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We embarked on another excursion with Quetzaltrekkers, 4 days to and from Todos Santos for Day of the Dead celebrations.
A whole day on chicken buses didn't put us in the best of moods to climb a mountain the next day, but I did manage to get a kiss on the cheek from a boy on the bus who asked me if my hair was painted. I had noticed the rest of the group laughing at me chatting to the 9-year-old Pedro, and they congratulated me on picking up a new boyfriend. When I told Pedro this he blushed, gave Mike a concerned look, and refused to talk to me for the rest of the journey. As our pack of gringos stood up to leave, though, he stood up too and leaned up to peck me on the cheek and say goodbye. Score.
We passed a cold, cold night in Ventiroso (the windy city), warmed only by a brief visit to another temescal, this time less smokey but much smaller, and with a lot less privacy as we re-dressed ourselves behind a blowing sheet as small children ran by, giggling at the nekid gringos.
The next day we hiked El Corre, the highest non-volcanic peak in Central America at a little over 3000m. It was a scorching, clear-sky day with panoramic views that reached the border with Mexico and all the way over to Tajamulco. We got to the top where an optimistic sign read "Coffee for $1". There was no coffee.
We did, however, get cookies and a story. Our guide, Geronimo, told us about his experience of the civil war in the 80s. Caught betweem the lies of the guerillas who used their small community as cover, and the sheer violence of the army that stormed their houses in the early hours of the morning, Geronimo told us of his uncle who was tortured by the army; they believed him to be the leader of the guerillas who had in fact abandoned them, and to whom his uncle had never shown any allegiance. Stabbed, hanged and beaten, justifiably believed to be dead, Geronimo's uncle is still alive today, aged 72 and revived with the help of copious drinks of urine (a life-saving cure, though I still have my doubts).
Sitting near the top of the world, it seemed, with only the wind making noise and with life down below too small to perceive, Geronimo's stories brought back the duality of Guatemala's contemporary world and it's so recent past traumas. Thriving on tourism now, only a few decades ago people were fleeing Guatemala's war-torn country. Many of Geronimo's friends, and much of his family, fled to Mexico to escape the civil war, and to this day refuse to return.
We next began the descent, through alpine cloud forests and waterfalls that fell off the side of the mountain into nowhere. A 3 hour walk along a river, through fields of yuca, corn and pigs, and we arrived in Todos Santos.
A tiny, dry town for the rest of the year, for 3 days it becomes something entirely different. As alcohol and tourists from all over Guatemala pour in, the town becomes violently alive.
Loud music pours from everywhere - mobile phones, tiendas, ladies selling fried chicken, a live band in the square, a church next door attempting to compete, the multiple games/gambling stalls that have been set up, and the giant ferris wheel that spins terrifically and terrifyingly fast on rickety hinges and rusty booths.
Fried chicken is everywhere. It's the only thing to eat in this town. It's good, but not good for us - half our 30-strong group were struck down with food poisoning on the first night.
And the beer. We didn't realise at first that Todos Santos was dry for the rest of the year, which explained why every male we met was stumbling into things and generally not doing to good a job of staying upright. They weren't drinking a lot, but they were most definitely plastered.
Todos Santos is a rare place in Guatemala even without its traditional annual celebrations, for the fact that everyone wears traditional dress. The men are decked out in stylin' red and white striped trousers, blue/purple striped shirts and boater or cowboy hats. The women wear embroidered tops tucked into long elborately embroidered skirts, with beautiful, intricate belts around their waist.
Sitting on the steps of a barberia at 9pm, watching 4 men drunkenly dance to music that must have only been playing in their heads, it was like being back at uni, or seeing a stag do in its final stages in the early hours of the morning. But it was 9pm, there was no laughing or joking, and about 20 locals were sat with us, stoically watching the 4 men, too. For a fiesta, it seemed, there wasn't much celebrating going on.
Noticing how the men moved about in groups, we asked the locals what the deal was. It turned out those most drunk, in the middle of the groups, were the riders for tomorrow's infamous horse race. And they don't stop drinking, either - the idea is to keep them awake, and drinking, at all costs until the first race at 8am.
