Boruca, continued...

We spend most of the day perusing the village, looking at masks offered roadside or on the residents’ porches but return a few times to this tiny workshop. One corner of the floor inside serves as the community’s archaeological museum, holding a few petrified bones and some unusual rocks shaped by ancient hands.

I think of Fossil and its exposed hillsides of fossilized plants dating to 53 million years ago and its overflowing displays of pioneer goods at the local museum. I wonder how this tiny collection of archaeological findings was able to be found in the dense jungles of this remote place, forged from oceanic mountain crests just a geologically-recent two million years ago. Do these few pieces represent a few lifetimes of collecting, possibly more? Who has saved them for display?

Boruca is also known for its native weavings created from balls of cotton string and dyed with jungle plants. Primitive looms stand on nearly every porch and a communal grass hut holds the many-hued weavings of the women’s collective. There is a table displaying colorful belts, table coverings and bags of all sizes. Inside is the largest single plank I’ve ever seen, about five inches thick, five feet across and ten feet long. Its seat edges are worn smooth as stone from decades of use by women weavers.

The women’s collective is strong. Pecos gently attempts to negotiate a few prices on weavings and these women let him know that is not an option. He will not ask again. As he pulls out colones to pay, the women stand ready, palms outstretched. The artisan men sign their masks with their name and under it write that they too are part of the women’s collective.

I’m excited to learn that a Peace Corps (Cuerpo de Paz) worker has lived recently at Boruca! She has encouraged the continuation of traditional ancient arts, preservation of language, and increased recognition of the value of this almost vanished culture. She may have helped strengthen the collective. I stand on the sunny road of Boruca and feel tearfully proud to be the mom of a soon-to-be distant Peace Corps worker. I imagine Bri wearing colorful native dress and walking up the dusty paths of such a remote village with passion and good intention.

The Festival of the Devils is centuries old. Each year at midnight on December 31, a three day mock battle begins. A person costumed as a bull challenges one after another of tribesmen – all wearing colorful wood masks. The oldest men of the village put on head scarves and blow conch shells to announce the battle. Each time the bull wins. Finally, on the third day the bull is killed.

The enactment represents the invading Spaniards of centuries ago from South America and the success many years later of the indigenous peoples of Costa Rica to repel these aggressors. As we watch, a burlap bull takes on several masked young men of the village – and wins, temporarily.

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Late in the afternoon, we wind our way through the mountains again. It is not scary this time. Several miles from Boruca, a faded wood sign hanging in a tree bears a mask and points to a jungle-lane. We turn in to find a primitive house a little ways in. A cheerful man communicates that he too is from Boruca and we admire his displays of tribal masks, jewelry and a totem pole.

I buy a few necklaces of tiny drilled stones and seeds and Pecos buys a mask. We actually converse for a while as my Spanish has inexplicably taken a turn for the better and this man is also good at charades. We are each interested in the other’s lifestyle and have many questions.

As we are getting ready to leave our new friend tells us to wait. He returns with two icy-cold cups of something that is similar to hard apple cider with shallow foam on top and a decidedly corn taste. It is chi-cha, the traditional native drink of fermented corn! Not available on the market, this is comparable to moonshine, only of the centuries-old variety. I drink half of mine and give the rest to Pecos as fortitude for the driving. The chi-cha is delicious but strong.

What a great day to begin the new year! We are happy to have had the chance to taste the real Costa Rica or perhaps I should say, the real Boruca. 