I know Halloween is over! But it's hard for me to accept how underestimated this celebration has become. I love monsters and everything related, so I did a quest to find where Ghouls, Ghosts and Witches hide after the trick or treating candy-hangover is over. The best place to start is Escazú; commonly known as the "City of Witches".

My first childhood memories come from a small neighbourhood in Escazú. My first friends, my first kiss, sleepovers, playing street baseball, hide and seek and what not. It was a time, a different time, where socializing was all about sharing with friends. All the neighbours used to organize street parties, BBQ's, fireworks and get-togethers in general; the streets came to life and we kids had an excuse to stay up later at night.

We always had these weird adventures; even with the smallest plan, something always came up. From riding our bikes to buy ice cream, find fruit trees, to looking for abandoned houses. I loved to go inside abandoned houses and find "treasures", worthless junk that previous owners had left behind; I saw those objects with great value, as they might have been useful to someone at some point, or cherished by someone until they got lost.

I was introduced to adrenaline when I was very young; that rush of entering a forbidden place or to not know what you might encounter when entering these crumbling places. I remember getting a good scare twice; the first one, we heard a telephone ringing somewhere in one of the abandoned houses we used to frequent...we couldn't find it! And exploring outside the house, we saw some of the tall weeds rustling and moving, like if someone was lurking on us, we obviously ran like crazy out of the place. The second one, we entered the same place with more courage and tried to find out what the sounds in between the tall weeds were. I lie to you not, I saw a human distorted figure moving super fast in between the weeds. That was the last time we entered that "haunted house".

That haunted house became famous between us kids and one night, at one of our parents street-BBQ we were welcoming a new kid on the block, he was at least 3 or 4 years older than the rest of us in the neighbourhood, so we looked up to him. We gave him the tour around "our" street; and took him in front of the haunted house while telling him the scary moments we had witnessed. He replied:

We stood stiff cold, it was our first time listening to stories about old Escazú and its Witches, he was older than us, so we had to believe everything.
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Escazú or previously know as "Itzkatzu" was the original name given by its indigenous inhabitants. It was a famous resting stop for other pre-Columbian hikers that came from long distances throughout the tallest hills in Escazú. This mountain range was home for one of the oldest populations in Costa Rica, even before San José itself. Hills like "Cerro Pico Blanco", "Cerro San Miguel" and "Cerro Rabo de Mico" are the most famous to have held great mysteries, and they all gather meeting places for magical creatures who guarded medicinal plant crops.

As the rainy season starts to draw back and its healing powers have restored the earth; the smell of wet soil is replaced by the smell of warm salty sand, captivating the city by drawing signals in the skies with colorful sunsets, confirming the arrival of the dry season.

The beach is once again ready to receive thousands of local and foreign thirsty tourists that want to squeeze the vitamin D out of the sunlight rays that are revitalized by the fresh Costarican Pacific coast waters. Year after year it feels like there are fewer spots to visit on the Pacific coast, that avoids the constant migration of people, making vacation looks like an overwhelming feeling of rushing in to get the best spot at the beach, finding a table at the restaurant with a sunset view or getting the best sun-bed by the pool. You end up racing to relax.

I went out to find new frontiers and discovered the freedom in doing micro-adventures without going against the flow of people entering my favorite destinations. There is nothing wrong with sharing the beach with other tourists, but you can always find a balance that will revitalize your lost energy and bring back the radiance in the essence of being deeply satisfied and joyous while on holidays. The key is to step out of the normal routine and leave room to change.

I packed light early that morning, without really knowing where I was heading. I just knew I wanted something different from the hotel-beach-hotel routine, so I asked one of the hotel's staff if he knew where I could rent a small boat with a captain to take me around the Golfo de Nicoya. Once I had some "tico directions" I drove to the "Puerto" (Puntarenas Port Town) and with some references I had from the "address", I asked some fishermen who were preparing a fishing net if they knew where I could find someone that could take me to Chira Island, a place recommended by the guy at the hotel. They all stared at me like if I said something wrong, but luckily I soon realized the "Puerto" people are friendly and welcoming; so they explained to me that taking that boat ride from "El Puerto" will be extremely expensive; as close as it might look on a map, the island was very far from there.
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They recommended I should take a small ferryboat from a village about an hour from where I met the fishermen, there I could leave my car at a "Soda" (small typical restaurant) and take the boat that would finally take me to Chira Island.

