I Wish My Husband Loved Me Like He Loves the Rooster

I already knew cockfighting happened in places like Mexico, India, and parts of Southeast Asia. And honestly, as someone who once kept parrots as pets, the idea of birds killing each other made me uneasy. But on my first trip to the Philippines in 2018, there was something culturally fascinating that I couldn’t ignore.

I was staying in Panglao, Bohol, and within the first week, I began noticing a pattern: the roosters crowing at dawn, tied to trees or strutting through backyards, and the buzz of activity every Saturday in the same village. These weren’t just noisy pets—they were gladiators in training.

Driven by a journalist’s curiosity, I decided to visit a full-scale cockpit arena in Baclayon one Saturday in November. The place was hard to miss—hundreds of scooters parked outside, the unmistakable sound of shouting coming from a humble wooden dome. Entry was free, but the locals were suspicious of me, the obvious foreigner. I knew what they were thinking: Another Westerner judging us.

Inside, the air was thick with testosterone, feathers, and dust. The arena was packed—nearly all men, except for three women I spotted. I managed to place two GoPros discreetly near the ring.

Before the main events, there was a warm-up area where men sat in two facing rows, each cradling a rooster. Occasionally, they'd lean forward and let the birds peck at each other—a subtle prelude to violence. Meanwhile, others were busy strapping razor-sharp blades to the roosters' legs. The blades are meant to ensure quick, decisive fights.

When the announcer took the mic, the energy shifted. He hyped up the crowd, who began placing frantic bets, shouting over each other in excitement. The roosters were then released. Sometimes the fights ended in seconds—a single slash to the throat. Sometimes, the birds hesitated, and their owners would toss them into the air to force a mid-air collision. That part, especially, made me sick to my stomach. The brutality wasn’t masked—it was the point.

Money changed hands fast. Winners celebrated. Losers sulked. And always, the bloodied rooster was dragged off the sandy arena floor.

Behind the scenes, I saw something that made the whole experience even more surreal: a young woman, no older than twenty, stitching up a rooster’s leg. It had won its match but suffered deep gashes. She told me she’d been helping her father with post-fight care since she was 14. Her job was to patch up the bird, treat it with antibiotics and vitamins, and nurse it back into fighting shape—usually over the course of a year.

Watching her stitch into raw, feathered flesh was... disturbing. The rooster didn’t even flinch, just blinked as she worked like a field medic.

Not far from her was the fate of the losers. A man dipped them in boiling water, plucked the feathers, and prepped them for barbecue. Apparently, it’s common practice to eat the defeated roosters—even though they’re pumped with steroids, antibiotics, and GMO feed. Nothing goes to waste.

Near the entrance, two women were selling cold drinks and snacks. I asked them how they felt about all this. One of them, with a shrug, said, “It’s common. Fathers come here and lose their kids’ college funds in one go.” The other laughed, then cut in with a line I’ll never forget:

“If my husband loved me just 50% as much as he loves that fucking rooster, I’d be happy.”

They both burst out laughing, but her words stuck with me. Because it’s true. These men pamper their roosters like beloved sons—feeding them by hand, grooming them, training them for months. You could call it love, in a twisted way.

Then, casually, Narisco pointed to three nearby houses. “My last champion won those,” he said.

I was stunned. Speechless, actually. That kind of money from betting? It hit me then—this wasn’t just a pastime; it was a livelihood. I’d seen it on TV before, in local bars: nationwide cockfighting broadcasts with crowds of men shouting, waving 1,000-peso bills. No wonder it was so popular, especially in rural areas. And no wonder roosters were tied up in the most unexpected corners of cities and villages alike.

I thanked Narisco for being so open about something that many Europeans, like myself, find controversial. But he spoke with pride, and with care—for the bird, for the tradition, for the life it had helped build.

A few years later, after the pandemic, I heard he’d suffered a stroke. In 2024, Narisco passed away.

I had taken a portrait of him, one of the few decent photographs of him that existed. I gave it to his children and grandchildren. They used that image at his wake. It meant a lot to me—but I think it meant even more to them.

Sid – The Forrest Gump of the Philippines

I met an older man named Sid in Bohol in January 2025. We struck up a conversation, and I quickly realized that he was like a deep well of living history—layer upon layer of real-life stories, the kind I’d only ever seen on National Geographic or the History Channel. I’d like to share a few of them with you.  (Bohol, Philippines 2025)

Since 2018, I’ve played tennis every early morning at the Bohol Heritage Tennis Club. One weekend, I joined our team for a friendly tournament in Alburquerque, just a 20-minute motorbike ride from my hometown of Tagbilaran. The local club there had only one court, so there was a lot of waiting around—perfect for chatting with strangers.

That’s when I met Sid.

