Every November 1, the men of Todos Santos prove time and again why it is a good idea that the town keeps its no alcohol policy. Although Todos Santos is a dry town, it is legal to consume alcohol on el día de los muertos--the day of the dead.
On this day, people throughout Guatemala go to the cemeteries where deceased family members rest. They remember the dead and bring food and drinks to their graves. They also fly kites as a way to honor their family members. The towns of Santiago and Sumpango are the most visited on this day, and hundreds of giant homemade kites line the sky.
I, however, took a different route for día de los muertos. In Todos Santos, a town about seven hours from Antigua, they celebrate día de los muertos with a drunken horse race on November 1 and visit the cemetery the day after. The tradition is very dangerous, and men have died in the past. They say if someone does die, the harvest will be good that year. So either way, it is bad news.
We woke up at 5:15 in the morning to get to Todos Santos from San Pedro on Lake Atitlan. After about seven hours in three different chicken buses, we arrived. The center of town was reminiscent of an American town fair. A Ferris wheel rose high above any other building, merry-go-rounds operated as men pushed them to turn and tents with games and food occupied the majority of the area.
People played games in the tents until late at night.
Mmmm. Chocolate covered strawberries.
We heard of one event for the night, a dance in the town’s gymnasium. However, we left quickly after learning men had to pay 40 quetzales and women 20. We decided to walk around town, and would have gone home within the hour if we hadn’t run into Anibol, a Todos Santos native. He told us of another dance where all the men who would participate in the horse race were.
The party was far from the expected. From a distance, you can hear the marimbas playing, which sound cheerful and somewhat childish. But the moment you enter, you realize you are far from an innocent children’s party. The men were all wasted. And when I say wasted, I am not talking about a freshman year college party when half the people don’t know how to hold their drinks. I had never in my life seen so many people so belligerently drunk in one room at the same time. Men were passed out, scattered on the floor like litter thrown on the ground. The ones that were still standing had an expressionless look on their faces, replaced by an alcohol-induced gaze. One man who could barely stand had such watery eyes that I swore it was the excessive alcohol pouring through. He fell and tried to reach for someone to pick him up, but the surrounding men hid their arms behind their backs, refusing to help. A few fights erupted for no apparent reason, and the men would knock over a few of the close bystanders.
The men that would be riding the horses the next day dressed in colorful outfits and donned hats with feathers. The other men wore typical traje with red and white striped pants that resemble pajama pants and a blue and white striped shirt with a more intricate designed collar.
For the most part, only men were on the dance floor. Two foreign women danced, but the rest stood on the side watching. Everyone danced with the basic two steps, but their bodies flopped around like a fish dying because they were so drunk. If the men did dance with a woman, they only held one hand and continued the two basic steps. As they danced, the men would scream out hyena calls, particularly at the beginning of a song.
A younger man asked me to dance, and I figured it was harmless. You didn't get too close to one another and everyone was so drunk that it did not matter whether you were a good dancer or not. When we stopped dancing, another man came up to me to dance. Then after his turn on the dance floor, a much older man approached me. This man was a little more touchy than the other two. Although it doesn't seem much, he grabbed my shoulder with his other hand and pulled me in closer. I couldn't tell if he simply needed to hold on for balance, but either way, I was not comfortable. I kept pushing his hand off, but he would put it right back. When the song was over, I left him, and immediately two other men came up to me asking to dance. Turned off by my last one, I said no. The same touchy man came back, and when I rejected him, he screamed "soooolo uuuuuuna!" the way a child does when he doesn't get a chocolate bar he wants. "Just one more!" I said no, and the conversation repeated over for a few minutes until I walked away in frustration.
When I did have a conversation of more than three words, I learned the majority of the men had lived in the United States, even a 21-year-old I met. He was there for two years working, and now is continuing his education. When I walked around Todos Santos, it surprised me that most of the houses were nice two story buildings, but after hearing about their stories in the US, it made sense. The men send back money to finance the construction of these houses, and you can clearly see how far American dollars go in Guatemala.
The next day, the men were just as drunk as the night before, particularly those who would be riding the horses. The races started at eight in the morning until six at night, with a two-hour break in the afternoon. The men rode back and forth on one street covered in dirt. Apparently, someone marks down who wins each time, but I did not see anyone keeping track.
Ready. Set. Go!
"Waaaaahhhaaaaaaa!"
Men close by help a fallen horseman.
All the racers wore the feathers on top of their hats.
Wake up! You have a race to win!
Men's typical traje.
Despite the race's repetitive nature, you can’t keep your eyes off the race because the men are very interesting to watch. I also had less of a chance to get bored because I could only stay for the first two and half hours. I needed to get back to work the next day, and transportation was limited on the holiday. Each man has his own specific reaction as he races from one side of the road completely inebriated. A few could not keep their bodies up, while one man sat straight up and held his hands out in the air. Several screamed in the same hyena pitched voice we heard the night before at the dance. The crowd would erupt into giggles and chatter when one made his own original scream, "Waheeeeeowwww!"
How he did not fall off, I do not know.
Crowds surrounded the street where the horses raced.
Just watching, I was scared for them.
The face and belly hanging out say everything.
I witnessed three falls. A group of men would run to pick up the fallen man, and the race would continue. The second man who fell lay there for some time, and those around me began to scream in anger, "Where is the ronda?! Are they sleeping? The ronda needs to pay attention!" Luckily, this year no one died. Let’s hope the crops come out better than the fallen men.