I arrived at the village where the small ferry was supposed to dock. The place didn't seem to be very inviting at all. I left my car at the "Soda" a bit insecure, but after talking to the owner I felt safer, he seemed liked a very nice, humble man. I asked him about the ferry and he told me:
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"It should be docking in about 40 minutes, in the meantime, you can try some ceviche at the bar right in front of us". It proved me wrong about how the small town seemed, it might not be the most inviting of all places, but once again, people showed me that they make the most part of the warmth of a destiny. Soon, the bartender brought me an ice-cold beer and free ceviche, the old fashion Costa Rican way (Costa Rica used to have a bar system; you ordered a beer and they'll give a small appetizer for free).

I was now sitting inside the small boat with very few people that I guessed worked or lived on the Island. I was excited to finally arrive at a new destination where I was eager to explore and meet new people.

The movement of the waves hypnotized me and made me think about how islands are created? And how do people or/and animals end up in these isolated seamounts? My mind started to ramble and all I could see were angry volcanoes, millions of years ago; almost on an apocalyptic red landscape where lava steamed up the same waters I was captivated with, creating layers and layers until they break the water's surface...and then I saw land. We had arrived at the shore and a funny-looking bus stop welcomed the small boat in front of an empty, big bar over the rocky shore.

I asked how I could get around the island and a lady suggested me to wait for the bus and ask the driver; he obviously knows everyone and everywhere on the island. When the bus arrived, I told the driver if he knew somewhere I could spend the night. He recommended a place on the extreme opposite side of the island from where I was, so the ride felt a bit long, but that way I managed to see the landscape and the people hopping in and off the bus.

I arrived at a street where there was just a "pulpería" (very small mini-super), and the house next to it was my "cabina", where a family rented a room on the second floor of their house. Lucky for me, there was no one else, so I got the room and with it, the nice lady who was in charge prepared a delicious "casado" (typical Costa Rican dish) with fried fish.

I rested for a while on a hammock hanging on the porch of the house and my mind started rumbling about how one usually thinks that having freedom is when you manage to have everything under your control, but freedom actually should be the opposite as circumstances will take over you; thus end up controlling you. Freedom is that feeling when there's nothing under your control and you're left with nothing but your ability to re-invent yourself under new environments, to find out who you really are. I woke up from that thought and decided I should get a bike to ride around the island. The warmth of the family I was living with, lent me one of their own bikes. I got lost without any worries at all, riding through dirt roads shadowed by green trees and dry land on the sides, until I arrived at a white sandy beach. I took a break from the heat in the isolated shore, took my shoes off, and felt the cold floor on my feet while scrubbing them under the warm sand layers. Until I fully relaxed lying in the sand, I didn't realize there was a family doing a BBQ some meters from where I was relaxing. I was so thirsty I didn’t mind going to them and ask them to sell me a spare beer; they not only gave me a beer, they shared with me some of their BBQ, which was great!
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Going back to my "cabina" I felt that freedom of moving at my own pace and whim, so I made one last stop at another beach, a really weird one, as it was covered with climbing plants and trees, I tried to go through it on my bike, but it just got thicker and heavier to move around, so I turned back until I reached small sheds by the beach, where I guess fishermen kept their tools and boats. I was later told that Chira Island contains the most intact flora biodiversity of tropical dry forest. What I love about dry forests are the smells; the fresh breeze brought up that beach freshness of vacation scent, but it also brought some awareness of the smells there have might been when on a busy day for fishermen. I was feeling deep gratification and joy, which somehow made my senses sharper.

Islands have a unique setting for biodiversity as I learned; it’s due to how they have a self-conservation system and different evolution and natural selection of both flora and fauna compared to the one we have on the mainland.

I was told that El Golfo de Nicoya wasn't a gulf, it was part of the mainland at one point, but due to a geological fault, it caused the land to submerge, leaving exposed many hills, which are now islands; Chira is the second largest in Costa Rica. This is impressive and very interesting, I thought of it as a land similar to Atlantis or those ancient underwater civilizations, but this one left some evidence of its existence and I wanted to know more about these formations that managed to stay out of the water.

The next day I didn't wake up with the sense of a hurry, so I took things slowly; I had a typical Costa Rican breakfast and asked my lovely hosts to please drive me to the small ferry back to the mainland. This micro-adventure had ended, but I wanted more! We humans have branded in our DNA the prerequisite of living outdoors and like the first humans, they lived in contact with nature; every day was an adventure for them and that urge was driving me to exploit that sense of belonging.
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I got back to the mainland and managed to find my way to another dock, where this time a captain would drive me to another smaller island, a place that holds a dark chapter of Costa Rica and its penitentiary system. The island is infamously known in a book as "The Island of Lost Souls" (loosely translated from its original title in Spanish: "La Isla de Los Hombres solos) sometimes compared as to the Latin-American "Papillon". The book takes you through the tragedy and suffering the author lived while in prison, a detention center built in San Lucas Island.

