November 1, 2006: Dia de los meurtes!
Todos Santos was a success!
We left at 6:15 a.m. on the first boat to Pana and arrived just over seven hours, three buses, and a pick-up truck later. The last leg of our journey in the back of the pick-up was up a tortured twisted road up increasingly steeper, cactus-dotted slopes.
Thanks to the clouds most of the time we had only a foggy notion of where we were going.
Even when we could see the road, the view got increasingly hazy thanks to our secret weapon:
And what a weapon!
To our surprise, the horse racing was still in full swing when we arrived. We joined the fray and watched the men ride back and forth and back and forth and back… and… forth… until we couldn't take it anymore than they could.
Just to clarify, the horseraces work like so: men get on a horse, ride a lap, have a drink, turn around and ride another lap back, have another drink, ride another lap, etc. As the race progresses the men get handed more and more chickens to carry as they hurry from starting line to starting line. Things deteriorate from there. Did I mention this all takes place *after* staying up all night drinking? Last man left riding is declared the winner, earning enough social prestige to last until he's dethroned the following year.
Being that the object is to be the last man left on a horse, we saw many men unceremoniously thrown from their steeds. It’s considered bad luck if someone *doesn’t* die at the annual horse races, which probably explains the lack of enthusiasm in tending to the fallen. A useless circle of concern would grow around these victims of circumstance until someone managed to revive them enough to help them limp away with what little remained of their pride, or at least turn them over so they wouldn't choke on their own vomit. That's my head in there attempting to attend to one of the fallen. When he groaned in response to his friend's shouts, we settled for the recovery position.
As one of the few gringos at the event, I felt duty-bound to incur a couple of my own injuries. Note to self: don't stand on top of an eight-foot fence at a horse race after consuming a third of a bottle of rum.
On the bright side, it didn't hurt a bit.
Adam's way of commisserating with the locals was a little more sensible.
It was at this point in the day when things started to get a little hazy. Apparently I took this photo, which I think shows a tremendous amount of manual dexterity considering that I don’t remember a thing:
So the obvious thing to do was we make our way into Todos Santos proper.
The town is where the locals really started showing their true colours.
Even the dogs were drunk.
Note the complete absence of women. This is definitely a holiday for boys and men. The ladies don’t come out until the whole thing’s finished, to pick up the broken glass, and the broken men.
We found a little watering hole and settled in for a beer or six with a few locals.
Then it was time to go for a walk.
Todos Santos doesn’t pull any punches when it comes to the biggest day of the year. Troubadors wound their way through the carnival, and there were not one but two ferris wheels, including the world-record holder for speed. As Adam said, it hauled ass.
A little more wandering and we’d had enough. Unlike the locals, we found our way back to our beds before passing out.
With all the horsing around dispensed with, the next morning was time to visit the dead at the local cemetery. The graves of the dearly departed had all been spiffed up with a fresh coat of paint for the big day, and the men had hauled out the family xylophones for a day of drinking and man-dancing while the women lit candles and wept and wailed. Cotton-candy, beer and fire-cracker venders pushed their way through thickening crowds, completing the bizarre carnival atmosphere.
And finally it was time to hit the road again. Having missed the only bus out of Dodge (5:00 a.m. was a little too early for us), we started walking out of town till we caught a ride with a cattle truck. Somehow, the ride was a little less colourful than the previous day.
We made it back to the lake and home to the Iguana a little worse for wear, but still in time to regale our hosts with tales of Adventure and Strife over dinner and drinks. The End.
We left at 6:15 a.m. on the first boat to Pana and arrived just over seven hours, three buses, and a pick-up truck later. The last leg of our journey in the back of the pick-up was up a tortured twisted road up increasingly steeper, cactus-dotted slopes.
Thanks to the clouds most of the time we had only a foggy notion of where we were going.
Even when we could see the road, the view got increasingly hazy thanks to our secret weapon:
And what a weapon!
To our surprise, the horse racing was still in full swing when we arrived. We joined the fray and watched the men ride back and forth and back and forth and back… and… forth… until we couldn't take it anymore than they could.
Just to clarify, the horseraces work like so: men get on a horse, ride a lap, have a drink, turn around and ride another lap back, have another drink, ride another lap, etc. As the race progresses the men get handed more and more chickens to carry as they hurry from starting line to starting line. Things deteriorate from there. Did I mention this all takes place *after* staying up all night drinking? Last man left riding is declared the winner, earning enough social prestige to last until he's dethroned the following year.
Being that the object is to be the last man left on a horse, we saw many men unceremoniously thrown from their steeds. It’s considered bad luck if someone *doesn’t* die at the annual horse races, which probably explains the lack of enthusiasm in tending to the fallen. A useless circle of concern would grow around these victims of circumstance until someone managed to revive them enough to help them limp away with what little remained of their pride, or at least turn them over so they wouldn't choke on their own vomit. That's my head in there attempting to attend to one of the fallen. When he groaned in response to his friend's shouts, we settled for the recovery position.
As one of the few gringos at the event, I felt duty-bound to incur a couple of my own injuries. Note to self: don't stand on top of an eight-foot fence at a horse race after consuming a third of a bottle of rum.
On the bright side, it didn't hurt a bit.
Adam's way of commisserating with the locals was a little more sensible.
It was at this point in the day when things started to get a little hazy. Apparently I took this photo, which I think shows a tremendous amount of manual dexterity considering that I don’t remember a thing:
So the obvious thing to do was we make our way into Todos Santos proper.
The town is where the locals really started showing their true colours.
Even the dogs were drunk.
Note the complete absence of women. This is definitely a holiday for boys and men. The ladies don’t come out until the whole thing’s finished, to pick up the broken glass, and the broken men.
We found a little watering hole and settled in for a beer or six with a few locals.
Then it was time to go for a walk.
Todos Santos doesn’t pull any punches when it comes to the biggest day of the year. Troubadors wound their way through the carnival, and there were not one but two ferris wheels, including the world-record holder for speed. As Adam said, it hauled ass.
A little more wandering and we’d had enough. Unlike the locals, we found our way back to our beds before passing out.
With all the horsing around dispensed with, the next morning was time to visit the dead at the local cemetery. The graves of the dearly departed had all been spiffed up with a fresh coat of paint for the big day, and the men had hauled out the family xylophones for a day of drinking and man-dancing while the women lit candles and wept and wailed. Cotton-candy, beer and fire-cracker venders pushed their way through thickening crowds, completing the bizarre carnival atmosphere.
And finally it was time to hit the road again. Having missed the only bus out of Dodge (5:00 a.m. was a little too early for us), we started walking out of town till we caught a ride with a cattle truck. Somehow, the ride was a little less colourful than the previous day.
We made it back to the lake and home to the Iguana a little worse for wear, but still in time to regale our hosts with tales of Adventure and Strife over dinner and drinks. The End.
posted by Unknown at
5:57 a.m.
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