He was 87 years old, from Dauis on Panglao Island, and walked slowly with the help of a stick. But as soon as we started talking, I realised I wasn’t just chatting with any senior citizen. Sid was a kind of Philippine Forrest Gump—he had witnessed, and sometimes taken part in, events that shaped the world.

Born in 1937, Sid had been playing tennis since he was a kid—starting as early as 1946—on the very same plaza court in Tagbilaran where I play now. Back then, tennis was considered a gentleman’s sport, typically off-limits to locals and reserved for colonial elites. But in Bohol, something was different. Filipino kids were welcomed, not just to serve as ball boys, but to actually play. Sid was one of the lucky ones.

He also taught me about Felicisimo Ampon, the first well-known Filipino tennis player who made it to Wimbledon and Roland Garros in the 1940s and '50s. Sid spoke fluent English, and once he started talking, it was as if he was in a race to share it all—every memory, every insight. I listened with the kind of attention and curiosity that only elders seem to awaken in me.

Sid's life took him far from the tennis courts of Bohol. He attended a Catholic school under German priests, where he learned several languages. Thanks to those connections, he eventually studied in Chicago in the 1950s. He was there to witness history, including Martin Luther King Jr.’s speeches and the painful reality of racism in America.

One story stayed with me. Sid tried to enter a nice restaurant, only to be turned away. “You're not American,” he was told, “you weren’t born here.” He pointed out another customer, a Mr. McGuire, who also wasn’t born in the U.S.—he was from Ireland. Still, McGuire was allowed in. Sid had worked hard, paid taxes, and followed the rules, yet he was denied the same rights. It left a lasting impression on him.

Eventually, Sid returned to Bohol, divorced from his American wife, and began teaching English and literature at Holy Name University. Years later, in a humble eatery in Pilar—a small town in the heart of Bohol—he reconnected with one of his former students. Her name was Gemma.

Johnny Allen & the Auroville Hippie Community in India

Just outside Pondicherry in South India lies a fascinating community unlike any other—Auroville, a self-sufficient, semi-utopian society born from the ideals of peace, sustainability, and spiritual exploration. I felt a strong pull to visit this place and speak with some of its early settlers—the pioneers who helped shape this experimental township and have lived through its many transformations.  (Pondicherry, India 2019)

My goal was simple: find a long-time Auroville resident—someone who’s seen the place grow from its roots and is willing to share their story. So, I began my journey at the Auroville Visitor’s Centre. It was... overwhelming. The complex was buzzing with tourists and gleaming buildings. Auroville, once a quiet utopian experiment, had become a magnet for mass tourism. In the parking lot, giant buses lined up as thousands of visitors spilled into souvenir shops, upscale restaurants, and finally onto the trail leading to the park.

All roads here lead to one destination—the golden globe, Matrimandir. Known as the soul of Auroville, it’s a monument to Mother Nature, Pachamama.

Walking through the planted park, one of the striking sights was a cluster of ancient trees, their branches fused together to form a kind of natural cathedral. It was majestic, but I couldn’t stand there long. Around me, dozens of people clambered onto the roots and branches to take selfies. Eventually, I reached the viewpoint for the golden sphere. It was even larger and more imposing than I had imagined from the photos. To actually enter the Matrimandir, though, you had to book a 15-minute slot—mine would have been sometime next week. Another time, perhaps.

I walked back to the parking area and drove through Auroville’s sprawling administrative zone—a massive campus where I eventually found the media department. I left my contact information and filled out a media form, promising to share my material before publishing. I had two people in mind for interviews: an elderly Russian lady named Galina, and an Australian named Johnny Allen. Galina had a bit of a reputation—rumors said she was losing her memory and had a habit of “borrowing” other people’s flip-flops. But I was more drawn to Johnny.

Unfortunately, the media team couldn’t reach him or his son Jessy through the landline. Many Auroville residents don’t use mobile phones. Information here still flows the old-fashioned way—via bulletin boards and a local newspaper.

I thanked them and continued down a dusty red forest road.

After several wrong turns into various yards, I finally found the correct footpath to Johnny’s place thanks to some helpful directions from fellow community members. I left my bike by the gate and went looking for his home. I passed a windmill that pumped water for the whole Fertile community. From a distance, I heard music—someone was playing the guitar and singing. I climbed over a hedge and got closer, but it wasn’t Johnny. He pointed me further toward the centre.

I had arrived just in time for lunch, and they invited me to join. The vegetarian food was incredible. A beet salad with thick slices caught me by surprise—something I’d never seen in India. Other dishes were more typical South Indian fare. Around the communal dining space were his daughter, granddaughter, and several volunteers who’d stayed here for varying lengths of time.

The Early Days: Johnny’s Journey

After lunch, Johnny and I sat down in the shade of the trees by the kitchen. I wanted to hear the backstory of this Auroville legend.