Getting near the dock in San Lucas, you start to breathe its mystery, and as soon as the boat's engine stops...silence...complete silence, not even the sound of the breeze moving the leaves. I'm now walking on a path that leads to the main entrance when horrifying deep growls suddenly interrupt the stillness. As the screaming sounds get closer and closer I manage to see the source, two howling monkeys up on a tree, welcoming the captain and me to the island. The whole place is pure creepiness and if you like dark tourism this is a great spot. The captain told me stories about what went on in there; prisoners trying to escape and getting eaten by sharks, torture, murder, and more, it's hard to believe this Island was shut down until the early '90s.
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"...it is old and has many memories, there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely." - Dracula

As a Tico I’ve always been a bit naggy on Costa Rica’s culture. I think Costa Rica has lost most of its culture to globalization, which has brought a balance of good and bad things. I’ve always complained about Costa Rica having lost a potentially decent gastronomical culture and having no social achievements in customs and traditions.
This Quest is not a personal rant about Costa Rica’s lack of its own cultural seizing. Through a lead I had on a dark and creepy venture, I ended up learning about Costa Rica’s hidden culture; and this begins up north in Guanacaste, right next to Nicaragua’s border, “La Cruz”.
 
Have you ever explored the dark side?
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​Guanacaste is still a place where you can roam about many incredible destinations, famous for its beaches and volcanoes, adventure tourism and cattle raising. La Cruz sounded like a very interesting destination, as it is almost the last frontier before reaching Nicaragua. I took the (very) long way, even though it’s already far from San José, but the scenery all the way there is as many other roads in Costa Rica, astounding. So it was, that once I arrived to La Cruz, I was feeling eager to keep driving up to Peñas Blancas where the border control Costa Rica–Nicaragua is, nothing much to see there, but kms of freight trucks parked, waiting to drive through the border. I turned around and stayed at some nice “cabinas” by the Sapoa river, right in the middle between Peñas Blancas and La Cruz.

​La Cruz etymology has kind of an interesting but dark origin. Decades ago, this small town served as a livestock passageway to Nicaragua; and the story tells that one day a breeder lost control of his cattle while going through the rugged dirt paths, and while trying to control the herd he got stampede down to his death. When the body was found, the trail was left in worse conditions than it already was, so they figured they’ll mark this path with a big wooden cross to warn other ranchers. This warning point was later used as a rest stop to count the cattle and continue towards their final destination. Later on, this rest stop will become a small village with an incipient population who named it “La Cruz”.

​La Cruz is now a gateway to a most impressive landscape of dreamy deserted beaches freshened by cold Pacific waters, friendly locals and high impact winds. I love it when I visit here; it’s not a very popular destination, but you can find many sagacious travelers looking to explore and relax at Salinas Bay, most famously known for wind surfing. It has a different feel to any other shore in Costa Rica, it’s actually a quiet place due to the winds; they not only clean the air, but takes every sound away from the bay, which you can appreciate uphill from La Cruz. Grassy dunes, cattle, abandoned bull-arenas and small improvised shops and sodas (small typical costarican restaurants), small houses transformed to cabinas and hostels are all within huge distances separated from each other, scattered around through the dirt roads that lead to different isolated beaches. Long white sand shores, blazing sun and warm waves of strong winds shape curious rocky formations surrounded by crystal clear cold waters that changes its blue color scheme with every wind blow. The silence of the wind breaking away sound makes every spot on this land look like a mystery, secrets are carried away in the air; you just want to devour every piece of this vast deserted planet.

​But this wasn’t the place I was looking for at the moment; as windy as this place is, their friendly people are airtight and I was unable to crack open their hidden stories that make up this beautiful place, maybe it’s better that way, this windy setting quickly dragged me out south towards new summits; volcanic stratums, prairies and plains as I drove out from La Cruz.
Guanacaste has an impressive landscape and driving through valleys, faults and rivers, showed me very clear the land’s formation; capes and cliffs eroding into ancient beaches, rocky contours dusting into thin and thick sands, bays, islands and then deeper inland; dry forests that perfectly matched the Grimm Brothers “grim” forest stories. This biological magnificence has full scenic attractivenes and pre-Columbian societies new about the richness of this land. The “Corobicí” where an indigenous community living throughout this area; later, they will migrate to the mountains; giving origin to the Maleku tribe. Malekus, Chorotegas, Nahuas and Corobicís, all part of the cultural past of Costa Rica, which now are long gone forgotten, but still some of their influence might be seen in music, dances and crafts. Cattle techniques and corn gastronomy where acquired by the new wave of the “hacienda” and “el campesino”.

