The next morning I felt a little jaded after a long night drinking whisky. There was nearly a nasty incident when I visited the indigenous dancers in the cultural centre. It was sticky - the hottest part of the day - drums were pounding and I nearly passed out on the bone-strewn floor among the other casualties from last night and the cows. Instead, I stumbled back and had a siesta.
Feeling only relatively refreshed, we went out to the bull fighting. A richety wooden stadium had been constructed. It was packed and to find a seat we wobbled up a makeshift ladder to the seventh tier. Given the likelihood of slipping and falling or the entire construction collapsing, it seemed much safer to be in with the bull than sat in the stands.
Behind me (the seats were just planks), bands thumped and five groups of costumed dancers assembled. A black head loomed between my thighs and a woman appeared. Looking for balance she reached and grabbed the least stable handful she could find. Once she had let go and found her footing in her four-inch heels, she complained my shoes had made her white leisure suit dirty.
There was none of the operatic grandeur that I had seen at bullfights before. This was rather more bucolic: dozens of impressively drunk cowboys with their shirts off tried to annoy the bull into running at them. The spectacle was enlivened when the machismo overflowed into fights or when one of the cowboys rode the bull.
Of everyone there, only the bull was in absolutely no danger. However, despite the casual attitude of many of the drunks taking part (one took a nap on the stadium floor), there was real potential for catastrophe. One man was flung in the air by the bull, he landed badly and died two days later of a brain injury leaving a 15-year-old wife.
Once we had had our fill of the bulls, Patricio and I went to the cockfighting. It was held under a thatched roof, where tiers of men drinking whisky stared intensely into a pit. Their shouts of encouragement and bargaining over bets accompanied the band as the two cocks with sharpened spurs fought in the intense humidity. As they pecked, kicked and jabbed trying to kill each other, men outside lovingly stroked their birds in anticipation of their turn to fight.
Showing posts with label San Ignacio de Moxos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label San Ignacio de Moxos. Show all posts
Thursday, 21 August 2008
Wednesday, 20 August 2008
30.7.8 San Ignacio de Moxos
I was off to a fiesta in the jungle. Although I would have felt safer in a large jet, at least in a 23-seater plane there are no arguments about who gets an aisle seat. The captain gave a turbulence warning and we felt every bump as we climbed over the mountains and beyond the clouds. Then we dropped out on to endless scrubland, this was Trinidad.
It had recently rained hard and was extremely humid, so I congratulated myself for taking off my long johns in La Paz. In truth, my jumper was also unnecessary. Past the chickens outside the airport, I took a motorbike taxi to where my bus left for San Ignacio de Moxos (my destination). Incongruously, the driver was sporting a dress shirt that may have seen better days but at least showed he was making an effort.
Killing time, I sat outside a bar with a cold beer and watched the swarms of motorbikes. Men, women, babies and televisions went past, and that was on one bike. Girls comfortably sat on the back often ridding side-saddle, some wearing pro-autonomy T’shirts.
Trinidad is not a wealthy town, the buildings are squat and their paint is peeling in the heat. As I waited for my bus, I saw a filthy toddler drinking from a puddle and wondered what the passing squad of riot police were policing.
The bus turned out to be an open-top truck with padded planks for seats. It was a dramatic if uncomfortably journey. As the sun set, white birds became pink as they flew overhead and the weather deteriorated. An otherwise dark night was illuminated by electrical storms, fireflies and countless stars.
Some hours later and having crossed three rivers by tiny boat, we arrived at San Ignacio. I was greeted at the town square by a menacing parade of blokes in wooden old man masks and wide heavy hats approaching a crowd with huge feather headdresses carrying wooden machetes. One of the masked men danced around me pointing at my cricket hat in a dismissive manner. So this was it.
Things were really picked up after I met my friends. One of them, Gourdy, had a firework competition with another man in the plaza. This was great, except they kept falling over and flying into the crowd. Then the bands kicked off, led by heavy drums they pounded ceaselessly. While the marchers in headdresses and machetes danced, fireworks were thrown around by the crowd—sparks hit me in the head and hand—and the masked men wheeled through the crowd, their hats spraying out pyrotechnics and clouds of toxic smoke.
It had recently rained hard and was extremely humid, so I congratulated myself for taking off my long johns in La Paz. In truth, my jumper was also unnecessary. Past the chickens outside the airport, I took a motorbike taxi to where my bus left for San Ignacio de Moxos (my destination). Incongruously, the driver was sporting a dress shirt that may have seen better days but at least showed he was making an effort.
Killing time, I sat outside a bar with a cold beer and watched the swarms of motorbikes. Men, women, babies and televisions went past, and that was on one bike. Girls comfortably sat on the back often ridding side-saddle, some wearing pro-autonomy T’shirts.
Trinidad is not a wealthy town, the buildings are squat and their paint is peeling in the heat. As I waited for my bus, I saw a filthy toddler drinking from a puddle and wondered what the passing squad of riot police were policing.
The bus turned out to be an open-top truck with padded planks for seats. It was a dramatic if uncomfortably journey. As the sun set, white birds became pink as they flew overhead and the weather deteriorated. An otherwise dark night was illuminated by electrical storms, fireflies and countless stars.
Some hours later and having crossed three rivers by tiny boat, we arrived at San Ignacio. I was greeted at the town square by a menacing parade of blokes in wooden old man masks and wide heavy hats approaching a crowd with huge feather headdresses carrying wooden machetes. One of the masked men danced around me pointing at my cricket hat in a dismissive manner. So this was it.
Things were really picked up after I met my friends. One of them, Gourdy, had a firework competition with another man in the plaza. This was great, except they kept falling over and flying into the crowd. Then the bands kicked off, led by heavy drums they pounded ceaselessly. While the marchers in headdresses and machetes danced, fireworks were thrown around by the crowd—sparks hit me in the head and hand—and the masked men wheeled through the crowd, their hats spraying out pyrotechnics and clouds of toxic smoke.
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