A Simple Story E-Book

Leila Guerriero

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Press
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 157

Beschreibung

For four minutes and fifty-two seconds, the night became a thing that he pounded with his fist...Every year, at the height of summer, the remote Argentinian village of Laborde holds the prestigious national malambo contest. Little known outside the Argentinian pampas, the malambo is a centuries-old gaucho dance, governed by the most rigid rules and shatteringly physically demanding. It is the object of obsession for thousands of young working-class men, who sacrifice their spare time, their bodies and what little money they have to try to win the title of Malambo Champion. The twist is that a Malambo Champion may never compete again.In 2011, Leila Guerriero travelled to Laborde for what was supposed to be a brief investigation into this intriguing contest. But on the second night, one dancer's towering performance takes her breath away - he doesn't win, but Guerriero, irresistibly drawn, spends the next year following him in his preparations for the 2012 festival. In this remarkable work of reportage Guerriero proves herself to be as sharp-eyed as Gay Talese, as lyrical as Norman Mailer.

Leseprobe

A Simple Story

LEILA GUERRIERO

translated by Thomas Bunstead

PUSHKIN PRESS LONDON

Contents

Title PageA Simple StoryAcknowledgements Translator’s AcknowledgementsAbout the PublisherCopyright

A Simple Story

THIS IS THE STORY of a man who took part in a dance contest.

LABORDE, A TOWN three hundred miles north-west of Buenos Aires in Argentina’s Córdoba province, was founded in 1903, originally under the name Las Liebres. Populated at the time by Italian immigrants, it now has six thousand inhabitants and is situated in an oasis of wheat and corn dotted with mills. The wheat and corn brought a reasonable level of prosperity to the area, nowadays maintained by soya cultivation, that manifests in towns that seem straight out of the mind of a very orderly, or perhaps psychotic, child: each of the compact town centres features a church, a main square, a town hall, and houses each with their own front garden and the latest gleaming Toyota 4 × 4, sometimes two, parked outside. Route 11 passes through a large number of such towns, places like Monte Maíz, Escalante, Pascanas. Laborde lies between Escalante and Pascanas – church, town square, town hall, houses with front gardens, 4 × 4, et cetera; a town like many others, in an agricultural area like many others; one of thousands of places in the country’s vast interior whose name would ring no bells for most Argentinians. But, for certain people with a very specific interest, Laborde is an important place. In fact, for these people – with this specific interest – there is no place in the world more important than Laborde.

ON MONDAY, 5th January 2009, the Argentinian daily La Nación ran an article in its arts supplement, written by the journalist Gabriel Plaza, with the headline: ‘The folk athletes line up’. Comprising two small columns on the front page and two medium-sized columns a couple of pages in, it included the following lines: “Considered an elite corps within the world of traditional folk dance, past champions, on the streets of Laborde at least, are treated with all the respect of ancient Greek sporting legends.” I hung on to the article – weeks, months, and it was still in my thoughts – and then I found that years had elapsed, and still I was thinking about it. I’d never heard of Laborde before, but once I’d read this piece of red-hot information, the joining together of elite corps and sporting legends with traditional dance and a town in the middle of nowhere… I couldn’t stop thinking. What about? About going and seeing, I suppose.

GAUCHO, according to the Dictionary of Argentinian Folklore (edited by Félix Coluccio and Susana Coluccio), is “the word used in the Río Plata region – Argentina and Uruguay – to designate the cowboys of these prairie- or pampas-lands… Cowboys and hired hands, by and large, they stood out for their physical prowess, as well as their haughty, reserved and melancholic manner. Almost all their tasks were carried out from the back of a horse, making the animal their best companion, and crucial to the wealth of the gaucho.” The general, perhaps prejudiced view of the gaucho confers very particular characteristics: brave, loyal, strong, indomitable and austere, he is also reserved and arrogant, as well as being prone to the solitary, nomadic life.

As for malambo, in the words of the nineteenth-century folklorist Ventura Lynch, it consists of “a joust between men who take turns to dance to music”. A dance the gauchos would challenge one another with, trying to best their opponents in feats of stamina and skill, to the accompaniment of a guitar and a drum. This is the dance Gabriel Plaza’s article was alluding to: malambo, the dance of the gauchos.

