Al Jabao voy ...

A short look at cockfighting in western Venezuela.

It’s a hot afternoon in a dusty roadside town. The air is thick with sweat, tension, and the rising noise of men gathering around a small fighting ring. Two roosters are about to face off. There’s no music—just the shouting, the flutter of wings, and the rhythm of heartbeats that rise with every bet placed. Here, surrounded by warm beer, crumpled bills, and old superstitions, tradition rules.

This photo series is a journey into a world that sits on a cultural fault line: for some, cockfighting is heritage; for others, it's cruelty. In many rural parts of Venezuela, it's still seen as part of daily life—an event that blends community, masculinity, and chance into one visceral ritual.

"I'm betting on the jabao!"—the phrase echoes through the crowd, backing the lighter-colored rooster. And in that shout lives a whole history: stubborn, loud, and tied to generations who’ve passed down these moments as something more than sport—almost like fate.

As a documentary photographer, I’m not here to judge or justify. I stand in the space between blood and shadow, between the eye that watches and the weight of untold stories. This isn’t a tribute, and it’s not an accusation. It’s an invitation to look closely at something raw and real—where life and death meet in feathers and dust. The rooster doesn’t just fight; it symbolizes. And win or lose, it mirrors a country that’s also fighting to stay standing—torn between its past and what’s coming next.