He talked about post-war Australia—how his generation rebelled against the conservative, frugal mindset of their parents. The youth of the 1960s weren’t content with the status quo. They sought answers in esoteric teachings and alternative spirituality. They distrusted the Cold War politics and were often labeled communists or radicals. Johnny was a teenager then, reading the kind of books that would have shocked his parents.

He trained as an architect but couldn’t imagine spending his life in an office. He became a father early and worked as a taxi driver in Sydney, making a living while avoiding the trap of routine. Later, he had two more children with a second partner.

When his first wife moved to Auroville with their sons, Johnny followed. He began helping to build the dream—or as he put it, “a utopia.” The land they were given—100 acres of sand with a few old trees—was called Fertile, ironically. Back then, it was a near-desert. You could see the sea from his house. Women would come from the beach to sell fish in distant villages, tying plastic bags around their feet so they wouldn't burn on the hot sand. They would sprint from tree to tree for shade, sometimes a full kilometer apart.

Now the place is green. Bushes and trees offer shelter from the scorching sun.

Eventually, his second partner and children also came to Auroville. For about a year, Johnny lived with both women and all the children. But the second woman returned to Australia. The children grew up between Auroville, a private school in Kodaikanal, and Australia. Some still live here—his son Jessy, daughter Jina, and a few grandchildren.

In 1978, Johnny spent a year back in Australia with his two older sons. Then he returned again to Auroville.

What Does Auroville Mean to You?

“Auroville has always been about autonomy and self-sufficiency,” Johnny said. “Let the Indian government change ministers—here, we have our own water, electricity, garbage systems, schools, entertainment, and social life.”

The philosophy was simple: you don’t need much to survive. Many residents work short-term gigs elsewhere in India or abroad for a few months, then live the rest of the year here without thinking about money. “Maybe the biggest draw,” he added, “is the freedom to design your own life.”

Most people came here because they wanted to make real, tangible change—on a personal and global scale.

The Changing Face of Auroville

Johnny isn’t bothered by the tourists who come to see the golden globe, buy trinkets, and eat in fancy cafés. These things help fund the community. But what does concern him is the influx of wealthy urbanites bringing with them the values of consumer culture. “Why build a giant concrete mansion and drive an SUV? Why not live simply, build a sustainable house, and ride a bike?”

He came here to plant trees and create life—not to consume and pollute.

Johnny sees climate shifts too: dry seasons without rain, and torrential downpours during times that should be dry. “Change is visible because we’ve monitored nature for decades.”

He also helps organize a yearly artisan festival called the Endangered Crafts Mela, drawing around 50 master craftsmen from all over India. Many of these traditional skills are vanishing because mass-produced goods from China and Bangladesh are cheaper. Johnny believes artisans need to evolve—make their crafts more exclusive, artistic, and desirable rather than trying to compete with factory-made products. Sadly, not all can adapt, and some skills fade away with their last practitioners.

Johnny himself is a master of wood and leather. His tool shelf alone is a work of art.

What Have You Done Here That You Couldn't in Australia?

“No one in Australia would’ve let me teach kids without papers or a degree,” Johnny said. “But here, I can teach in the school and it gives me just as much as it gives them.”

He also wouldn't have been able to design and build homes from scratch in Australia—not without drowning in red tape. “In Auroville, we built a treehouse for the boys. Built a windmill that pumps water for the whole community. Without that, it would be savannah again. I’m more free here than I’d ever be in Sydney.”

Does he miss anything?

“Maybe alternative theater in Sydney. Here, if you want art and culture, you have to create it yourself.” His son Jessy is currently rehearsing a new play that’s premiering this weekend.

Final Thoughts

It was a privilege to visit Johnny’s home in the Fertile community. At 75, he’s more energetic than most people in their twenties. It’s clear that real Auroville residents don’t want tour buses at their doorstep. They want to live sustainably and in peace. Perhaps that’s why the road to Johnny’s place is so narrow and filled with speed bumps—to keep the curious at bay.

At the media center, I saw the current population of Auroville: 3,100 people. Most are Indian citizens, followed by French, Germans, and Italians.

At Johnny’s place, chickens wandered freely and cats sprawled across colorful chairs. Meals are shared under the canopies, and stories passed around like bread. Is this utopia—or simply a paradise that’s been earned?

Over the years, many co-residents have lived with Johnny, including three Estonians: Andreas, Henry, and Joel. It was through Joel that I found out more—and decided that Johnny had to be the heart of this story.

Will Auroville survive the passing of these remarkable individuals?

Most likely, it will change. Perhaps many times over. But hopefully, the original fire—the rebellious, restless drive to do something—will never die out.