MALAMBO’S ORIGINS are unclear, though people agree it probably arrived in Argentina from Peru. Sets of tap dance-like movements, each associated with a certain musical metre, combine to form the “figures”. Composed of taps of the toes, soles and heels, pauses on the balls of the feet, and lifts and twists – unimaginable contortions – of the ankles, a malambo performance at the highest level will include more than twenty such figures, divided up by repiqueteos – toe taps at a pace of no fewer than eight per second – requiring enormous responsiveness in the muscles. Each side has to be mirrored, a right-foot figure immediately repeated, identically, with the left foot, so that a dancer of malambo needs equal precision, strength, speed and elegance on both sides. There are two styles: sureño – hailing from Argentina’s southern and central provinces – and norteño – from the north. Sureño is the gentler style, and is accompanied by just the guitar; norteño is more explosive, and calls for both a guitar and a drum. Dancers of each also dress differently: the southern-and central-province dancers wearing a wide-brimmed hat, a white shirt, neckerchief, waistcoat, short jacket, and the cribo – white, flared trousers with tassels and embroidery – over the top of which comes a kneelength section of fabric, somewhat like a skirt, known as the chiripá; a linen cord holds the chiripá up, but a wide, silver-decked belt (known as a rastra) is also worn; on the feet, the so-called “foal shoes”, thin leather bindings covering only the heels and middle section of the foot, are tied on with rawhide straps that go over the ankles and around the calves – leaving the front part of the foot and toes bare as they strike the boards. The norteño style includes shirt, a cloth at the neck, jacket, bombachas – flowing, pleated trousers – and knee-high leather boots.

This strictly masculine dance, which began life as a crude kind of gauntlet-throwing, had by the twentieth century been strictly choreographed into performances lasting between two and five minutes. Though best known for the versions seen in “for export” spectacles – including hopscotch between candles and the juggling of knives – some traditional festivals in the country do still cleave close to malambo’s essence. But it is in Laborde, this town out in the middle of pampas flatlands, where malambo in its purest form is preserved: since 1966 a prestigious and formidable six-day competition has been held here, one that places fierce physical demands on the participants and concludes with a winner who, not unlike bulls or other thoroughbred animals, is given the title of Champion.

IN 1966, on the initiative of an association calling itself Amigos de Arte, the Laborde National Malambo Competition was first held, in the grounds of a local sports club. In 1973 the organizing committee – locals who, as they do to this day, counted among their number manicurists and speech therapists, schoolteachers and small business owners, bakers and housewives – bought a thousand square metre plot of land from the local Spanish Association, and constructed a stage there. A crowd of two thousand people came that year. Nowadays over six thousand regularly attend, and, though the emphasis remains firmly on the malambo, the competition categories now include song, such as the Best Solo Recital category; music, such as Best Instrumental Ensemble; and other traditional dances, including Twosomes and Most Authentic Regional Presentation. Some of the best-attended slots feature non-competitive presentations from renowned musicians and folksinging groups like Chango Spasiuk, Peteco Carabajal and La Callejera. Each year, dancers come in from across Argentina, but also farther afield – Bolivia, Chile and Paraguay in particular – swelling the town’s numbers by an extra two thousand. Many locals rent out their homes, and the municipal schools become overflowing temporary hostels. Months of planning go into deciding who will participate, with delegations from each of Argentina’s provinces pre-selecting the best dancers from their respective federations.

The organizing committee is self-financing, and refuses to have anything to do with the country’s large traditional dance festivals (those held in Cosquín and Jesús María), veritable tsunamis of tradition that get broadcast nationwide. That would mean making the festival gaudy, trashy, and neither the running time (7 p.m. to 6 a.m.), nor the content itself, are what one could call easily digestible; you won’t find pomaded gauchos wearing nice suits or tap-dancing between candles, and you won’t find any rhinestone boots. If Laborde calls itself “the most Argentine festival” it’s because it offers up “tradición pura y dura” – tradition, pure and hard. The regulations prohibit anything cutting-edge, and the jury, comprising former champions and folk dance specialists, wants to see folkloric tradition, as the regulations say, “without the remix”: costumes and footwear that show respect for the modesty, or indeed the opulence, associated with the gauchos and their womenfolk in times past; acoustic instruments; and dance steps that correspond with the region the dancer represents. No piercings are to be seen on stage, let alone tattoos, rings, watches or plunging necklines. As the regulations state: “The dancers’ boots ought to have reinforced sections on the front part of the soles, spur shanks at the back, must not have metal tips, and must be finished in traditional colours. The ‘foal shoes’ ought to be authentic in design, though they needn’t be made from the same materials as originally (horse or puma hide). The use of daggers is not permitted, and neither is the presence of boleadoras [a lariat with stones instead of a noose], spears, spurs, or any other element not connected with the dance… The musical accompaniment must also be respectful of tradition in every regard, and must comprise no more than two instruments, one of which must be the guitar… The presentation must avoid all suggestion of sensationalism.”

