Text One: Cockfighting: the last, hidden link to Bali’s warlike past

The island’s image as a new-age nirvana isn’t much older than the middle-aged hippies who
love it.
Driving around Bali, the first thing I noticed was the big wicker baskets by the roadside. Inside
each basket was a cockerel. I asked my friend Wayan why these birds were there. ‘They put
them by the road to make them used to people,’ he told me. ‘Then they won’t be scared when
it’s time for them to fight.’ ‘What do you mean, time to fight? A cockfight?’ He nodded.
Cockfighting is a clandestine activity here. No one talks about it, but those baskets are
everywhere.

Cockfighting is an ancient Balinese tradition. The Indonesian government frowns on it, and the
heavy gambling that goes with it (men can lose farms on a single fight), but it remains a part of
daily life. Cockfights are staged before religious ceremonies, as an offering to the gods. The
government forbids cockfights for non-religious purposes, but the government is far away, on
Java. Of the 13,000 islands in this archipelago, only Bali is Hindu, and in Bali, cockfighting is
performed in every village temple. The people and the government have reached an unspoken
compromise: cockfighting can continue, so long as everyone pretends it doesn’t exist.

Yet it does exist, and is thriving. The sheer number of wicker baskets tells you that. Once you’ve
seen one, you see them everywhere. People weave them on their doorsteps. They carry stacks
of them on motorbikes. It’s the unofficial national sport. Surely this is just as much a part of Bali
as all the feel-good stuff?

Bali has learnt to market itself as a new-age nirvana, but this tranquil image isn’t much older
than the middle-aged hippies who come here in search of love and peace. For most of its
bloody history, it’s had a reputation for violence. The first Dutch colonists who first came here
found the Balinese ‘fierce, savage, perfidious and bellicose’. You can hardly blame them for
being so unwelcoming. Those Dutchmen had come in search of slaves. Then as now, Balinese
women were coveted for their beauty. The men were less highly prized, due to their
(understandable) disinclination to obey the white man’s orders.

Despite their overwhelming firepower, it took the Dutch numerous attempts to subdue these
natives. They didn’t conquer the island until 1908, whereupon hundreds of Balinese committed
mass suicide, which rather took the gloss off the victory parade. This gory spectacle was
eclipsed by the bloody civil war of the 1960s, in which about 100,000 islanders were
slaughtered. The Balinese have now become famous for their hospitality, but they didn’t have
much choice — there’s no money in machismo. Cockfighting feels like the last link with Bali’s
warlike past.

After a few false starts (cockfighters are wary of outsiders) I wangled an introduction to a big
cockfight a few miles outside Ubud. Ubud is Bali’s cultural capital, where I watched some local
girls practising a graceful Balinese Legong dance. The contrast with the cockfight could scarcely
have been more stark. As if we were going to an illegal rave, I followed the crowd down a dirt
track to an unmarked arena. From the outside it looked like a barn, but inside it was a stadium.
Beneath the corrugated iron canopy were four steep terraces around a patch of earth. There
were several thousand Balinese men inside — no women and no tourists. The noise of the
crowd was shrill, building to a shrieking climax before the beginning of each fight. Men
gesticulated wildly, placing bets with fellow punters on opposite sides of the arena in a frenetic
semaphore1 of gestures.
Each cock had fearsome blades strapped to his heels, so the fights were generally brief and
bloody, a few seconds of furious activity, a flurry of feathers, then one limp body on the ground
and a roar of triumph from half of the baying crowd. If both birds were mortally wounded (which
happened several times), the owner of the last bird standing won. Occasionally two cocks had
to be forced to fight but usually they needed no encouragement. Their handlers goaded them on
by rubbing their beaks together, and gave them the kiss of life when they were wounded, which
gave them a brief second wind.

The loser loses more than money. A Balinese man dotes on his fighting cock. It’s a symbol of
his virility — the word ‘cock’ is a phallic synonym in Balinese, just as it is in English. It also
means hero, warrior, bachelor and ladykiller. To add insult to injury, the winner gets to cook the
carcass of the losing bird. This is not just a trophy, but a delicacy — the adrenalin is supposed
to enhance the flavour. ‘Chicken curry tonight,’ said the man beside me, with a grin.

After the final fight, I walked to the main road to meet Wayan. I sat and waited as the sun set. I
had no idea where I was, and I hadn’t brought my phone. During those ten minutes, I’d never
felt more alive, or more alone. ‘As much of America surfaces in a ball park, on a golf links, at a
race track, or around a poker table, much of Bali surfaces in a cock ring,’ observed the
American anthropologist Clifford Geertz. ‘For it is only apparently cocks that are fighting here.
Actually, it is men.’

Vocabulary:

Perfidious: deceitful and untrustworthy.

Bellicose - demonstrating aggression and willingness to fight.

Semaphore: a system of sending messages by holding the arms or two flags or poles in certain
positions according to an alphabetic code.

Text Two: A Game of Polo with a Headless Goat

Emma Levine travelled throughout Asia researching and filming unusual sports. In this passage
she writes about a donkey race in Karachi.

