LOS PAYASOS

I’m on a narrow street in front of a bar. Across from me is a butcher shop that has second story seating with a view of the street. People are all around me, everywhere I look there are people, jumping and dancing to a live band, a trumpet blaring and drums going off. Chanting and singing with sounds unmistakably Latino, the only word I manage to decipher is BARVA! BARVA! To my left, a skewer of chicharrón flies through the air and lands in a boy’s hands. The same hands take a swig of creamy, blue moonshine out of a windshield wiper fluid container. Half an hour ago some Tico asked me if I felt like Anthony Bourdain, a gringo immersed in culture up to my eyeballs and wondering where the hell I went wrong. In that moment, I definitely did. In this moment, I can only take in what’s in front of me. Above the noise of the band is the thwack sound of bladders flying through the air and hitting people. Wait, what?

I spent Saturday afternoon being beaten with pig bladders by masked Costa Ricans of all ages and genders in the smelly streets of Barva. Am I joking? Not even a little bit. If the elevator pitch is making you queasy…I suggest skipping this blog post. If you’re like…what the actual fuck, don’t worry, I’ll explain it all. If you’re my mom…I’m sorry. And I know. Schifoso.

el gigante and la giganta leading the cimarrona through the streets of Barva

Mascaradas is one of the most well-known traditions in Costa Rica, and Barva is one of the most famous areas to celebrate. The festivals originated in a very historic and religious area of Costa Rica called Cartago, and only begun in Barva in the 1930’s. The festivals are based around wearing masks. There are two giant hand-made costumes called el gigante and la giganta. They lead the parade route by dancing and jumping with the band, the cimarrona. The rest of the community follows, wearing the most horrific masks you can think of. Some are tame, like Frankenstein’s monster or a geisha. Most of them are the types of Halloween masks that you see at the end of the street while trick-or-treating and turn on your heel. If you ask the people in Barva why they celebrate, they’ll tell you it’s in honor of their San Bartolomé, and it’s their tradition. It feels like one of those things that may have had a good reason a long time ago, and now it’s just done because it’s fun, and historical, and what they do.

The entire month there’s been these mini celebrations, festivals, and events in anticipation for this weekend, the main event. Where everyone (and I mean everyone) who lives in this little town dresses up, dons their horror movie masks, acquire their pig bladders, and heads to the packed streets of Barva Central. People dressed in Halloween costumes, their whackiest clothing, or hardly anything at all. The tweens took to dressing in painter’s jumpsuits, looking like demented ghostbusters with handkerchiefs around their necks. Tiny kids and grown adults alike dressed like asylum patients, like they just raided their grandma’s closet. It’s something you truly have to see to believe, which is why I took lots of pictures.

Now, let’s talk about the bladders. All shapes and size, real life, actual bladders that once worked inside of a pig, soaked in water, inflated with a straw and tied with nylon string for maximum whaling capabilities. (And yes, they smell. Not as bad as our friends made it seem, but it was very reminiscent of the farm next to the flight park.) Everyone wearing a mask has a pig bladder. Four year olds have pig bladders. Seventy year olds have pig bladders. Dudes who look like Meatloaf have eight pig bladders tied together to create one grotesque bladder flogger. Never have I ever been so terrified of children standing at a solid 3’5”. They hit the hardest. People who were wondering why Costa Rica is a blue zone, and everyone is so happy and healthy? It’s because from a young age, they work out all their problems in a Purge-esque release of anger and so they never need therapy. (I’m only half joking.)

And it really does feel like the Purge. At 2pm, the cannons fire. It has begun. We inhabit a quiet street, with few people, and wait. The sounds of distance fanfare and yelling can be heard. And then, from the end of the street, they appear. Horrifying, masked people dragging their weapons down the road, eyeing their sea of targets and waiting to strike.

And man do they hit. Some people just don’t have that dog in them, yanno? So it doesn’t hurt. It’s like if someone smacked you on the butt or the back and it’s like OW! but it didn’t really hurt, just surprised you. However a lot of them…holy shit, man. Twelve year olds leaving in their wake welts and bruises. Some people not even making eye contact with you before getting you right on the back of the neck, bits of bladder flying everywhere. When I said everyone participates, I mean hundreds, all range of ages, all genders. That being said, this is a thirteen-year-old boy’s paradise.

black gorilla mask guy was really working through some issues. dude coulda competed for sport.

So where did we fit in? And why the fuck—as I assume my mom will ask— did we participate? We’ve been looking forward to los payasos since October. When we arrived for our course, we heard stories about the crazed festival, like a Pagan Mardi Gras with less flashing. We knew we were deciding to live in a proud, old town, steeped in culture and tradition and community. And that was really exciting. There are festivals all over the world that I hope to participate in one day. Tomatina, Holi, Oktoberfest. It’s like without seeking it, this insane and coveted tradition just fell into our laps. The opportunity to be apart of something so foreign and so insanely different than our culture. Wild horses couldn’t keep us from getting smacked with those bladders. (Or, when a fun-spirted dude let us borrow his bladder and try it out on him, smacking others.)

So our friend Mau, who is a Barva native and always knows what’s happening at all times, offered to be our guide. For him, it’s just another year. When he was young, he was raiding the back of his mom’s closet like everyone else, hitting people with smelly pig bladders and terrorizing the streets of Barva. Now, his friends get together, and follow the parades for the afternoon, drinking beer (or Costa Rican moonshine) before settling at a bar to watch the madness unfold. I’m often grateful to have found a friend in Mau, and yesterday was no exception. He knew where the parades would be, he knew the best routes, he knew the chisme unfolding in the streets, he knew literally everyone. Our five minute walks turned into ten minutes because everyone we passed had to greet him or offer him a fist bump. And that’s pretty typical of Barvan natives. Everyone knows everyone. And people who leave Barva for bigger cities, or different parts of the country, are usually brought back for gatherings like los payasos. And so it was basically a town reunion for Mau, like Mr. Roger’s neighborhood, meanwhile we were dodging bladders left and right.

Everyone who noticed us and spoke English told us how crazy and fun they thought it was that we were there. They wanted to know what we thought, and they were interested to know if we were visiting, if we were enjoying our time, etc. I actually missed a lot of hits because people saw my camera and wanted me to take their picture. I probably took more pictures of posing goblins with bladders than I actually got hit with them. Same can’t be said for Shelbie, she did not have a camera. But it was all in good fun, and I even had some young boys who wanted me to take pictures of them beating up Shelbie. Amazing. (Of course I did, see below.)

It’s insane that in a sea of drunk people beating each other up, I felt really welcomed. Mau even told us how cool he thought it was that we were experiencing this. That we wanted to be a part of it. A lot of people kept saying it was “tough”. A “tough” tradition, “a tough” celebration that you have to be “tough” for. After getting over the hilarity of that concept and the foreigness of it all, I have to agree. And just feel super grateful to have gotten to experience it with such open, receiving people.

So in conclusion, yes it was gross. It was weird, and crazy, and at times a little uncomfortable. People were drunk, and rowdy, and children were unleashed onto the world like the maniacal little devils they are. People were wild with the safety of anonymity. But it was also hilarious, astounding, funny, energizing, and fun. It’s not a celebration for the weak of heart, or for people who don’t desire to be hit with pig bladders in the name of tradition. It’s a bit more…tough. ;)

And I’m so happy I got the opportunity to experience it and share it with y’all.

Love,

Lauren