It is this uncompromising spirit that has probably done most to keep Laborde under wraps. In February 2007 Laura Falcoff, a journalist who had been attending the festival for years, wrote the following in the Argentinian daily Clarín: “Last January was the fortieth anniversary of the Laborde National Malambo Festival in Córdoba province, a festival that is to all intents secret, judging by the column inches dedicated to it in the mainstream press. For malambistas from across the country, though, Laborde is an out-and-out Mecca, the place on the map on which, once a year, centre all their hopes.” Even in articles expressly focusing on the panoply of traditional dance festivals in Argentina, which are particularly numerous in austral summer, Laborde is almost never mentioned, and this in spite of the fact it falls right at the beginning of January.

The Malambo category is divided into two subcategories: the Quartets, in which four men dance in perfect synchronicity, and the Soloists. Within these come age categories too: Under Nines, Teens, Advanced Teens, and Veterans, but the jewel in the crown is the Senior Soloist category for male dancers who are twenty years and older. No more than five of these competitors try out each day. In their first appearance, usually at around one o’clock in the morning, they’ll dance the “strong” malambo corresponding with the area they hail from. Next, at around three o’clock in the morning, comes the “return”, with those who danced norteño before presenting a sureño, and vice versa. The jury meets to deliberate at midday on the Sunday, drawing up a list of finalists which is then passed on to the regional delegates, who in turn communicate the news to the competitors. Events reach their high point in the early hours of the Monday, when the three, four or five finalists dance the strong malambo pertaining to their own region. And at around 5.30 a.m., as the sky grows light over a still-packed exhibition ground, the winners of each of the categories are announced. The champion is the last to be announced. A man who is crowned and destroyed in the same instant.

ROUTE 11 IS A TH IN STRIP of asphalt, intersected every now and then by rusty bridges over which trains no longer pass. To travel along it in austral summer – January or February – is to see the pampas in their picture-postcard state, bursting with all the different greens of the unripe wheat. The day is Thursday, 13th January 2011, and the entrance to Laborde could hardly be more prominent: next to a painted Argentinian flag – the sky-blue, the white – is the legend “Laborde Capital Nacional del Malambo”. The town’s limits are also clear to see: it is seven blocks long and fourteen wide. There being nothing more to the place, people hardly know the names of the streets, getting around instead by indications such as “opposite López’s house”, or “next to the ice cream parlour”. Similarly, the competition is simply held at “the grounds”. This is where, at four in the afternoon, with the light dry like plaster, the only moving things in Laborde are to be found. Everywhere else has shut down: the houses, the newspaper stands, the clothes shops, the greengrocers, the supermarkets, the restaurants, the cybercafés, the corner stores, the rotisseries, the church, the town hall, the neighbourhood centres, the police- and fire stations – as though a kind of paralysis had taken hold, a mummification even. My first thought on seeing these low houses with their cement benches outside, the unlocked bicycles leant against trees, cars with their windows left rolled down, is that I’ve seen hundreds of towns just like it, and what could possibly be going on here that is of any note?

UNLIKE THE FESTIVALS in Cosquín and La Sierra, malambo is the only featured dance in Laborde, and, also unlike other venues, where two or three minutes is the allotted time, here the dance lasts for five minutes.