We drove off to find the best viewing spot, which turned out to be the crest of the hill so we
could see the approaching race. I asked the lads if we could join in the ‘Wacky Races’ and
follow the donkeys, and they loved the idea. ‘We'll open the car boot, you climb inside and point
your camera towards the race. As the donkeys overtake us, we'll join the cars.’ ‘But will you try
and get to the front?’ ‘Oh yes, that’s no problem.’ The two lads who had never been interested
in this Karachi sport were suddenly fired up with enthusiasm. We waited for eternity on the brow
of the hill, me perched in the boot with a zoom lens pointing out. Nearly one hour later I was
beginning to feel rather silly when the only action was a villager on a wobbly bicycle, who nearly
fell off as he cycled past and gazed around at us.

Several vehicles went past, and some donkey-carts carrying spectators. ‘Are they coming?’ we
called out to them. ‘Coming, coming,’ came the reply. I was beginning to lose faith in its
happening, but the lads remained confident.
Just as I was assuming that the race had been cancelled, we spotted two approaching donkey-
carts in front of a cloud of fumes and dust created by some fifty vehicles roaring up in their
wake. As they drew nearer, Yaqoob revved up the engine and began to inch the car out of the
lay-by. The two donkeys were almost dwarfed by their entourage1; but there was no denying
their speed — the Kibla donkey is said to achieve speeds of up to 40 kph, and this looked close.
The two were neck-and-neck, their jockeys perched on top of the tiny carts using their whips
energetically, although not cruelly.

The noise of the approaching vehicles grew; horns tooting, bells ringing, and the special rattles
used just for this purpose (like maracas, a metal container filled with dried beans). Men standing
on top of their cars and vans, hanging out of taxis and perched on lorries, all cheered and
shouted, while the vehicles jostled to get to the front of the convoy.

Yaqoob chose exactly the right moment to edge out of the road and swerve in front of the
nearest car, finding the perfect place to see the two donkeys and at the front of the vehicles.
This was Formula One without rules, or a city-centre rush hour gone anarchic; a complete
flouting of every type of traffic rule and common sense.

Our young driver relished this unusual test of driving skills. It was survival of the fittest, and
depended upon the ability to cut in front of a vehicle with a sharp flick of the steering wheel (no
lane discipline here); quick reflexes to spot a gap in the traffic for a couple of seconds; nerves of
steel, and an effective horn. There were two races — the motorized spectators at the back; in
front, the two donkeys, still running close and amazingly not put off by the uproar just behind
them. Ahead of the donkeys, oncoming traffic — for it was a main road — had to dive into the
ditch and wait there until we had passed. Yaqoob loved it. We stayed near to the front, his hand
permanently on the horn and his language growing more colourful with every vehicle that tried
to cut in front. …

The road straightened and levelled, and everyone picked up speed as we neared the end of the
race. But just as they were reaching the finishing line, the hospital gate, there was a near pile-up
as the leading donkey swerved, lost his footing and he and the cart tumbled over. The race was
over.

And then the trouble began. I assumed the winner was the one who completed the race but it
was not seen that way by everyone. Apart from the two jockeys and 'officials' (who, it turned out,
were actually monitoring the race) there were over a hundred punters who had all staked money
on the race, and therefore had strong opinions. Some were claiming that the donkey had fallen
because the other one had been ridden too close to him. Voices were raised, fists were out and
tempers rising. Everyone gathered around one jockey and official, while the bookmakers were
trying to insist that the race should be re-run.

Yaqoob and Iqbal were nervous of hanging around a volatile situation. They agreed to find out
for me what was happening ordering me to stay inside the car as they were swallowed up by the
crowd. They emerged sometime later. ‘It’s still not resolved,’ said Iqbal, ‘but it's starting to get
nasty. I think we should leave.’ As we drove away, Yaqoob reflected on his driving skills. ‘I really
enjoyed that,’ he said as we drove off at a more sedate pace. ‘But I don't even have my licence
yet because I'm underage!’

They both found this hilarious, but I was glad he hadn’t told me before; an inexperienced,
underage driver causing a massive pile-up in the middle of the high stakes donkey race could
have caused problems.
1 - entourage: a group of people attending or surrounding a person

____________________________________________________________________________

Text One:
3 Analyse how the writer uses language and structure to interest and engage the reader.

Support your views with detailed reference to the text. (15)

Text Two:

6 In this extract, the writer tries to show the dangers but also excitement of the race. Evaluate
how successfully this is achieved.
Support your views with detailed reference to the text. (15)

Question 7 is about Text 1 and Text 2. Answer both parts of the question. Refer to both
texts in your answers.

7 (b) Compare how the writers of Text 1 and Text 2 present their ideas and perspectives about
being in a foreign culture.

Support your answer with detailed references to the texts. (14)

SECTION B: Transactional Writing

Answer ONE question in this section.

You should spend 45 minutes on your chosen question.

Either:

8 ‘When in Rome do as the Romans do’ is an idiom meaning it is polite, and possibly also
advantageous, to abide by the customs of a society when one is a visitor.
Write an article for a travel magazine giving your views on this statement.

• the advantages of fully immersing oneself into another culture

• the disadvantages of fully immersing oneself into another culture

• any other points you wish to make.

Your response will be marked for the accurate and appropriate use of vocabulary, spelling,
punctuation and grammar.

(Total for Question 8 = 45 marks)

Or

9 ‘It is more important to preserve tradition than to question its safety, morality or political
correctness’

You have been asked to give a speech in which you express your views on this statement.

• examples and your opinion on preserving tradition

• examples and your opinion of unsafe, immoral or politically incorrect traditions

• any other points you wish to make.

Your response will be marked for the accurate and appropriate use of vocabulary, spelling,
punctuation and grammar.

(Total for Question 9 = 45 marks)