​Since the early civilizations in the American continent, Costa Rica has facilitated a cultural bridge between north and south America; even inside its own country, different costarican indigenous communities hiked for days and even weeks looking to trade with other communities or just for ceremonial processions to holy grounds. This pilgrimage allowed for different cultures to meet and trade cultural values; this might explain the lack of appropriation of one particular strong culture, after all, it was always in constant change and movement.
Most of the indigenous cultural richness transmuted to the Hacienda, while at the Caribbean coast, enslavement from the Antilles and African countries filtered Costa Rica and though this population passed with intentional discreet, the black culture had a strong input not only in the Caribbean shores, but northern Guanacaste had its influence as well. There are many tico words that came from black slaves that today still stick in our daily vocabulary, same goes for many places in Costa Rica, named after words in the African dialects.

​One of them places is Matambú, which I arrived after long driving hours south, towards the Península de Nicoya. I found myself up in these mountains where once the indigenous communities were forced to hide from slavery. Matambú is an ironic indigenous reserve, because there’s no sign of an indigenous community, although the roots planted here are now half-bloods, the majority are “white men and women”. This reserve was created to aid the indigenous community and help them regain back ownership from the lands that were taken from them, although as I said, there are no indigenous people around. Most Matambú “white” locals who I spoke to, call themselves proudly “indigenous”. It’s a weird small village filled with lots of indigenous influence carried out by “whites”; in agriculture is where you see the most impact of the ancient culture; the use of medicinal plants, seeds and the many uses they have for corn are signs of a once powerful cultural breed.

​I found a tiny cabina near a river, very simple, with private bathroom and a bed, that’s all I needed. I was tired, but even though the village was small, there was a lot to get into and without knowing I started walking up hill, until I found a house where the dirt path ended. Doors open and a welcoming smell of something cooking on firewood was a great sign, as the time was way past lunch and I didn’t even had breakfast. The sky had grey heavily printed in the clouds and some lightning announced heavy rains. I knocked on the door and was quickly received by “Chimbolo” a typical guanacastecan, elderly man who was cooking “tamal asado” (roasted corn tamale) the smell got strongly desirable once he welcomed me inside his house and to his backyard, where he had a huge pot of this roasted tamale on the wooden fire, unfortunately for me, it will take 12 more hours until it will be ready, so I tried to keep my guts quiet.

Chimbolo is a quiet man, unless I asked him something he wouldn’t talk that much, plus, he was focused cooking the roasted tamale, something he is famous for, so he takes advantage of it and sells it all over the village. After a short introduction of myself, he gaind trust and started telling me that he acquired his name from an uncle; Chimbolo started drinking at age 7 and thus, he was always staggering; Chimbolo slightly refers to someone that is always stumbling. Now a widower, he’s been sober for over 35 years and still, he’s still getting used to loneliness:
 
 
“That’s life, no one knows anything, destiny, the future…nothing is certain, just death… I’ve been living here all my life and I plan to die here as well.”
 
 
The firewood interrupted his desolation, doing strong pop sounds as the wood started to split, releasing more steam into the fire, Chimbolo quickly attended to it and started telling me his recipe for the famous roasted tamale, but while he talked about how easy it was, he made a detour to the past and at points he roamed in childhood memories, triggered by his mother passing the recipe along to him. Now the easy recipe, opened a gateway to tales of mystical creatures that tormented both him and his brother’s youth. Large rain drops started to crash loudly over the zinc roof, thunders cracked the dark skies and everything just became a movie set for horror stories.

​During Ash Wednesday, kids weren’t allowed to go out and play, but Chimbolo and his brother managed to go out and play soccer. On their way back, late in the afternoon, they were walking through a “tiquisque” crop field (a root-vegetable similar to cassava) when all of the sudden, they heard the screeching sounds of hell coming out from an old dirty burlap sack. Intrigued and scared, they both got close to the bag and it seemed that something alive was inside of it. They ripped open the bag and a piercing sound, shriek of terror gave way to a white hairy beast filled with slimy fangs that startled them, Chibolos brother’s reaction was a sudden shock continued by punching the banshee screaming creature and in seconds they ran faster than the light of thunders that flashed in the background while Chibolo excitingly told the story of what he called a “Dwarf”. Never before I’ve ever heard or read a story that describes a dwarf like this, but his excitement really got me into the story. They managed to get back home and immediately hide in bed, beneath the covers, Chibolo cried for days and couldn’t bare having the lights turned off, as he felt the savagely white creature will take revenge on them.

