Galápagos Sketches—A Village Feast Day by Lorraine Caputo

3 September/ Santa Rosa

… and it’s Santa Rosa village’s feast day. Even though the venerable Saint Rose is now officially fêted on 23 August, still many parts of Andean South America honor her on her former sacred day, 30 August. But ni modo (never mind), the festivities are to be this weekend. I walk up to the corner a few blocks from the daily municipal market to catch a flete (collective pick-up taxi). A bus pulls up instead. Many are also heading to the highlands of Santa Cruz Island.

I take the bus to its last stop, not really sure where to get off. The last of us pile out in front of the soccer field. At 10:30 this morning, a game is full on.

I find my way to the center of this small town, on the other side of the highway, and its small block and tin-roof church. A pew is across the entranceway. Inside, several nuns in short-skirted, off-white habits are sweeping the nave. I ask one if today is the festivities.

“Well, they should have been on Thursday, but because of the work week, we are having them this weekend.”

“And what will there be?”

She pauses her sweeping. “A mass to our Santa Rosa, a bike race, a horse show. Food for sale at the school, and beer.” I raise my eyebrow. “Oh, and a raffle.”

“And will there be a corrida (bullfight)?”

“Yes, of course. After the mass.”

“And the procession?”

“No, we had that last weekend. And the beauty pageant, too. All week, we had Bible study.”

“Ah, but before it all, is the football game, eh?”

“Oh, who won?”  Her voice is eager, her face brightens.

“I don’t know. It was still going on when I was up that way.”

I bid her farewell. I can hear the light swoosh of the straw of her broom upon rough tiles as I leave. She said the mass would be at 2 p.m. I have over two hours to pass before then.

I begin walking aimlessly down a road out of town. I hope to see a vermillion flycatcher, a bird that is becoming increasingly more difficult to see in these highlands. Instead, I see cattle egrets and smooth-billed ani—both invasive species—and the ever-present Darwin’s finches. Young men are preparing their horses, heavy rugs beneath plain wooden saddles. And too many pick-ups kick up the fine volcanic soil of this camino.

I hear music blaring from loudspeakers in front of the school. It must be getting nigh time for the festivities. By the time I arrive, the announcements are being made for the day’s events. “In fifteen minutes, the bicycle race to Bellavista and back will begin. Grand prize $50.”

I stroll around the school grounds. The line for the fried pork, stewed chicken, and barbecue is much longer than before. More buses and more pick-ups arrive.

“Politicians, please turn off your announcements. This is a religious celebration. Ten minutes before the bicycle race. All vehicles must leave the road, please.”

The mass is to begin shortly after they leave. I take a seat on a back pew. One of the nuns sidles up to me. “Perhaps you could do me a favor.”

“What’s that, sister?”

“Buy a raffle ticket for the chanchito.”

A chanchito. Now, chancho is the word for “pork.”  But I’d better make sure here. “A live chanchito, sister?”

“Oh, yes. He’s tied up just out in the garden.”  Indeed, I had seen a very small piglet out there when I came in.

“But, sister, what would I do with a piglet?  I live in Puerto Ayora.”

“Well, put it on the roof of your house.”

“I have no house, sister. I am a volunteer—at the station.”  I can see this now, introducing an invasive species into the national park itself.

She takes off after another likely prospect, “Excuse me, sir. Perhaps you could do me a favor?”

The priest clears his throat. This saintly virgin (or virginly saint, I guess it would be) listens to the words and the music in her honor and watches the preparation of the host. Not many people crowd into here. As a matter of fact, there’s standing room for at least fifty more in this small church. Some faces I recognize from town. Solanda is in the choir. Sitting up near the front is the señora of the bakery where I buy my bread, intent on the sermon. Old don Ramos, one of the maintenance men at the station, is standing near the back.

Afterward, I take a perch up on a mound of stones. It allows me a perfect view of the bull-fighting ring, which is set up in a field across from the iglesia, just behind the new community center being built. The racers have returned, and the prize money is being rewarded. “The truck is going to pick up the cattle. In the meantime, we shall have the horse race—one kilometer from the town entrance. Fifteen minutes to the horserace. Riders, register now.”

The rise to my right is packed with people awaiting the bulls. The roof of the unfinished building is likewise crowded with many people. “Kids,” says the announcer, “please get off the top of the acoustic dome. We shall not be responsible for any accident.”

“Ten minutes to the horse race. Please, all vehicles leave the road.”  Yet more buses and pick-ups are arriving with celebrants. “I understand the truck has arrived now to get the cattle. Soon, they will be arriving here. Five minutes to the horserace.”

Of the six contestants, only three arrive at the finish line. One dropped out of the race before it even began—and two horses froze at the starting line. The second and third-place riders are brothers. And the winner of the raffle for the piglet: the wife of the largest local hog farmer. “Just what she needs, another cochinito,” the announcer says.

More and more people are taking places up on the roof. The announcer has given up on warning people up there. Kids are sitting on the top-rung of the bamboo bullring. A truck enters and blocks our perfect view from the top of this mound. People begin shouting, “Move the truck, move the truck.”  It ain’t moving. “The cattle is here. Mr. Vásquez, please move your blue pick-up so the truck can get in. Mr. Vásquez.”  A second truck pulls up to the gateless opening of the rink. Our view, I now realize, is going to be hopelessly blocked. I go down for a ringside view, peering through the rungs of the ring and the legs hanging down from above.

The first beast is shoved out of the truck’s back: a vaca brava. And she sure is a fierce cow. Several men in various states of sobriety take their turns with her. One uses a sheet nailed to a stick as his cape; another, a rain poncho; a third, a small red flag with the number twenty-nine. She charges one after another. The men tumble as the run from her sharp horns. After about a half hour, she is shoved back into the truck, and a yearling bull (literally) is kicked out.

These same men take their turns at him. But the young toro just won’t have anything to do with this. Twice, he jumps back into the truck. I yell, “Let the poor thing be. He doesn’t want to play your games.”  The people around me stare at me as if I were crazy. “Look, he’s more intelligent than those dang men are. Let him be.”

But still, each time he is shoved out, dozens of legs kicking his sides. The humans finally get smart and shut the tailgate. A young man leaps from a rung of the bullring onto the bull’s back as he passes. A few steps later, that human has a mouthful of dirt.

The poor bull again tries to jump back in, slamming against the gate. Folks push and slap him to get back into the fray of action. He aimlessly walks around the perimeter, three young men mounting him. They fall off as one.

The yearling tries to crawl under the truck this time but is pulled out. Another pair of youth mounts him. He bucks, throwing them. His tired body falls atop them, then suddenly gets up and tries to jump through the now-open tailgate. He falls flat, his weary body unable to jump those four feet to freedom. The arm of one of those young men is hanging—perhaps broken, perhaps dislocated. The announcer calls the end of this action, reminding people that there is still deep-fried pork and stewed chicken at the school. “The women won’t have to worry about cooking tonight. What’s that? No, no, the barbecue’s gone.”

In the closing day, people begin to line the road for a pick-up truck, a bus back to Bellavista to Puerto Ayora. One after one passes by. I manage to squeeze into the back of one pick-up. The breeze of this sunset and the coming garúa (mist) tangles my hair.