Boruca: Festival of the Devils

A hand-painted weathered sign edging a narrow dirt lane off the Pan-American Highway states that we have entered the reservation of the indigenous peoples of Costa Rica. This lane is hardly visible to speeding passers-by and we have found it by studying our map and every open patch of trees along a remote section of the Central American route. We are on our way to the tribal village of Boruca for the Festival of the Devils, or Fiesta de Los Diablitos.

The Borucas are one of three remaining indigenous tribes of Costa Rica, today numbering only a few thousand persons. They practice matriarchy and communal land ownership; their faith is a mix of Catholicism and animalism.

The road is treacherous at best and Pecos picks our way along it, dodging old mudslides, deep ruts and dense undergrowth on both sides of our vehicle. At other places our narrow road hugs an open mountainside. The road rises higher and higher. We go for miles, periodically asking each other if we’re crazy and agreeing that yes, it is so. A meticulous driver until now, Pecos especially would never have attempted a road like this in the States. Then again, there really aren’t many options for turning the vehicle around on this passageway.

While I favor adventure, I begin to worry if we will find our way back or what might lie ahead, and wish we’d brought a machete to hack our way out or protect us from wild jaguars or pumas if we slide off the road.

A few times we pass a cluster of homes, some are quite nice and others are tin shacks. These tiny settlements are marked on our map as villages and bear missionary-imposed names such as San Antonio. Here and there we pass a corrugated tin lean-to or rusty-roofed corral and realize that these too are homes. The farms are attractive and the open range cows and horses look healthy.

We push on for another hour or two and around a bend a handsome, thirty-ish man steps from a former coffee stand and puts out his thumb. He carries a leather attaché case. We stop and he introduces himself as Fernando, a teacher, originally from Boruca but now working in Columbia. His English is a little better than our Spanish. He hops in the back seat. He has very dark skin, tall tight features and perfect white teeth. He guides us the rest of the way and without him we would have made a few wrong turns. I am relieved that he is with us. If we sail over one of these cliffs and through the clouds below, he will help us find our way out.

Boruca lies at the bottom of a deep valley in the heart of the Talamancas. This very old village of a hundred or so persons lies at the center of the reservation lands. It is still early in the day and only us and a few other non-Borucans have ventured in so far for the festival. Later in the day a few vans will arrive, filled with Asian and French tourists who will rush noisily around the town.

Simple homes cling to tumble-down dirt roads; some of them have palm-leaf roofs but most are stucco-built with tin on top. Most have four walls. There is a five-room hotel (for sale), a soda, pulperia and community hall. Everyone is friendly. Fernando shows us the one-room museum of art, takes us to the woodworking workshop of his friends, and is off.

Inside this workshop two men carefully carve tribal masks from logs. Features including macaws, monkeys, snakes, parrots, jungle plants and tribesmen are painstakingly cut in reverse relief showing fine-lined feathers, delicate fronds or rippled muscle, and are then painted in brilliant colors to the finest detail. These masks are exquisite, each one a unique piece of art worthy for its carving or color alone.

Continued...