It was getting late, but the sunset somehow cleared the heavy rain and Chibolo told me he needed to leave, but that I could go and meet his brother “Julio” who lived 20 minutes from him by car, he also said, he had become somewhat of a sorcerer and he could tell me all about a group of estate owners that had a pact with the Devil, that didn’t claimed their souls, but instead they traded their worker’s souls for their own wealthiness. I wanted and felt ready to descend onto these depths, deep inside the minotaur’s cave.
 
 
“To understand how one becomes what one is, we must explore the depths of our fear beyond good and evil, travel [and explore] every road…”
- Nietzsche
 
On my way to Julio’s I met “Lucho” who used to be involved with voodoo and witchcraft, friend’s with Julio. Lucho made a whole disclaimer about Julio on our way to him, but from everything he said, all I remember was:
 
“…he eats bats you know…” Lucho smiles.
 
Before even thinking where we were driving, we already were deep in a small dirt road higher up in the Matambú mountain, a road with few houses, all lined up to a majestic landscape of a colorful Guanacaste sunset. This was a street where most of the village’s “witches and wizards” live; my theory is that these were probably the people who had the most strong roots to their indigenous origins, because as Lucho described; these people knew a lot about medicinal plants, oral traditions and handcrafts; but like Lucho, they also kept old books back from the arrival of the Europeans and then passed along by generations. Books that tell stories of black magic, evil pacts, human metamorphosis, spiritual beings and endless devilish narratives. I thought this as highly interesting, this might be a source of how lots of legends and mystical characters and beasts were introduced to the Costa Rican folklore.

​Julio’s house was in the same street, but separated from the rest, it was an open small ranch on a large piece of land; when we arrived, we just made our way in to the center of the ranch where the silhouette of a large, robust man was sitting in a chair. Once closely, Julio’s face featured indigenous traits, not alike his brother Chimbolo. Julio was also very quiet, but mysterious; he didn’t let me photograph him, but the time we shared made a close enough image of how he should be remembered; a mystical creature himself. He offered us to sit, the sunset was way past behind the mountains, crickets, frogs and the clicking sound of geckos was intensified, adding much expectation to the magic and the stories we were soon to be told. But Julio didn’t want to talk and with a low-pitched laughter he said that “Lucho” knows the stories better. Lucho, though very theatrical, wasn’t a very good storyteller and he just went over many random stories of his own illusions of grandness when he used to practice voodoo. Though he is out of that game today, he still uses his underwear inside out, as protection against witches.

I was a bit disappointed, but soon I remembered I wasn’t there for the stories, I wanted to understand how the dark part of a culture can be integrated in a proper way on to the general culture of a country, become familiar with our beast within and if channeled properly there can be some substance in art and social achievements of particular lifestyles and traditions.
 
Chimbolo, Lucho and Julio, have been part of a long gone past and this should remind us that we are still arcane, primitive men. Talking to them left me with an emotional scar; past traditions and culture, should continue to live on with us.
 
“We lack historical sense because we have no conscience connection to the past.”
 
But there is a rich cultural value in this dark hidden culture and we need to be actively willing to explore its history to obtain a kind of well-being through these roots; just like the “Guanacaste tree” that has been growing and standing strong for more than decades.

Driving down the cool air mountains that opens into a wild country of deep dry jungle was the first step into the "Brunka Region". The Brunka Region is home of the "Boruca" people, a Costarican indigenous tribe that lives in a reservation on the south pacific of Costa Rica.
The road serpentines the mighty "Térraba" river, locally know as the "Dí Crí" (Great River). It's meandering body allows some impressive views along it's way, where many huts and crops settle.

A wave of heat is your first welcoming when arriving to "Rey Curré", an Indian Territory inside Brunka. The heat of the weather is as the warmth of it's people. The whole village gathers together at this time of the year (the last week of January) to celebrate their "New Year".

