Beanland Diary #6 - Donkey Polo
Devout Beanland Diary Readers,
This weekend a small group of volunteers, myself included, participated in what was billed as a goodwill exhibition game of polo, gringos VS. Hondurans. Right-o, good fun, no? But since horses would've been unrealistic for the inexperienced, and swimming pools aren't too common in the campo, both standard polo and water polo were out. That forced us to turn to Honduras' favorite beast-o-burden: the donkey.
Ahhh, the donkey. What is a donkey, anyway (Deko?) Where a horse looks regal and content, a donkey has a expression of permanent confusion and deep sadness. This is probably because its working hours consist of hauling loads of firewood out of the forest, its stick legs wobbling under the tremendous weight. It spends its free time tied face-first to a wooden post with only 6 or 12 inches of slack. There is an occasional break to nibble on twigs or dried horse crap.
So we rounded up 10 of these poor animals, dragged them out into the blazing sunday sun, and played polo. We had no saddles or spurs, just a rope tied around the muzzle to yank it's oversized head in the direction we wanted it go. Since half the time it would go in the wrong direction anyway, there wasn't much point in trying to steer one way or the other. Easier just to roll the dice, yank the rope to either side, and hope that by dumb luck your animal went where you had intended. We were also reluctant to whip them with the polo mallets to get them to move, as we saw the Honduran team doing. Thinking the donkeys might appreciate a more civilized approach, we kindly told them what we wanted. "OK, let's go!" "Forward!" No response, and then we realized we were speaking in the wrong language. "Vamanos!" "Dele, compa!" Nada. We even tried French, German and a little Swedish. Bubkis.
Once we managed to get all ten of us sitting on our beasts at the same time, mallet in hand, the game began. This was a huge event in the town and at least 100 people lined the dusty street to watch. Even the local high school band came out, trombones and tubas and drums and all, to provide a soundtrack. They played a really trippy experimental version of "When the Saints Go Marching In," in which every member played in a different key and time signature. This, combined with the chorus of the Honduran national anthem, made up the entire repertoire.
The game itself was a blowout. When the Honduran team reached 15 and we still hadn't scored, we gave up counting goals. Eventually one of our shots did score, but that was only because one of the spectators, out of pity, nudged the goal cage a good six inches in the direction of the incoming ball. People cheered anyway. The Hondurans completely kicked our asses (you didn't think you were going to escape without one "ass" pun, did you?) by working off three main strategic pillars: 1) getting really drunk beforehand, 2) not being afraid to whip your animal and 3) leaving at least one player to tend the goal. Our strategy, chaos, failed.
Still reeling a bit from the loss, I arrived the next day in Cantarranas on the early morning bus from Tegus, stepping off into the town center wearing Carhartts covered in donkey fur, a t-shirt that I'd been marinating in for a good 3 days and a week's scruff . The first person I ran into was a well-dressed, clean-shaven Mormon friend of mine, chipper and excited to begin a fresh week of mormonizing. "Whoa, where are YOU coming from?" he asked, used to seeing me in better shape. "Donkey polo." I mumbled in the way you might say "tequila" or "Jagermeister" to explain your appearance and smell in as few words as possible. The mormon looked perplexed, tilted his head and said (I shit you not) "Huh...how do you get them into the water?"
Atentamente,
Your Correspondent, San Juan de Flores F.M., Honduras
[Please send comments and criticisms in writing to 5 Ridgewood Rd, St. Louis MO 63124 attn: Jerome]
This weekend a small group of volunteers, myself included, participated in what was billed as a goodwill exhibition game of polo, gringos VS. Hondurans. Right-o, good fun, no? But since horses would've been unrealistic for the inexperienced, and swimming pools aren't too common in the campo, both standard polo and water polo were out. That forced us to turn to Honduras' favorite beast-o-burden: the donkey.
Ahhh, the donkey. What is a donkey, anyway (Deko?) Where a horse looks regal and content, a donkey has a expression of permanent confusion and deep sadness. This is probably because its working hours consist of hauling loads of firewood out of the forest, its stick legs wobbling under the tremendous weight. It spends its free time tied face-first to a wooden post with only 6 or 12 inches of slack. There is an occasional break to nibble on twigs or dried horse crap.
So we rounded up 10 of these poor animals, dragged them out into the blazing sunday sun, and played polo. We had no saddles or spurs, just a rope tied around the muzzle to yank it's oversized head in the direction we wanted it go. Since half the time it would go in the wrong direction anyway, there wasn't much point in trying to steer one way or the other. Easier just to roll the dice, yank the rope to either side, and hope that by dumb luck your animal went where you had intended. We were also reluctant to whip them with the polo mallets to get them to move, as we saw the Honduran team doing. Thinking the donkeys might appreciate a more civilized approach, we kindly told them what we wanted. "OK, let's go!" "Forward!" No response, and then we realized we were speaking in the wrong language. "Vamanos!" "Dele, compa!" Nada. We even tried French, German and a little Swedish. Bubkis.
Once we managed to get all ten of us sitting on our beasts at the same time, mallet in hand, the game began. This was a huge event in the town and at least 100 people lined the dusty street to watch. Even the local high school band came out, trombones and tubas and drums and all, to provide a soundtrack. They played a really trippy experimental version of "When the Saints Go Marching In," in which every member played in a different key and time signature. This, combined with the chorus of the Honduran national anthem, made up the entire repertoire.
The game itself was a blowout. When the Honduran team reached 15 and we still hadn't scored, we gave up counting goals. Eventually one of our shots did score, but that was only because one of the spectators, out of pity, nudged the goal cage a good six inches in the direction of the incoming ball. People cheered anyway. The Hondurans completely kicked our asses (you didn't think you were going to escape without one "ass" pun, did you?) by working off three main strategic pillars: 1) getting really drunk beforehand, 2) not being afraid to whip your animal and 3) leaving at least one player to tend the goal. Our strategy, chaos, failed.
Still reeling a bit from the loss, I arrived the next day in Cantarranas on the early morning bus from Tegus, stepping off into the town center wearing Carhartts covered in donkey fur, a t-shirt that I'd been marinating in for a good 3 days and a week's scruff . The first person I ran into was a well-dressed, clean-shaven Mormon friend of mine, chipper and excited to begin a fresh week of mormonizing. "Whoa, where are YOU coming from?" he asked, used to seeing me in better shape. "Donkey polo." I mumbled in the way you might say "tequila" or "Jagermeister" to explain your appearance and smell in as few words as possible. The mormon looked perplexed, tilted his head and said (I shit you not) "Huh...how do you get them into the water?"
Atentamente,
Your Correspondent, San Juan de Flores F.M., Honduras
[Please send comments and criticisms in writing to 5 Ridgewood Rd, St. Louis MO 63124 attn: Jerome]
Labels: beanland
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