the speed and severity of injury during the bout.

I noticed some people wearing wristbands and asked my fixer about them.

“That’s for the inner ring,” he said. “Ringside seats.”

I wanted in.

He guessed the cost. I said, “Don’t guess. Ask.”

Eventually, we got the answer: 5,000 pesos.

I only had 4,000.

So I stayed in the outer ring. From here I could study how the fight worked—how the birds were released, how the referee handled them, how the crowd erupted. It wasn’t just spectacle. It was investment. It was identity. And I knew I couldn’t fully grasp it from back here.

Spectators watch from the outer ring of a rural cockfighting arena near Viñales. While not directly in the ring, many were financially invested through informal betting. This section of the crowd was especially animated—shouting and arguing over rules, outcomes, and fairness during the match.
Spectators watch from the outer ring of a rural cockfighting arena near Viñales. While not directly in the ring, many were financially invested through informal betting. This section of the crowd was especially animated—shouting and arguing over rules, outcomes, and fairness during the match.

But I wanted closer. I wanted that shot: the intensity in people’s eyes, the shouting, the money waving through humid air. The emotions. The chaos. That wouldn’t come from the back.

I walked up to the gatekeeper and pointed to my camera, then to the inner ring. “If I pay, can I go in?”

He nodded yes—but clearly didn’t understand me.

I showed him the 4,000 CUP—short by 1,000. He shrugged. Let me in.

I slid onto a wooden bench next to a man I’d photographed earlier. I asked—awkwardly—if I could go all the way in.

“No,” he replied, like I was crazy. But I could not resist.

With informal approval, I entered the inner ring—an area typically reserved for locals and close observers. From this vantage point, I was able to document the event at close range, including reactions from participants and spectators.
With informal approval, I entered the inner ring—an area typically reserved for locals and close observers. From this vantage point, I was able to document the event at close range, including reactions from participants and spectators.

I waited.

Eventually, I inched down the bench. Found a small gap. I slid one foot into the ring.

No one stopped me.

Then the other foot.

Now I was crouched in the ring, camera raised, beside a man live-streaming the match. He glanced at me, puzzled.

Then ignored me.

I was in.

The match was chaos. Roosters collided in a blur of feathers, claws, and shrieks. But I didn’t just photograph the birds—I turned my lens to the people. Faces clenched in tension. Arms raised. Voices hoarse with yelling. Money exchanged mid-fight. This wasn’t just entertainment—it was ritual.

Spectators yell, mimic bird calls, and shout loudly during the fight. These vocal outbursts reflect the intensity and emotional investment of the crowd, a hallmark of cockfighting culture in rural Cuba.
Spectators yell, mimic bird calls, and shout loudly during the fight. These vocal outbursts reflect the intensity and emotional investment of the crowd, a hallmark of cockfighting culture in rural Cuba.

The fight had run its course and the stronger bird was becoming apparent. Strangely, the crowd was becoming quiet—satisfied or resigned to the outcome. Finally, the outcome had become clear as a bird lay motionless on its back. The winning bird made it clear who the victor was.

Silence.

The expression of some overlooking the result was one of deep satisfaction—I was unsure if it stemmed from the money won or the brutality on display and the finality of the result. .

Silence.

The victorious bird stands at the edge of the ring, the defeated one lying still on its back. Around them, the crowd is quiet. Some watch with deep satisfaction—though it’s unclear if it stems from winning money, witnessing dominance, or something more difficult to name.
The victorious bird stands at the edge of the ring, the defeated one lying still on its back. Around them, the crowd is quiet. Some watch with deep satisfaction—though it’s unclear if it stems from winning money, witnessing dominance, or something more difficult to name.

Here, I turned my camera toward the motionless bird. Its owner stepped forward and scooped it up without ceremony, carrying it by the wings through the dust. This bird had been bred and trained for this moment. There was no pause for mourning.

After the match, the handler retrieves the injured rooster from the ring. The process is direct and unceremonious. In this context, the bird is valued for performance—not sentiment—reflecting the utilitarian role animals often play in traditional sport.
After the match, the handler retrieves the injured rooster from the ring. The process is direct and unceremonious. In this context, the bird is valued for performance—not sentiment—reflecting the utilitarian role animals often play in traditional sport.
The defeated bird is carried by its wings through the dust. This method, while harsh to outside eyes, is typical in rural cockfighting communities where the focus remains on resilience, training, and potential recovery—not mourning.
The defeated bird is carried by its wings through the dust. This method, while harsh to outside eyes, is typical in rural cockfighting communities where the focus remains on resilience, training, and potential recovery—not mourning.

I followed them, assuming the bird had died. But I was wrong.

The handlers crouched to inspect its wounds. One pressed at its breast. Another checked the legs.
Satisfied the bird was salvageable, they tied it back to the same stake where the day had started.

It would fight again.

Handlers examine a wounded bird after the fight, checking its chest and legs. Although cockfighting is often associated with fatal outcomes, not all matches end in death. In this case, the bird was deemed fit to recover and return.
Handlers examine a wounded bird after the fight, checking its chest and legs. Although cockfighting is often associated with fatal outcomes, not all matches end in death. In this case, the bird was deemed fit to recover and return.
After being inspected and found salvageable, the injured rooster is tied to the same stake it was tethered to before the match. In rural Cuba, the cycle of preparation, injury, and return is a normalized part of this tradition.
After being inspected and found salvageable, the injured rooster is tied to the same stake it was tethered to before the match. In rural Cuba, the cycle of preparation, injury, and return is a normalized part of this tradition.

It was time to leave. I wanted to say goodbye to Michael—the one who made the entire evening possible. This would be the last image I’d take of him on the trip.

He was in his element: confident, composed. A local hero. He’d stay late into the night, after the final cries faded, after the dust settled.

Wearing a straw hat, Michael rolls the dice during a game of High-Low, surrounded by others deep in the action. As the sun started to set, he stayed—fully part of the world that had allowed me in, long after I left.
Wearing a straw hat, Michael rolls the dice during a game of High-Low, surrounded by others deep in the action. As the sun started to set, he stayed—fully part of the world that had allowed me in, long after I left.

We drove back toward Havana through the pitch-black night. The muffler held, miraculously, despite the punishment from potholes on the highway to Havana.

The bird had clung to life.

And somewhere in the back seat of that rental car, my memory card carried the story of a brutal, beautiful night that almost didn’t happen.

Comments

Leave a comment