The party began yesterday, with video game machines and Disneyworld-swings ruling the main square. The painfully loud marimba music filled the air while costumed people danced in masks. We are up early, headed for the village outskirts where a closed field waits for the stars of the day: the jockeys. The jockeys themselves are not too moved by all this commotion, tripping over each other in bright red and blue clothes topped by an impossible head ornament; they have been up all night finishing off the complete stock of Quetzalteca industrial alcohol the village collected in a year. Many of them are already asleep in the trenches along the road, the rest move in tight groups shouting loudly in Mam language, their ancient Maya dialect. The sun is already high and strong when the first contestants start their race. They gallop along a 300 meter long strip of road, and back. There, and back. After a while we realize there are no rules and this is not even a real race, since there are no winners or losers. The whole race revolves around the riders drinking vast amounts of beer and rum, while trying not to fall off. Of course as the day passes, their efforts to stay on the horses are less and less successful, with 3-4 riders at a time rolling in the dust under the hooves of a dozen horses running at full speed. We also learn that if any of them die, it is not considered a bad thing, on the contrary, it brings good like, something like the human sacrifices in ancient times. All this seems odd, of course, but we shouldn’t forget the fact that these people up here in the mountains suffered the worst atrocities from right-winged paramilitaries during the Civil War a few decades ago. Compared to those years a few guys breaking their necks during a fiesta is really nothing to worry about.