Effigies of Vilcabamba
Bump-chicka-dunp-chic. Bump-chicka-dunp-chic. Bump-chicka-dunp-chic…
If you’ve ever existed as a non-latino traveler in South or Central America, it’s quite possible you’ve been haunted by this neverending Cumbia backbeat, invariably played at full volume (whatever full volume happens to be on the sound maker at hand). Such was the case on the night of December 31st, 2017, as the hamlet of Vilcabamba in Southern Ecuador prepared to ceremonially cross the threshold into another year.
There I was, with my brother, a quiet Japanese fellow named Jiro, and a French lady named Ellen, loitering on the classic central square that looked like so many others. There was a stage and a shiny-dressed band (the proximate source of the bump-chicka-dunp-chic). The vibe was high and getting higher as the time neared midnight. Faces were getting redder, smiles toothier, dance moves bolder. I was sitting lamely on a stoop.
My party bones had all vanished in the previous months, sucked out in the tide behind my intestinal fortitude. Long gone. By New Years Eve, I scarcely even remembered the carefree days of fart-trusting or roaming freely without an emergency poo kit in tow. Deep sigh.
Could’ve been the water in Medellín way back in September, that strangely memorable plate of Chinese food in Santa Marta, or a thousand other things. Whatever it was, it had sure taken me for a ride, and would keep doing so for many months to come. All the same, I was in a better way at that moment than the previous months of sunken cheeks and room-clearing flatulence (sorry). In fact, I felt good enough to make the mistake of sipping some canelazo. Unsurprisingly, the warm sugar liquor did me dirty. And so I adopted that stoic posture I had been practicing–one of utter stillness in preparation for a potential sprint to a bathroom or bush. It passed.
Just in time for the highly annoying reggaeton dance group known as “Laaaasss Muuuuunnnaaaasss” to take the stage. Shortly thereafterwards, as 2017 threatened to become 2018, the locals began to light little fires in the street all around the square. Then they got bigger. When the clock struck midnight, mannequins and dolls of all shapes and sizes were hurled into the numerous bonfires, thus bidding farewell to all the bad of the previous year. The town of Vilcabamba in the days preceding was an uncanny valley of life-like figures perched creepily in homes and storefronts, available to take on that which the townsfolk wished to release at the New Year.
Knowing something about the significance of this ritual, but without an effigy to offer, I pondered what I might leave behind from the red flicker of my stoop. I wanted so badly to feel good again, to be healthy again, to remove myself from that thick cloud of weakness and morbidity. I imagined hurling my own feeble shell onto the fire and emerging like a phoenix, remarkably capable of digesting nutrients once again! I also realized that none of this yearning to be well was energetically aligned with letting go. But how could I let go of the desire to be well? I would sit with this question for the remaining months of my travels, as my debilitated vessel took on typhoid fever and a revolving door of other afflictions.
Jiro takes in the scene.
I wasn’t alone in my silent observation. Jiro too watched from a distance as old and young alike ran and hurtled over the fires, sometimes coming up short or stumbling briefly into the flames. In Jiro’s small village on the remote island of Kyushu, New Years entails visiting a temple and ringing a bell 112 times before watching the sunrise from a mountaintop. I don’t think they drink canelazo. There are, after all, many ways to cross a threshold.
Last week, 5 years removed from Vilcabamba, I rang in the New Year from Sayulita, Mexico. I was strong enough to dance, and grateful to have the strength to surf the next day. I was won by sleep before midnight, drifting off to the faint sound of bump-chicka-dunp-chic.
Many ways to cross a threshold indeed.