Drink driving? Try drink riding for a crash course (crash being the operative word) in how not to live your life.
At 8 am we walked to the race course - a 100m stretch of road that had been lined with flimsy fencing and coated with sand. Low and behold, looking a lot worse for wear and struggling to stay on his docile horse, the first rider appeared. Screaming, drunkenly singing, and struggling to stay upright and conscious, he had free reign of the track for a good half hour before the rest drabbled in.
2 hours later, and there were 30 racers all going. At each end they'd drink a shot of beer or quetzalteca, the Guatemalan spirit (a slightly sweeter vodka taste), and feed one to their horse for luck. Some would still be carrying their frothing beers as they rode back to the other end. A few stumbles, a few falls, a good number of riders regaining consciousness halfway down the track, and by 12 the first race was done.
Our lunch was fried chicken, theirs was... well, in liquid form, surprise surprise.
The next step was, naturally, to introduce chickens into the race. By their neck was most popular, by their foot was a close second, and a few daring racers held onto a desperate, flapping chicken by its wing. Holding them aloft, the racers screamed their pride as they raced past, or maybe they were just screaming to keep themselves awake.
We had our favourite. A middle-aged man with a smokin' moustache called Pablo. He'd been the first to race, alone in the morning, and he was still going strong even now, whereas dozens of other, younger racers had been popping in and out. Pablo, in his Matrix-shades and disregard for his flying hat, had won the gringos' cheers.
And speaking of, we were the only ones cheering. Like the night before, the locals sat quietly and calmly watching. There were no cheers for the flamboyant and no gasps for the near-crashes or the actual-crashes.
And there were a few of those.
It suddenly got real when a particularly drunk teenager joined the race late (the riders had been coming and going whenever the felt like it). By the time he started racing forward, 30 other riders had already started back. Screams of "Stop!" and hands trying to grab his horse didn't even filter into his head, and his reaction times were pretty much abolished. Almost at full speed, 30 against 1 crashed.
We'd been told that it's considered good luck for the town's harvest if a rider died during the races, and we'd laughed it off as part of the ancient tradition, when the racers were considered sacrifices to the gods. Now, though, watching the damage done within a few seconds, it became very real. And we started to wonder if maybe this was why the townsmen and women weren't cheering or outwardly excited.
Even though we were assured the boy was alive - his limp, unconscious form as he was carried off suggested otherwise - the race had lost its fun and its glamour. There were no medical services nearby, and we'd seen the locals shun a Western girl as she tried check the boy's vitals (we'd heard her telling them she was a doctor), instead choosing to attempt to shake the boy awake.
I'm sure he was fine, and I certainly like to think that he is uninjured, but it brought home the reality that young teens were getting blind drunk and jumping on horses, and no one was stopping them. We'd heard that a good number of racers had died in previous years, but again, it didn't seem real until we saw it almost happen.
It's an extraordinary event, culturally unique and something to shock your system and your moral codes, whatever they may be, into new alignment, whatever that may be. But I wouldn't return. And having spoken to the other foreign tourists we met there, they felt the same.
As the race ended, and night fell, the street became littered with fights and bloody faces.
Despite this, Mike and I had a great time playing fusball with a quickly growing group of kids, who had seen us playing and come to watch. We were a group of 6 gringos playing each other, and then suddenly we were 6 gringos recruiting a team of kids to play each other.
After learning that Guatemalan fusball involves a lot more spinning and table shaking than American, we ate more fried chicken, and dared to go on the ferris wheel. We survived, but I'm sure our screams are still echoing around the valley.
At 5am the next day we were awoken by a series of large and loud explosions. This was nothing new. Throughout the week leading up to dia de los muertos, towns throughout Guatemala had been setting off loud rockets, and Todos Santos had done so continuously throughout the day before. These explosions, however, marked the start of the cemetery procession.
Compact and kaleidoscopic, tombs of all sizes, colours and themes were covered in remembrances and familial tokens as their family members came to pay their wishes.
Outside of the cemetery, at 8am, women had already set up their fried chicken stands and were doing good business.
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