I was the first English
Diablo de Pillaro... and conspicuously so. I was a foot taller than all
of the other devils and the long blonde hair was a dead give-away. As
a result I was a magnet for the trago shots (sugar cane spirit) and
had half a bottle poured down my throat before the parade had even
begun. At first I was nervous and a shot of Dutch courage was
welcome, but soon my stomach was on fire and it was a relief to
finally don the devil mask to escape the trago.
Ready to dance |
The Diablada Pillareña is the annual festival of the devil in the high-Andean town of
Pillaro. Its roots are a protest by the indigenous communities
against Spanish rule and the Church. The devil was their symbol of
union and shocking rebellion – the masks ensured anonymity from
their corpulent hacienda owners. All of the communities danced into
town and took over the main square in an annual act of defiance and
solidarity. Any colonial Spaniard who had forgotten the festival and
popped into Pillaro for some chorizo and Rioja was guaranteed a bad time.
Now, in a strange twist – I am dancing alongside the Indians in a festival that
has become more about fun, drinking and friendship than protest. All
the same: “Bloody Spanish.”
The weight of the mask
was impressive, forcing chin into chest. The tiny slits for the eyes
were like keyholes, and I could see less in the periphery than a
blinkered horse; there would be more than a few collisions to come. In my right hand I carried a stuffed zorillo (an Andean skunk whose territorial pissing smells exactly like weed)
with which to torment and terrify children, girls and drunks lining
the streets. I had a heavy sheepskin wig tied tightly around my head
to secure the mask. The rest of my outfit was a red silk suit, flesh-coloured stockings and a pair of pumps one size too small, because
size 46 and beyond does not exist in Ecuador.
Edison makes the final adjustments to my mask while my neck snaps under the strain |
Lucy was worried I'd
get lost in the chaos so volunteered to dress as a Guarricha to
keep an eye on me. The Guarricha is traditionally a cross-dressing
man in colourful women's clothing, and a creepy mask; they carry a
baby and a bottle of trago. Like the diablos, their job is to cause
maximum mischief and spread the drunkenness.
Lucy the guarricha with her baby and bottle of booze like an ASBO mum |
The diablos have to
dance with wild pelvic thrusts and adopting a mock drunken stagger
(the latter I'd mastered expertly). The zorro is punched high in the air in time with the thumping bass drum
from the marching brass band.
The hardest thing about
the parade is getting enough air to stay alive. Dancing at 3,000 metres is
breathtaking at the best of times but dancing at 3,000 metres with a
belly-full of booze combined with the weight of the mask and its
three pinprick air holes for the mouth was the equivalent of going
for a jog during an asthma attack. It's forbidden for the devils to
remove their mask during the parade so all I could do was relax,
regulate and enjoy the dizzy highs of asphyxiation.
We danced twice around
the main square in Pillaro before coming to rest in a social centre where I could finally remove my mask. Somebody handed me a bottle of water,
it was a welcome sight in the heat and I glugged greedily. Something was wrong! I realised I'd just chugged listerine, the
paint-strippingly strong distillation that Ecuadorians like to knock back when a party is in full-swing.
I was dancing with a
group from Guangibana led by Edison Guachamin who runs Andean Arte –
a dance school and traditional clothing hire shop. I'd filmed Edisonmaking the masks for the Diablada Pillareña a few months earlier and had wheedled my way into the
collective like a cheeky stray-cat. Edison also loaned me the diablo
outfit and mask.
(left to right) Me, Lucy and Edison posing before the parade |
The Guangibana group
always occupy the rooftop terrace of the social centre – I'd been
drinking with them there two days earlier and that was where the idea of me
dancing was first suggested. From the terrace we could see hundreds
of devils and guarrichas drinking. The band were
sitting sulking in the corner because nobody had bought them any beer
or trago to drink and there was no way they were dipping their hands
in their pockets. Luckily they were soon oiled up and playing again.
In Ecuador nobody has
their own drink, everything is communal. We bought a 24 pack of
Pilsner and it is one person's duty to pour the beer and hand the
glass around the circle. This responsibility always seemed to land on
poor, old Gato for some reason. With the crate polished off it was time
for the second round of dancing. All of the group were tight
after the beer and trago and there is nothing more devilish than a
drunk diablo.
In the second parade it
was less about the dancing and more about winding-up the audience
with my zorillo. The best trick was to ask girls to stroke the zorillo and attack them with it when they did, brazen tourist photographers
were another reliable target. Lucy and I had even worked out a little
routine whereby I chased her with the zorillo and got it to bite her
bum. The zorillo had its revenge though, I managed to slice open my
finger with its razor claws. I was so drunk I barely felt it but was shocked to see the blood pooled in my palm – but the show
must go on.
Lots of the crowd
wanted photographs with me and it's probably the closest I will ever
come to celebrity. As the sun sank behind the mountains the dancing was coming to an end but
I was still hungry for more so sneaked back for a final fling.
Not enough room to swing a zorillo |
After the parade we all
headed to Edison's house for another crate of beer and trago.
On the winding mountain road back to Ambato I'm sorry to say I felt
quite sick. I'm such a show-off I can't just take a tiny swig from
the bottle and am easily inflated by applause. This surreal day ended
with the sudden realisation I'd lost my shoes, which is always the mark of a
good night.
I've seen some
festivals but nothing comes close to the Diablada. The colour, the
music, the dancing, the active volcano of Tungurahua as backdrop and
the booze make a chaotic and kaleidoscopic cocktail. I've honestly never had so
much fun in my life.
Sounds like Straw Bear on steroids!
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