Thursday, May 21, 2009

Balseria

The summer was ending.

The rains were coming.

The traditions called for it.

The people wanted it.

The time was ripe.

Balseria.


They came from all over.

They came to Ceble.

They came from tiny villages.

They came from our town.

They came from the capital.

They came from the other side of the mountains.

They came from San Felix, and San Lorenzo, and one even came from San Francisco, CA.

There must have been 300, at least.


They had made the chicha fuerte and sancocho.

They had covered hats with vulture feathers sticking straight up high.

They had fashioned musical instruments from turtle shells and cow horns, bones and conchs, and bits of left over modern trash.

They had dried out hunting trophies in splayed eagle to hang on their back: jaguars, sloths, monkeys, and a little squirrel.

And they had cut the balsa wood in five foot lengths.



The slightly sloping field can be seen from our town.

A lush green of short grass dotted with large black volcanic rocks.

We three girls and three boys hiked for over an hour and a half.

The trail drops off precipitously at first and then picks its way over hill and creek.

The sun was shining high and strong.

We were sweaty from the start.


The Balseria had started a few days before.

We had been planning to go for some time.

We learned that it had been moved, and then moved back.

We heard the balsa throwing would continue for one morning more.

We didn’t want to miss this.


We passed people on the trail headed in the opposite direction.

We asked each for the latest news.

“Are they still throwing the balsa?”

“Is there still chicha fuerte?”

“Are people still there?”


Many of these people had mashed up faces, swollen lips, cut eyes.

They had blood on their shirts.

Vomit on their chins.

Grass and mud on their knees.

They walked with a limp.

Sometimes we passed them without a word for they were passed out under a tree.


We arrived.

We were questioned.

They wanted to know who we were.

Why we were there.

Then our friend saw us.

He wanted to know who was the owner of these women.

Ryu and Eli pointed at me.

Lisa and Steph laughed.

Jen protested, loudly, in English.

We saw more friends,

We drank the chicha fuerte.

We tried to get our faces painted.

We made new friends.

We drank much chicha fuerte.


We joined the groups in the main field.

Only men were playing then, though women do, too.

Each group was split into two teams.

The teams came from the same family or village.

There was much bellowing, oohing, ahhing, and hooting.

Many men were wearing naguas (Ngobe dresses) to hide their legs.


One man has the balsa.

Another stands his ground.

The balsa-thrower may skip in close, circle the target.

The balsa-dodger might taunt, blow a whistle.

The thrower cocks his arm lifting the balsa high.

The dodger rolls to the balls of his feet.

Like a javelin, the balsa flies.

Only between knee and ankle can the balsa fly.

Like a dancer, the dodger’s feet move.

IT FLIES.

IT STRIKES!



The dodger’s teams race to pick up the balsa.

The thrower becomes the dodger.

The one who got the balsa becomes the thrower.

The dance begins again.



Eli, Ryu, and I race after the balsa.

We are excited to try our luck.

I get the balsa after a throw.

I chuck it rather lamely, easily dodged.

It is the receiving that I want more.

Balsa wood is a light wood.


I had planned to let them hit me.

I had planned to show my Alaskan strength.

I had thought that the balsa would be shorter.

I had thought that the balsa would be thrown sideways.

I had assumed it wouldn’t hurt much.

I was wrong.


The other side picks up the balsa.

There is much shouting for the throw at the gringo.

The other man begins to approach, running in a circle.

He moves in right to my shoulder.

He wants me to be scared.

He wants me to be distracted.

He backs up to throw.

I lose my nerve, try to dodge.

I throw my left leg out straight in fear.

The balsa hits my right leg, not fast enough to evade.

The inside of my right calf explodes with pain.

I do not fall or cry out,

But I regret my decision to show off.


The welt rose immediately.

The welt continued to rise for some time.

The welt drained blood into my ankle hollow.

The bruise was ugly for some time.


The rest of the day I dodged much better.

We drank more chicha fuerte.

We played the turtle and the horn.

We whistled and bellowed, oohed and ahhed.

I didn’t get hit again. Ryu, twice. Eli, not at all.


The women fended off marriage proposals.

Normally shy, respectful men become enamored.

"You are the sun in the sky.”

“I do not yet have a blonde wife.”

“Come meet my other wife to see if you like each other.”

Not one proposal was sufficient to ensnare a gringa.


At midday, the bare-knuckle fist fighting began.

Shirts were removed to protect them.

Men stepped up to square off.

Always one man fought with only one man.

They aimed for the head and nowhere else.


I had planned to fist fight as well.

I saw the bulging farmers’ arms and chests.

I saw the blood flowing freely.

I saw that the fights don’t end quickly.

I chose not to fight.


We hiked home early in the afternoon.

We started off a little tipsy.

Soon the sun and hiking cooked the booze out.

I had to limp a little for a week.

Ah, balseria, we can’t wait for next year.