There’s much to learn from people like Johnny about valuing direct human connection—without the filter. Read more at auroville.org

Hospitality, Prestige, and Unexpected Conversations in Qatar

During a recent trip to Doha, I had the pleasure of spending time with two remarkable locals, Khurrum and Arshed. We strolled through the vibrant Souq Waqif and wandered along the seaside, talking about everything from daily life in Qatar to deeper topics like religion, humility, and the obsession with prestige. At one point, we touched on how many in the Gulf countries, including themselves, often prioritize upgrades—bigger houses, flashier cars—not necessarily out of need, but for status. Arshed candidly admitted that the only real winners in this cycle of prestige are the banks and luxury carmakers like Mercedes and Toyota. We later paused for a short prayer at a mosque nearby—a meaningful, shared moment.  (Doha, Qatar 2022)

Earlier, I had met Khurrum quite by chance. There were no free tables at the hotel restaurant, and I asked a lone diner if I could join him. That’s how I met Khurrum, a Pakistani expat living in Doha. He runs a medical research and treatment lab focused on hyperbaric therapy—helping patients adapt to high-pressure environments like deep-sea conditions or high-altitude zones. The science didn’t exactly fascinate me, but Khurrum himself was incredibly engaging.

He had unorthodox religious views, often challenging traditional Islamic scholars and connecting dots between the Quran, Torah, and Bible in unique, sometimes provocative ways. He was convinced his ancestors belonged to the lost tribe of Joseph, tracing their lineage to the borderlands between Pakistan and Afghanistan. He had no hesitation in sharing his thoughts—like a rapid-fire machine gun of ideas, theories, quotes, facts, and a few half-truths. After four hours of non-stop conversation, I was mentally exhausted but deeply satisfied by the exchange.

Khurrum, in his 50s, has a grown son and, I suspect, is divorced. He’s a long-term hotel resident and seems to live a vivid bachelor life, occasionally entertaining lady visitors. One memorable moment was when a waiter complained about back pain. Khurrum stopped him right there in the restaurant and treated him using an osteopathic technique—pressing his knee into the waiter’s lower back. The waiter yelped, but the pain disappeared. “Miracle by butt-kick,” we laughed.

Khurrum once told me that while working with Israeli doctors in London, he found more “evidence” for his Joseph-tribe theory, something that wouldn’t sit well with conservative imams back in Pakistan. He’d also served as a deep-sea diver in the Pakistani army—he reminded me a bit of Forrest Gump with his incredible life story.

The next day, Khurrum joined me for lunch again and suggested we visit Stadium 974—named after Qatar’s dialing code and built entirely from shipping containers. He arranged for Arshed, a fellow Pakistani and hotel resident, to drive us.

We gathered in the lobby at 3:30 PM. The drive was short—Qatar is a small country—and we reached the stadium near the old harbor. Although we couldn't get close due to security, we found a nearby beach to admire it. The stadium, we learned, would later be dismantled and donated to an African nation.

As the sun dipped lower, Arshed suggested visiting Box Park—a colorful waterfront area where sea containers had been transformed into shops and cafés. Bathed in golden light, the stacked containers looked like glowing Lego bricks.

When the call to prayer echoed through the air, I asked if I could join them. They led me to a modest container mosque, where we removed our shoes and prayed shoulder to shoulder with others. I’ve joined mosque prayers before, even in India, and once again I was welcomed—not as a tourist, but as a guest from afar.

After the prayer, we reunited with our Scotich friend John from the same hotel and headed back to Souq Waqif. Khurrum soon had to leave for a hospital emergency involving some misplaced keys, but Arshed stayed with us and continued guiding us through the maze-like market.

Though recently reconstructed, Souq Waqif felt authentically old, with vintage doors and windows reused in a smart recreation of the past. We found ourselves in the pet market, where I connected with some familiar birds—nymphs like the ones I used to keep. I whistled and offered my finger, and one bird gently nibbled it—a quiet, joyful moment.

We returned to the juice bar I had visited the day before. The waiter remembered me, and this time I ordered papaya juice. Arshed insisted on paying, saying we were his guests. I promised him the same hospitality if he ever visited Tallinn.

The streets were filling with tourists, a hint of the crowd that would descend during the World Cup. We were there just one week prior the opening of the World Cup. On our way toward the sea, we stopped at the falcon market—a uniquely Arabian experience. Falcons are cherished here, not just as status symbols, but as companions for desert excursions. The shops sold everything from falcons to hiking gear, and the birds sat calmly on their perches, wearing tiny leather hoods. Majestic creatures.

Nearby, Arshed pointed out a hospital for falcons. Only in Qatar, I thought.

We continued walking past a stable tucked in the city, its scent giving away its presence before it came into view. Qataris take immense pride in their connection to the desert—horses, falcons, and family heritage—even if they now live in skyscrapers instead of tents.