September 2010 Issue 102

by Ian Arkell

It occurred to me the other day that you don’t hear cat juggling mentioned much nowadays. Yes, I know it’s been illegal since the fifties but I’m told that during the Depression it was quite popular in certain countries. My late grandfather travelled extensively between the wars and just before his death told me about one of cat juggling’s greatest legends – the Catman of San Parello.

San Parello is a sleepy little town a few miles inside the Bolivian border. Not much happens there nowadays and I guess with a population of only eighty six, not much is likely to happen.

The town produces nothing, no-one of note was born there and the inhabitants eke out a living, if you could call it that, from subsistence farming. But it was not always so.

In the hills far above the town, around twenty thousand years ago, small particles of gold bearing quartz began breaking off the main reef. The quartz, bullied by wind and rain over the centuries, finally surrendered to the forces of nature and began its inexorable descent to the river a thousand feet below; the river that ran through San Parello.

The gold was discovered during the closing stages of the First War and by the mid twenties the sleepy backwater became a boom town supporting almost six thousand souls.

The town became a melting pot for a hundred different nationalities. It also became a haven for criminals on the run, confidence men on the make, camp followers and finally, as inexorably as the gold had sought the lowest level, came the evangelists to save them all.

Those who didn’t want to be saved lived in squalor and pitiless conditions, played harder than hell and if the exhortations of the evangelists were to be believed, were going to end up there anyway. So the town exploded with vitality, energy and diversions of all manner both moral and otherwise.

In one of the seedier parts of town stood a disused warehouse used at various times for prize fighting, brawling or cockfighting. In the centre of the building is a large ring enclosed by tiered seating that will accommodate over three hundred people.

It is a Saturday night long ago and the crowd who frequent this ring are a cross section of San Parello society. The successful, rich and well fed are loud from too much champagne and commandeer the front seats.

Mixing with the rich are two or three local officials and politicians, seedy and on the make, just like the criminals. At the rear are the working class, who haven’t quite made it but live in expectation.

Suspended over the ring are two arc lamps that bathe the entire scene in a cruel yellow blue light that wreaks havoc with ravaged complexions. Urged on by free drinks and animal excitement, the crowd stamps its feet impatiently for the main event. So far there have been three preliminary acts.

The first comprised two over age and over weight clowns dressed as beggars who run drunkenly round the ring and through the lines of spectators hitting each other with what appear to be, large leather baseball bats. However it is only when one of the clowns trips on the edge of the flooring and hurts himself that the crowd applauds and cheers.

They are followed by two large women who wrestle naked in a large mud pool. The younger of the two is battling desperately to straddle the other and pin her to the ground but each time on the count of two, the older women arches her back and tosses her opponent off. Finally the older woman tires of the game, head butts the other women and in a manoeuvre practiced a hundred times, drops on her and wins the bout.

Unfortunately the trick cyclist who appears next is no substitute for the lubricated bodies who preceded him. Despite his extensive repertoire he receives only polite acknowledgement and definitely no invitations. Luckily the seal that appeared with him salvages a few laughs and a handful of coins.

The crowd is now becoming louder and more raucous and several fights break out in the rear with the combatants urged on by all and sundry. Meanwhile two bookies have set up shop by the bar. Sam, a German, has been in San Parello since before the war while his friend Enrique has been in town since before anyone can remember.

Both men are masters of their trade and are equally at home with the fighting, bear baiting or cockfighting and have only recently moved in to get a slice of the mud wrestling. Although it is safe to say that both men are more voyeurs than bookies during such bouts.

Suddenly there is a drum roll and the crowd quietens… to be continued.

© Ian Arkell 2010

This entry was posted by ian arkell on Monday, March 1st, 2010 at 12:00 am and is filed under Maybe it's just Me.... You can be notified of any comments on this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a comment in the box at the bottom of the post.

 Print This Post
After you click the print button, a new page will appear.
Click the link at the bottom right of the page to print it.