One of the ever present tiny taxis of Cusco, Peru, takes me to the Coliseo de Gallos. The driver is chatty and although I miss half the words due to my basic Spanish and the noise from the engine threatening to blow up, we have a fine conversation. He is excited to be bringing a gringo to the event. Wants to know if I enjoy them, the fights, the betting, the action. “No se amigo” — I would not know, this is my first! Six soles and a hasta lluego later, I have arrived. I look for el boletero, where do I buy my ticket? Confounded, I look at others and reverse engineer. A tiny hole in the wall, not much bigger than my…