THE ARTISTS COLLECTIVE FOR SOCIAL CHANGE, INC.

In Bielsa, Spain where the temperatures are cool and wintry, spring is welcomed into the stone streets that still shelter small amounts of snow. Here, Carnival is goat-horns, sheepskins, straw dolls, and peasant clothes. The characters of Trangas, Osos, Madamas, Amontate and Caballete are symbols of the tamed and untamed, virility, and purity. For a brief time, the totemism of animals, both wild and humorous, descends upon the small mountain village in the celebration of a primitive pre-Christian pageant of fertility.

Established in the tenth and eleventh centuries, Bielsa is located at 3500 feet in the Pineta Valley of the Pyrennes mountains, only 11 kilometers from the tunnel leading to the French border. No one knows when Carnival began in Bielsa. It is timeless. It is said that it has survived with very little change or interruption.

Nine Trangas (Bielsa’s young single men) saunter with 14 foot tall sticks held proudly to demand respect, or to wake up the earth by beating the ground. They roam the streets alone, or in pairs and always with the machismo of an urban gang.

Large serpentine horns of wild mountain goats tightly strung to headdresses of ram’s fur craft a cape down the back. They skip and run in white socks and brown sandals that dance below long colorful skirts. With elbows jutting outwards, chests open and strong, they play their game: intimidate the children and conquer the young women of Bielsa. Despite their cross-dressed appearance, they are symbols of fecundity.

Their sexual energy is all apparent as they corner the females against the wall, imitating the seduction of “virgins” with an exaggerated motion of the hips. The clatter and bobbing of the large cone-shaped metal bells is humorous, a cartoon of phallic expression.

Trangas are men and animals at once. Or are they beasts? Or are they men wearing skirts, wallowing in the opportunity to be rascals? Small children held safely in their parents arms can be heard crying, terrified by the village monster. I feel as though I am in a bullfight, fleeing from bulls charging in all directions. Eventually I am cornered. I am not one of the younger women of the village, but am flattered at being caught, excited by the intensity, and thrilled by the activity. I remember being ten or twelve, the boys chasing girls around a playground. Now I’m a woman and mother cornered by a man in a long skirt with horns on his head. I am in a dance, being chased, being pursued. The Trangas strut and chase with cagey maneuvers. They bounce up and down and pounce on the symbolic virgin. Girls hide their heads, turn their backs. It is natural to run, to turn away, to scream. It is over quickly. The crowd loves the game.

I return to the plaza. A bear, looking like the Hunch-Back of Notre Dame, lumbers through the streets with its weight falling on two sticks for front paws.

Its face, like the Tranga is blackened from a mixture of olive oil and chimney grease. This fearsome symbol savage energy wears a grimace of anger as it pushes through the crowds, forcing us all to feel its strength. The “oso” is chained to its tamer (domador) whose stick repeatedly beats the bear’s back, a huge mound of sheepskin and hay. This harsh, dull thud reminds me of beating a mattress.

While trying to capture a photo, I get caught between the domador and the oso. I am thrown to the ground. The impact knocks the wind out of me. The crowd tries to help me up, but the duet scrambles by, aggressively pushing themselves through the audience. I am so unbalanced that I fall down again. Later, when I have recovered and curiously peer down a tiny alleyway, I discover two weary osos slouched against the wall of a building. They refresh themselves with a bottle of wine carried by the domador who generously cuts and serves them slices of cured ham serrano.

Curious, laughing, mingling, we weave in and out of the the narrow village streets, accompanying the Trangas in an activity called the “ronda”. The Trangas meet the Madamas waiting outside their homes and escort them throughout the streets.

The chosen unmarried women of the village wear outfits sewn by their mothers and grandmothers: large colorful, ribboned vests adorned with bows in the shape of a V covering black or white cotton sleeves attached to colorful, satiny skirts embroidered with white lace. Accessorized with earrings, necklaces, and jewels in their hair, white stockings, white shoes, and little white purse, the doll-like symbols of purity waiting alone or in pairs at the door.

Costumed or not, villager and visitor we all parade together. Among the familiar clowns, witches, nurses, are several couples clothed as minor traditional figures of Bielsa Carnival: “le hiedra” two women in short dresses of green leaves and long black gloves, and

“copes de nieve”: a man and woman dressed as snow with white balls sewn onto black fabric. More important is the Amontate: a man in a raincoat, long skirt, hat, sun glasses. he carries a whip. A large figure protrudes from his chest. The black shawl-covered doll represents the grandmother, the old woman who symbolically carries the man piggy-back. Or has he mounted her? The satirical image comments on the matriarchal backbone of the alto Aragon region still under the influence of machismo attitude.

Even in a small rural village of the Pyrennes, the presence of our contemporary world is inescapable, yet Bielsa Carnival has not lost the innocence nor essence of its ritual. It is an invocation. Whether Christian or pagan, the need to celebrate the fecundity of life endures, keeping alive ancient symbols of fertility and animal totemism.