​The party's epicenter takes place at the community center, where everyone meets to await the "call" of the famous "Diablitos" (Little Devils).
We arrived late, so we had a quick bite to eat on an improvised public kitchen at the community center. Sitting there, a nice local family offered us cold "Chicha", a saliva-fermented drink made out of maize. Served on a bamboo cup or usually on a "jícara" (small bowl made from a type of pumpkin) the first sip of this representative drink, was like eating an overripe fruit, but the sourly-bitterness washes down as the high alcohol percentage kicks quickly into your blood stream.

Walking around the small community center we were wondering where the village was, as no houses were visible, but we did see where the "Diablitos" where and they were getting ready to start off the New Year's celebration - Actually it had already started the night before at midnight...

Soon after midnight you will hear shrieks and groans screeching down the hills of the village. But this is an announcement of joy, because The Little Devils have been born, this is how the Celebration begins. A commemoration of life and death is what the Borucas celebrate during 4 nights / 3 days. A new year is born and so are the souls of the warriors that defended the indigenous territories from the Spanish conquest.

"El Juego de los Diablitos" (The Little Devils Game) or in Brunka called "Cagrúv rójc" symbolizes the fight between the Boruca people and the Spanish Conquistadors. The Borucas are the Diablitos and The Conquistadors are represented by a Big Horned Bull.

Horns and shells are played by the Elderly (Diablos Mayores) to announce that the celebration has begun. Youngsters playing drums and flutes follow the elders and along follows the howling Little Devils, joining the procession with their demonic colorful masks.

The whole village and neighborhood areas follow the tribe along different houses where the fight against the Bull takes place. 
The fight starts very gentle and consists of few Diablitos teasing and jesting the Bull around so that he makes a fool of him, it's almost like a dance between them. Meanwhile the rest of the Diablitos and the public surrounding the "arena" drinks "Chicha", served cold and  free of charge by the owners of every house they visIt. You must have your own "jícara" or bamboo cup (or any drinking container).

Lots of more battles continue along the way through out the village on different houses, and their hosts; they all keep serving cold Chicha to their guests. As each battle progresses more people from the tribe join in and start accompanying the children's musical flutes and drums with accordion and antiphonal singing with their native language but mainly with non-lexical vocables  . The party is just warming up and so is the heat of the day. 

A loud rattling noise feels coming closer during one of the fights. The Bull is almost forced out of the "arena" into the gravel road in front of the house.
All of the sudden a big cloud of dust filled with screeching sounds terrorizes the event. After the dust has settled down one is able to see that its a second horde of Diablitos! They start pushing and beating the Bull with branches and leaves but the Bull is relentless and it keeps pushing, taking down some of his victims.

By this time each battle becomes tougher and vicious as we advance on different houses. More and more Diablitos join in, fighting for their culture and their right to live! 
It's almost dawn and you can clearly see the "Chicha" has done it's inebriety effect on the Diablitos, whom have been drinking since earlier than 11am.  The Diablos Mayores always vigilant, make sure that the rules are being followed as previously discussed and he who is seen loafing, resting or taking pictures with those around them is whipped and immediately pushed back into the fight. The celebration as fun as it may look it's taken very seriously, harsh enough that the Diablitos are not allowed to drink anything else but "Chicha". I heard one of the elders saying to a Diablito;
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"This is our culture and you must not betray it, you can only drink "Chicha", be proud of your roots"

It seems that we shape culture as we engage in our social practices in our everyday life. What do we think we are? and what we're supposed to be? These are values that affect how we judge other people's values comparing them to ours, not by where others come from.

The perseverance of the Bull constantly reminds the tribe that the Conquistadors will not give up fighting against what they proclaim as their own. Tired and literally drunk with power the Diablitos linger and fight during two more days.

With the last rays of light on the last fighting day, magic fills the village with mystical powers and the Diablitos resurrect one by one for one more last shot to hunt down the Bull. The Bull once long gone, hides over the hills. Some of the Diablitos transmutes into "dogs" and lead the way to find the Bull.

Finally the Bull hunt is over. And the Bull (outfit) is burnt by the purifying flames of death, allowing the survival of the Boruka people.

The death of the Bull brings the village to a huge celebration on the last day. But the intense battles all the "actors" go through are not to take in vane, as this is a lesson that the indigenous people are in constant strive to keep their land, but more important to maintain their long gone roots that have been ran over by progress, taking more and more of their people to forget where they come from, which is a valuable lesson to us all.

"El Juego de los Diablitos" fights for an extinct cultural identity in Costa Rica but hoping to reach out, Los Daiblitos are part of the costarican culture and they not only involve sacrifice, they proclaim our own cultural roots, our own way of life and our own believes, which in my opinion Costa Rica already has forgotten.