The Guardian
There are few things that some trainers won't do to win. Competitors have been kidnapped and then released only for a ransom. Others have reportedly sneaked onto high-speed trains to cross the finish line first. Some are said to starve themselves so they can fly faster on race day.
This is the fast and crazy world of pigeon racing in Taiwan.
The sport is globally renowned and has centuries of history, but few scenes are as bizarre as the Taiwanese one, where the stakes are high and no scheme seems too complicated or far-fetched to some. But members are demanding that things change.
Wu Chung-ming is the chairman of the national pigeon racing association and a local racing club. On his desk sits a lighter shaped like a pigeon, next to a computer that mines the cryptocurrency “Pigeoncoin.” Outside, a Tesla he bought specifically for its doors that open upwards is parked.
“I wasn’t really into it at first,” he tells The Guardian. “But once I got involved, I met all these passionate people who were crazy about the sport.”

Wu is among those calling for regulation to address the dark sides of the sport and make it easier for honest competitors to compete cleanly and safely.
Pigeon racing in Taiwan began during the Japanese colonial period a century ago, and then developed as entertainment among working-class people outside the cities.
Today it is one of the largest in the world, with some 200,000 breeders-trainers and countless investors, through some 80 regional clubs that compete up to a million birds a year. While the demographics have remained largely the same, it has become a competitive multi-million dollar industry, with official prize money that can exceed NTD$30 million (US$1 million) in a season. But the sport remains in a legal gray area.
“If it’s illegal, then lock us all up as soon as possible,” Wu says. “But if it’s legal, then shouldn’t there be some policies in place to support us?”
The chaotic combination of lack of regulation and large sums of money has led to extraordinary behavior, including the high-speed train stunt and what Wu says is a common scheme, cloning tracking chips to secretly send a second pigeon to the finish line first.
There are also practices that would likely be banned if a strong standard were set, such as the use of performance-enhancing drugs, or trainers separating pigeons from their lifelong partners to rush them home faster. Some trainers even put a pigeon's partner in a cage with another bird, in the hope that jealousy will make the flier faster.
"Running a pigeon club in Taiwan is honestly difficult because there are so many scams," Wu says. "There have been all kinds of scams, I've heard a lot of them."
He says he is willing to work with animal rights groups and the government to create "a healthier form of sport", taking it out of the grey area, but the government has left them "stuck in place".
The government alleges that pigeon racing is linked to a host of crimes. In addition to fraud and kidnapping, there are also suspected links to criminal gangs, allegations of animal cruelty, and reports of billions of Taiwanese dollars in potentially illegal betting, many times the official prize money.
In several regions, Taiwanese police have raided what they call illegal gambling rings operated by local associations. Officials have been arrested or imprisoned and hundreds of millions of Taiwanese dollars have been seized.
“Gambling violations have long been a key enforcement target,” Taiwan’s Interior Ministry told The Guardian, while the Agriculture Ministry said illegal gambling was the industry’s “main source of revenue.”
Wu told The Guardian that his association does nothing illegal and argues that unofficial prize funds are not illegal.

"What we do in pigeon racing is not gambling, it's racing reward. The government has never given us a clear position on this."
Kidnappings and rewards
The industry has tried to address the fraud. In the late 1990s, all pigeon racing in Taiwan moved to the sea, loading tens of thousands of birds onto container ships to fly a route almost entirely over the ocean. But the format has been condemned by animal rights groups, who claim that large numbers of pigeons are lost at sea in races that take place regardless of the weather. Authorities say the loss rate in some races is as high as 98%.
Animal rights groups claim that the birds are often mistreated and dumped once they are no longer fit for racing. Some are calling for a complete ban on racing. But He Tsung-hsun, secretary-general of the Taiwan Animal Protection Monitoring Network (TAPMN), acknowledges that “the culture is deeply ingrained in Taiwanese society” and instead calls on authorities to start by banning racing at sea and better investigate allegations of illegal activity.

