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The Fist of God -- Page 5


	Joél Murillo and his wife. Wolfgang Schüler

MY PROMISE TO Severo changed everything. The next morning, on the day the tinku was to start, I put on a campesina's skirt and instantly ceased to be invisible. Gales of laughter followed me everywhere. "Looking good!" the campesinas cried. Guys would say, "Hey, cholita, country girl! Watch out tonight, we'll kidnap you!"

The chicherías were full of stomping, dancing drinkers, gearing up. As I passed a doorway, someone grabbed me by the elbow and dragged me inside, commanding, "Buy chicha!" It was Siriaco González, a kid of 17 or so, eager to fight in his first tinku. Soon I was stomping in a circle, arms linked with Siriaco and his friends.

"Try my montera!" Siriaco showed me how to pry apart his tinku helmet's stiffened cowhide to shove my head inside. It was tight, hard as metal. Giving myself a playful tap, I pierced my palm on a spike I hadn't seen. As I inspected the tiny purple wound, Siriaco whacked the helmet from behind, making my head ring like a bell.

It was almost four in the afternoon when two oldsters faced off in the dusty tinku plaza, shuffling their feet almost shyly. Then they went at it, swinging their arms wide in the traditional punches called waracazos. "Too old to do any damage," a fellow bystander remarked. After a few haymakers, the antagonists waddled off arm in arm to get a little drunker.

But they'd started it. Seconds later, two fights broke out at once; the crowd closed instantly around each one, forming a tight ring. "Tiracarajo! Tiracarajo!" women shrieked. "Hittimgoddammit!" Dust rose from the holes in the crowd. We could see jerky motion, and ostrich plumes bobbling atop the helmets. As we tried to get closer to one fight, the knot of the crowd broke open, spilling out a man in a yellow jacket. Several guys came after him, kicking and punching; bystanders took the opportunity to land a few blows of their own. As the action surged toward us, David, Wolf, and I scuttled off to the safety of a balcony.

Getting to the heart of the tinku no longer felt compelling. Male or female, anyone close enough to follow the action stood a chance of getting punched, kicked, or otherwise caught up in the contagious, violent glee. In the first hour alone we saw broken teeth and noses, not to mention full-force kicks to the head and kidneys of a cowering loser, administered by teams of booted hearties deaf to the victim's pleas for mercy until women hauled them off from behind. Occasionally there were flash points: A duel would erupt into a plaza-wide riot, a seething chaos of flailing limbs and screaming that lasted for several minutes until the defeated faction vanished down an alley as if blown there by a gust of wind—a deceptive lull, during which the women's voices dropped to an ominous blubbering ("Brr! Brr!") and everyone ran for doorways, cover against the rain of stones soon to fly from the alley's mouth.

From the balcony I watched my 17-year-old friend Siriaco take beating after beating. He left his chest exposed, swinging his arms wildly. His shirt got torn off. He fell. Half-naked, covered with dust and blood, he eventually disappeared.

I found him sitting on a curb, crying like a baby. His face was crusted with freshly scabbing blood. "They killed me," he sobbed. "They ganged up on me. I got too drunk. I didn't win even one!"

"You were brave!" I told him. "You were never afraid to fight."

"Really?" he said after a while. He smiled. "Buy me chicha!"

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