Sunday is usually the day that I go to watch Khmer kickboxing in Phnom Penh. But on this particular day, my driver, Sameth, promised to take me to see something really exciting. We turned down a dirt road, about twenty minutes outside of the city, and ended at a dubious looking arena, in a rural farming community. The big foreigner with the notebook received a lot of odd stares, and a portly Khmer, in a dirty T-shirt gave us the third degree. "Who are you? What are you doing here? Who told you about this place".

I felt like a spy, sneaking in on some illicit activity that was to be kept secret from outsiders.

The blue rooster was clearly the superior combatant.

As a professional boxer, it was easy for me to look at cock fighting as an extension of boxing. There were two opponents; blue and red, in a ring, fight for the glory of their handlers. Spectators bet money and cheered for their favorite fighter. They even used a gong to signal the beginning and end of each three-minute round, as in boxing.

But cock fighting was different. First off, the roosters didn’t get any money.Secondly, there were weapons involved. In many matches, the roosters had metal spurs strapped to their foot. In other fights, called natural-spur matches, the cocks used the spur of a dead cock as their weapon. The only analogy to professional boxing at this point would be if the opponents were allowed to hit each other with broken beer bottles.

Thinking red had died, I was reviewing my chicken CPR techniques, when the gong sounded, signaling the end of the round. Interestingly, instead of using a clock, the rounds were timed using a bowl, with a hole in the bottom, placed in a large vessel of water. It took approximately three minutes for enough water to seep into the bowl. When the bowl had sunk to the bottom, the round was over.

The handlers separated the combatants, and took them to their respective corners. When I fight, I am used to getting a massage between rounds. But in cock fighting, the handlers worked feats of voodoo magic. Red’s handler began by kissing his beak, and kissing his wounds, as he washed the limp corps. The handler’s lips were now coated in chicken blood. Next, while mumbling some secret words, he spit first one, then another mouth full of water, directly into red’s face. The water spewed pink, from the handlers mouth, mixing with the blood of the wounded animal. The magic apparently worked, dragging red back from the point of death.

Some of the gamblers began grumbling about my camera again. I hadn’t taken a single photo, and yet people apparently wanted me to leave. An older Khmer man signaled for me to come sit with him. "Anything you want to know, you can ask me". He said in passable English. The crowd backed off. I learned later that he was a high ranking general, and that I was to remain under his protection for the rest of the match.

"Fighting roosters are generally between eight months and a year old". My new friend explained. "Fights last for four, three-minute rounds. Metal spur fights are much faster than natural spur fights, which could go on and on, with no clear winner".