Wu thotë për akuzat e keqtrajtimit dhe vjedhjes: “sjellje të tilla janë të tmerrshme edhe për ne. Duam t’i ndreqim. Dua të flas me këto grupe dhe të them, ‘OK, nëse kthehemi te garat në tokë ku humbasin më pak zogj, jam plotësisht dakord’.”
Garuesit e pëllumbave thonë se shifrat për humbjet interpretojnë gabim ata që mbërrijnë me vonesë si të vdekur ose të zhdukur. Në fund të sezonit, shoqata e Wu-së regjistron rreth 60% të pëllumbave që kthehen në shtëpi. Trajnerët thonë se përmirësimi i mirëqenies së kafshëve është një argument kyç për rregullim më të madh të sportit.
“Nëse garat mund të mbahen të ndershme e të pastra, pa mashtrime dhe pa shifra të dyshimta, nuk do të na duhej të mbështeteshim në garat në det”, thotë Huang Nai-shun, një rritës dhe garues pëllumbash. Ai dënon ndikimin që krimi dhe mungesa e rregullimit kanë pasur mbi sportin. Huang thotë se ka paguar shumë shpërblime për pëllumbat e tij të rrëmbyer dhe shqetësohet nga mungesa e standardeve për trajtimin ose hedhjen e atyre që nuk garojnë më.
“Kudo që ka garë, gjithmonë do të ketë njerëz që përpiqen të manipulojnë sistemin”, thotë ai.
Në çatinë e shtëpisë së tij në qarkun Chiayi, Huang kujdeset për pëllumbat e tij me dashuri. Ai thotë se sezoni i garave i merr çdo kursim dhe muaj me mëngjese të hershme e net të vona për fluturime stërvitore.
“Është e vështirë”, thotë ai. “Gjithçka varet nga ajo që do, njerëzit e bëjnë këtë vetëm nëse e duan vërtet”.

Është fundjava e fundit e sezonit veror të garave në jug dhe Wu po mbikëqyr regjistrimin para garës në një magazinë aty pranë. Edhe në shi të rrëmbyeshëm ndjehet një atmosferë entuziazmi teksa shumica e burrave të moshuar vijnë me kafaze pëllumbash për regjistrim.
Zyrtarët e garës skanojnë çipet e gjurmimit dhe kalojnë drita UV mbi krahë për shenja të padukshme. Zogjtë ndahen nga pronarët dhe ruhen rreptësisht, pastaj ngarkohen në një kontejner për t’u dërguar në det me dhjetëra të tjerë ditën tjetër.

Trajnerët që flasin me Guardian kundërshtojnë kritikat ndaj sportit, dhe Guardian nuk sugjeron që ndonjëri prej tyre të jetë i përfshirë në aktivitete të paligjshme. Për ta, nuk ka të bëjë me çmimin monetar, që thonë se rrallë e shohin vetë, por me emocionin e garës dhe shpërblimin për punën e vështirë.
“Është si të stërvitësh atletët e tu olimpikë”, thotë Lin Yo-Chen, 29 vjeç, një nga të paktët nën 40 vjeç, duke regjistruar tre pëllumbat e tij të fundit. Ai i do “gjithçka” tek sporti, duke theksuar se 27 zogjtë e tjerë që garoi këtë sezon janë kthyer të gjithë në shtëpi.
Octogjenari Chen Bi-chou ka garuar pëllumba për shtatë dekada. Ai ndjehet optimist për garuesin e tij të fundit, por thotë se e do sportin për komunitetin dhe mendimin strategjik që, sipas tij, ndihmon në mbajtjen larg të demencës.
Pas dy ditësh, një transmetim i drejtpërdrejtë nga kuverta e anijes do të tregojë zogjtë që shpërthejnë nga kafazet drejt ajrit të detit dhe, me shpresë, drejt shtëpisë.
"You put so much care into their training, and when you release them far away - sometimes in difficult weather - and they still find their way home, it's touching," says Mr. Tu, 61, a retired prison guard.

In the end, pigeon No. 81 won the season, his owner taking home about NT$1.2 million ($40,000), out of a NT$6 million prize pool. But records published by the association online reveal that he also won more than NT$1 million in side bets, out of a total of NT$148 million. In other counties, people have been convicted of side bets, but nationally, authorities are unclear whether it is illegal. There are no records of raids or arrests in Pingtung, Wu County.
Legitimizing the sport would require new legislation, the creation of a “competent authority,” strong industry self-regulation, and an end to illegal gambling, the agriculture ministry says. However, there are few signs of progress.