Wolfgang Schüler

The two San Pedro fighters, too drunk to continue, were ultimately dragged away by relatives.

THAT DAY SAN PEDRO reached fever pitch. Five people died in a road accident trying to reach the fiesta. Drunken couples screamed at each other outside the chicherías. Behind the church was a massive campesino orgy of drinking, dancing, flirting, singing, brawling, yodeling, and stamping the ground, all in a haze of dust, with occasional hails of stones and shouts of "We are men!"

I wandered all around, my campesina skirt earning me the privilege of buying drinks and talking to tinku fighters. It caused a new stir among the gentry at Joél and Prima's wedding dance that night. Men threatened to abduct me. Women begged to try it on. It caught the eye of the town's most prominent living son, General Alfredo Loayza, who'd returned for the first time in 44 years. "I see you are a woman who knows how to dress herself," he purred as we danced a tasty cumbia. Though he hadn't watched today's fights (he'd once been hit in the eyebrow by a stone, requiring over a thousand dollars in medical work), the general had a sympathetic theory: "Somehow the people have to express their resentment."

And after dark the roar from the campesino party was terrifying. All night, squads of dressed-up campesinos trotted through town, the men strumming charangos, the women shrilling praise-songs to whichever roadless hamlet they'd walked from. When they passed the UNICEF dorm, the earth shook slightly.

The next day's fights were ugly but conclusive. Two giants appeared from a nearby army barracks in camouflage and studded helmets. But even they lost to four young men who stood in a row and put away all comers. The four fought dirty, ignoring the referee, an old campesina who hit at them with her stick. I hated them, especially the thin one in black, steel-studded sadist's gloves. Hours later, though, I met them behind the church—village boys toasting their victory, eager to practice English.