Five minutes is hardly an eternity. A negligible amount of time when compared with a twelve-hour flight, a mere breath in a three-day marathon. But not so if the right comparisons are applied. The fastest one hundred-metre runners in the world aim for sub-ten second times; Usain Bolt’s record stands, at the time of writing, at 9.58 seconds. A malambo dancer in full flow moves his feet just as quickly as a one hundred-metre runner, only he has to keep it up for five minutes. A malambo dancer’s preparation therefore involves not only the sort of artistic instruction a ballet dancer would undergo, but also the physical and psychological preparations of an athlete. They don’t smoke or drink, and they never go out late. Long-distance running and time in the gym are standard, and the aspiring malambista also has to work to perfect his concentration levels and develop the correct attitude: a keen sense of conviction and self-confidence is vital. Though some train alone, most employ a coach, usually a past champion – whose hourly fees and travel costs they are obliged to cover. Add to this gym membership fees, consultations with nutritionists and sports scientists, healthy food, and of course the attire – which can cost anywhere between US$600 and $800 for each outfit. A pair of the norteño boots alone costs $140 – and, given the punishment they receive, needs replacing every four or six months. There is also the annual trip to Laborde itself, which often means a stay of two weeks. Most of the contestants are from working-class families, with housewives, municipal workers, metal workers and police officers for parents. The more fortunate give dance classes, but there are plenty of part-time electricians, bricklayers and mechanics among them. A few will win the first time they enter, but for almost all it is a question of coming back, year after year.

As for the prize, the winner can expect neither cash nor a holiday, neither a house nor a car, but simply a rather plain trophy crafted by a local artisan. Laborde’s true prize cannot be seen with the eyes: uppermost in everybody’s thoughts are the prestige and recognition, the endorsement and respect, and the huge honour that come with being one of the best among the select few even able to dance this murderous dance. In the small, courtier-like circle of traditional dance devotees, a Laborde champion becomes a demigod.

And yet… In order to preserve Laborde’s prestige, and affirm its elite nature, a tacit pact has been in place between Laborde champions since the festival’s inception: though they may go and compete elsewhere, they may never enter the Laborde festival again, or dance the solo malambo at other festivals. Should anyone break this pact – there have been two or three exceptions – they’ll suffer the utter contempt and scorn of their peers. So the malambo a man dances to win will also be one of his last: the summit scaled by a Laborde champion is also the end.

In January 2011 I went to Laborde with the simple plan of telling the story of this festival, and of trying to understand why people take part in such a thing: fighting your way to the top, only to come straight back down again.

ORANGE AWNINGS line the earth-packed streets around the venue. When night falls the stalls will open and start selling handicrafts, shirts, CDs, but at this hour they shine and glimmer in the bright sunlight. Wire fences ring the grounds, and just inside and to the right is a room called the Champions’ Gallery, where photos of past winners are displayed. Next along are some food stalls that, later on in the day, will be selling empanadas, pizza, the stew known as locro, and rotisserie chicken. To the left stand the toilets and the press room – a wide, square building with chairs, computers and a wall covered by a long mirror. And then, on the far side, the stage.

By the time I arrive I’ve heard a few stories: of this stage inspiring such awe in certain contestants that they change their minds minutes before going on, forfeiting the chance to take part; that a slight forward incline adds to the stage’s forbidding air; that the ghosts of great malambistas past are so numerous that, for some, it can be quite overwhelming.

What I see is a blue curtain and, above and to the sides, sponsorship boards bearing the names of local companies. Microphones are positioned at the front, intended to amplify the sounds of every footfall with devilish precision. Before the stage stand the plastic chairs for the audience, hundreds of them, white, empty. At 4.30 p.m. it’s difficult to imagine it in any state other than this: an empty stage and an island of plastic in the sun, heat waves shimmying upwards.

I’m looking up at the bough of a eucalyptus tree, with branches too sparse to block out the intense sun, when I hear it. A spaced-out gallop, or repeated gunfire. Turning around I find a man up on the stage. With a beard, one of the wide-brimmed hats, a red waistcoat beneath a blue jacket, a pair of bright white cribo trousers, and one of the chiripá skirts in beige, he’s practising the steps of the malambo that he’ll dance tonight. To begin with he moves his feet, if not slowly, then still at a human pace – a pace one might match. Then he turns it up a notch. Then another, and another, faster and faster, until finally the man stamps his foot one last time, and stands with his gaze fixed for a moment on a point somewhere behind me, before dropping his head. At this point he also starts to breathe, or rather to gasp like a fish, heaving in and out for air.

“Good,” says his accompanist, a man with a guitar.

WHAT COULD MOTIVATE A TOWN