Here’s the current bane of my existence: Roosters.

I should include dogs in this list as well, but please note that it would only include the eight million dogs in Banaue—dogs as a collective entity, if you will, which bark ceaselessly for hours on end. Definitely not your dog, dear reader. But maybe the dog that left me a lovely gift this morning on my welcome mat.

I find this hysterical, but only click below if you're okay with a little vulgarity:

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As for roosters…I’ve never had anything against them before—in fact, I’ve always been a fan of the chicken and rooster always just seemed a fierce, arrogant, and elegantly plumed version of their female counterparts. I even raised a few chickens of my own. But the combination of a million roosters and their barking compatriots—in one small town—has completely shaped my sleeping cycle. Now I go to sleep around 11pm (quickly turning to 10) and wake up at 5am. Why? Because I have no choice—the roosters rise in grand symphony before a shred of light even touches the sky. Sometimes the dogs tip them off. I’m not sure what they’re all so excited about—is it some kind of plot to take over the town? To drive us all out of it through vocal torture? Maybe I’ll get used to it. I pray for that day to come quickly.

Get ear plugs, you say. I have 28 of them. First of all, earplugs are not comfortable—who wants smooshy marshmallow fingertips stuffed in their ears? And while they take the edge off, I can still hear them in the distance, straining to make their presence known. And then, as I toss and turn in bed, I spend my time desperately trying to ignore them, to forget them—which never works. I’m even more aware of them with the earplugs in: they become the enemy. These days, I lie in bed and think vicious thoughts that involve BB guns and slingshots. I won’t ever follow through with them of course, but here’s what I will do:

Go to a cock fight. Yes, I will—I know, you’re probably horrified. So am I, a little. But I want to go to one. Isn’t that part of the beauty of travel: permission to do things we never would in our own country (like drink cobra blood or horsemeat—which I’ve never done)? We almost enjoy horrifying ourselves, like driving slowly near an accident on the road—why exactly, do we do that? There’s a bit of the exotic and the taboo that excites so many of us about international travel—even if we don’t engage in these foreign, often disturbing activities, aren’t we kind of excited that someone did? That someone lived a piece of life that we never will?

I saw some roosters in cages the other day and found out they're kept by some men who take them to a native village for cock fighting on Sundays (they only keep them in there for an hour or so a day). Apparently, it's the national sport. When I first heard about it, I was kind of taken aback—it’s illegal in most places in the Philippines, as it should be. But I kind of want to see one, just one—especially after my every sleepless morning.

I will watch—maybe I’ll even bet—and I’m sure I’ll be horrified. But maybe, deep down, I’ll have to ignore the voice at the end of the fight that says: that’s one down. 999 thousand left to go.

Note: The author in no way condones violence against other animals; please attribute any hints of this to delerium from many sleepless nights. Also, she really loves puppies and baby chicks.