I've come tire to face, and often face to face, with all sorts and types of mud. You don't have to look hard to find Earth's begrimed juice in the riany tropics. From the kinds that smell to others that hurt. From mud made fresh by the dewy morning, to chunky mud interspersed with globs of earth and rock, to deep and hungry mud swallowing defeated cars whole, to the kind of thin mud that rides over easily, the kind that playfully splatters along the back and chest of my Cal cycling jearsy...and then there is man made mud - prepared purposefully to near perfect viscosity.
Aside from the yearlings playing happily at Dolores park, who would want to make mud?
Steve and I exited our taxi excited about the answer. We'd done our homework and asked around for days looking for the destination we were now arriving at. The cold air that swished through the nameless village just a thirteen minute drive north of an overlooked town somehow promised excitement to my senses.
We came to watch grown men play in the mud.
Unlike the sort of mud we encounter on our bikes, this type does not frustrate. It agrees with them. They do not curse the rains for its appearance, they do not swear under their breath while effortfully pushing a bike through its intractable slop. They, in this instance, happily play in the mud.
Pachu Jawi (pa-CHOO jawee) is the official name. Loosely translated as cow race, it's anything but the calm imagery of a black and white spotted California cow. These animals are not slowly chewing away at whatever moist shrubbery happens to show up in front of their face, they do not have the luxury of a warm sun and open field to give them reason at all to move further than they absolutely need to at all. Quite the opposit really. Here, a team of four or five men gather a strong, red eyed beast to act as engine and pulley, forcefully carrying one man straight down an alley of mad mud. Yet (to be fair), huge, red eyed, and smelly is not a completely accurate account of what pulls men down the sloppy path toward the winners circle. There are two huge red eyed smelly beasts.
It's an act that supposedly goes back generations; the racing, the mud making, and (of course) the food. Who wouldn't build up an appetite after a long day of cow racing; pulling their tales and even biting some to spur an extra surge of speed. Fun.
The entire day was a photographer's dream session. Not that I claim to be. The wide open option of angles to choose from, the gritty faces of racers (being more pulled then steered down the runway), the indefatigable stride of the animal, the watery mud that splats up in ones face on every go. It's all lovely to catch and preserve on film. So here are my pictures to you. Enjoy.
Spectators gather quickly at the beginning of each launch to watch the racers hold out as long as they can.
It's off to the races!
The slippery, sloppy track made up of earth, water, manure, and plenty of trampled footprints. So...
get...
out...
of...
the way!!
Valiant racers:
No one walks away cleanly or without a few soar aches. The races are fast. Really fast. A winner below takes a celebratory bow.
Don't think that the losing cows are cast off, or slaughtered, or put on the evening spit roast. All the animals are respected and highly cared for with apparent and appropriate love.
And I honestly do not know how you read through my blog this far without guessing that I would give Indonesian cow racing a go. You only live once.
I'm alive! Holy Jesus I'm alive! (Photo with permission bySteve Maniam)
Love,
-A
Ps. See more of out journey by my friend Steve at
http://whereismaniam.blogspot.com
No comments:
Post a Comment