Early next morning, the village awakes to the sound of gunshots coming from the race track. Emerging from gutters and trenches, passed-out Maya men squint at the sun and join the continuous stream of people moving towards the outskirts, limping like hungover zombies.
A dirt street about 100 meters long has been turned into a fenced-off race track and is flanked by loudly cheering villagers on both sides.
Every few minutes, a group of six or seven horses thunder by, their hoofs kicking dirt and whooshing pebbles into the air. On the back of these muscular creatures glistening with sweat, the riders bump up and down in their saddles, bellowing out shriek war cries. Instead of keeping a tight grip on the reins, they flap their arms like manic birds, creating a sight that will stay printed in your memory for a long time.
In one lap, the riders appear clinging on to a beer can, sprinkling their already stained outfit with more golden drops. In the next, they appear swinging a live chicken vigorously above their heads like a feathered lasso, prompting the spectators to explode in loud cheers.
Every now and then, a rider slides out of his saddle, exhausted by the many hours of drinking, dancing, and drunk riding. Without the slightest sign of worry, a few spectators run onto the track and swiftly drag him to the nearest trench where he is left to sleep it out in the tall grass.
As the hours fly by, more and more riders pass out, leaving only a handful still conscious in the early afternoon when the race ends and the spectators start seeping back into town. The rest of the day is less entertaining, with a considerable amount of the inhabitants way too hungover to even contemplate setting up a food stall or hosting a house party.