We knew we were close, despite the fact that we couldn’t see where everyone was, because of the familiar rhythmic pounding that accompanies these types of gatherings. That bass, thumping, pulsing, like a heartbeat. In essence, it is the heartbeat of these festivities. It certainly can’t be too old of a tradition, given that the equipment needed to power loud, earth shaking music is itself relatively recent. But you would think it’s as old as the sun by the way people seem to not notice it. Of course they notice it, but they don’t notice it like one who isn’t accustomed to notice it does. Wordy, but nevertheless true. So it’s a recent heartbeat that’s been acquired, and one that hit fertile social soil and has dug deep roots.
Two ambiances, one indoors, the other, out. Two sets of speakers loud enough to power a rock concert at a stadium. Directly across the street, not more than 10 meters away, a minivan with speakers on its roof that span the entire length and width of the roof. They too pump out loud music—never coordinated with the other sets of speakers—and occasional shout outs to friends that ride by. Inside the gymnasium—the indoor ambiance—merengue holds sway, with intermittences of cumbia. Two couples dance as I walk to the bathroom, prompted by the beer and the bootleg booze I’ve just downed. The bathroom trip, that is, not the couples dancing. The booze is orange, sweet, and powerful. They serve it to us in small plastic cups. They serve it to us from a truck that is full of coolers. They, I presume, will drive up to the spot where we’ll rest halfway through our horseback journey, in order to give us more booze.
It’s 10 to 12, which means its 50 minutes past the time when we should have started off on our horses, but that prospect looks dim. Still, the deafening music pounds on. You feel it before you hear it. The grit of the speakers, not really in shape for that amount of bass, meets a grit in your bones. We are told that lunch will be served in 10 minutes, and that we’ll ride shortly thereafter. Being too full from the rice and beans, sausage, bread, tortilla, cheese and coffee I had for breakfast, I refrain from eating. I want to ride horse on a light stomach.
Men ride in on horses, tying them on the grass field adjacent to the outdoor ambiance. At this point, a guy sings as he comps some piano chords over some pre-recorded bass and drum loops. He sings about a broken heart, and lovely despair. The men, meanwhile, make entries. In grandiose ways they manage to call as much attention to themselves as possible, while pretending to be discrete. The more their horses can dance, the more of an entrance they make. The horses side-step, back-step, whine, shake their heads violently up and down. The men focus. One man dashes across the field, his horse turning abruptly at the end. They dance there for a minute. We who sit at little tables under a big tent, watch. It’s a nice sight. There is mastery over the horses, and these beasts are beautiful. The entrances vary in duration, but last on average around 10 minutes. They dissipate in anti-climatic fashion, as the horses are tied up to wooden poles, and the men join the rest of us, to watch the next who will enter. Either that, or they go get their booze. They probably do both.
We are here for a horseback ride that will benefit a family who has recently had a kidney transplant surgery carried out for their son. The donor, the kid’s father, is at the festivity, and still looks pale. The trip costs $10, plus another $10 to rent a horse. This includes lunch, two tickets for beverages, and all the bootleg booze you could want. Feeling full of spirit after my first drink, I decide to pace myself. Not so, for the lot of men. Women are drinking too, but it’s not as public a display as when the men drink. They laugh, boisterously, and toast, indefinitely. They hug their buddies and greet new ones. They finish their drinks and quickly top them off again. They ask you why your cup is empty and why you don’t have a beer.
The women do more of looking. They look at you and they look at each other. They are a sight too. They wear tight jeans and boots with tall thin heels. Their hair is nice and their faces made up. The rule of the day is checkered buttoned shirts, and I too am wearing one.
A man finally brings our horses. One for the three of us: Guiselle, Dani, and me. Kate and our other friend, Alex, watch as we wait on our horses. Everyone who is riding is on their beast, so we must be leaving soon. But it is not so. Kate and Alex take pictures. After a while, they get bored, decide they had enough, and go home. At this point, I feel like maybe I’ve had enough too, but I want to ride so bad, so I wait.
As we wait, drunk guys get their horses riled up. They gallop where there is no room for galloping. They bump past you as they go to push their friends. More drinking and toasts. Bottoms up, festive cries. I sit calmly, noticing what in my head I think is stupidity meshed with just a good time. It’s nice, too, to see so many people out to support a family in need. My ears, in turn, are in need too. Need of respite.
Later, we start off. After many calls over the loud speakers, asking us not to gallop because there are small children joining us, we gallop off. A drunk guy wiggles precariously over his horse. His horse is a noble beast, acquiescing to the drunken fool’s every command.
The trot is led, not by horseback riders, but by the minivan with the loudspeakers on its roof. It blares more of the monotonous cumbia and rancheras. Next in line, is the truck, carrying men who carry gallons of the orange elixir. Men ride up to the side to drink. The drunken fool continuous to be an idiot. Then, the sound of motorcycles revving their engines joins us. This is followed by motorcyclists weaving in and out the 500 or so horseback riders. They ride on the sides of the road, on the grass, in the drainage ditches. They ride loudly and precariously. One horse, startled, kicks the back wheel of a motorcycle, prompting cheers of joy and laughter from the crowd. Not because of any animosity towards the motorcyclist, but just because.
We stop at various points on our ascend, for drinking of course. I myself have not had another sip of booze, but rather drink water from my backpack. An hour or so up the mountain, and we can see the Arenal lake to our right. It’s a beautiful day and a beautiful place. We all stop at a big clearing with a spectacular view. Horses tied up, people are crowding around the truck. It looks like refugees approaching a UN supply truck. But we are not exiled and we are not in need. We are, as a mass, inebriated. Pork rinds and boiled green bananas are given to us on plastic plates. These plates soon begin to dot the field, followed shortly by beer cans and plastic cups. Dani, our friend from Connecticut, and I seem to be the only ones that notice. I walk over to the truck and am automatically handed a cup with orange fuel. I elicit dismay upon turning down the drink. This is compounded by my question as to where I should put my trash. “Oh, on the side of the truck.”
There I find two huge garbage bags, hanging empty.
I walk over to the only person that can help me out: the guy in the minivan with the microphone. I ask him if he can say something over the loudspeaker to get people to throw their trash in the bags. He nods, without looking at me, and sends the message. His call is followed by that of another mc, who asks us to be mindful of our environment. On my way back to where I was before, I notice an appreciable decline in the amount of litter. Still, I walk with another man, picking up debris. Everyone is mostly on their horses by now.
We all leave shortly thereafter. The remainder of the trip is calmer for me. I ride ahead of most of the crowd, so I can ride alone. My horse is great, and I let him know that I feel this way. He, in turn, gallops as fast as he can, when I prompt him so. Back at the place where it all started, I wait for Dani and Guiselle, so we can take our horses back to their stable. The bass, ever so present, is right where I had left it. Dooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmm, boooooooooooom, dooooooooooooom.
The party continued. More drinking, some idiots fighting, more music. We left, exhausted, happy, perplexed, and sore. It was a day of festivities that had turned into night. With feelings of hooves pounding, in bed, I thought about reading a bit, but opted instead, for shutting my eyes.
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