The Shipibo Little World Cup
How a sport invented by the English just over a century ago became the most important ritual activity for the Shipibo people.
Roy, on the left, son of the successful shaman Roger López, tries to take control of the ball.
Text and photos by Carlos Suárez Álvarez
Originally Published in issue 213 of Cáñamo magazine, september 2015.
Roy wakes me up with a white-toothed smile and urges me: we’re going to the opening of the Mundialito (Little World Cup). We reach the port by riding through the San Francisco community on a Chinese motorcycle, a symbol of his family’s material progress: his father is the successful Shipibo shaman and businessman Roger López. By motorcycle to the port and by boat to Yarina, the satellite town of the cancerous city of Pucallpa. This used to be Shipibo territory, but not anymore: in 1943, with the newly built highway, “Peruvians” began arriving en masse.
Roy is twenty-one years old, speaks Spanish well, and studies accounting at the university. He has a clear short-term goal: “Finish my studies and find a job. It’s going to be hard: balancing internships and classes. At seven in the morning I go to class, and when class ends, I go to my internship.” Nothing very different from what any young person in Europe or the United States might want. Studying and working as a life challenge; football, his great passion, fills his free time.
The Mundialito is much more than a game for the Shipibo communities of Ucayali; it has replaced ancient ritual forms of tribal integration. No other event gathers as many people from so many communities. “Winning is very important!” says Roy enthusiastically, right back for the San Francisco team, which has “taken the championship” three times and this year hopes to match their great rival, Paoyhán, who has won four. There’s a significant cash prize at stake—and a lot of pride.
* * *
The scorching sun beats down on the Instituto Superior Pedagógico Público Bilingüe de Yarinacocha (Bilingual Public Higher Pedagogical Institute of Yarinacocha), once the headquarters of the Summer Institute of Linguistics, the American evangelical mission that for decades established the bilingual school system among the “savages,” to prepare them for the mercantile rule of law that was looming over them. The classrooms and the auditorium, which surround the football field, have significantly deteriorated since the missionaries left and handed over the infrastructure to the Peruvian government: chipped green paint, torn mosquito nets, rusting zinc roofs, dusty and disordered interiors, fallen blackboards… The decay is masked by the colorful inauguration and the energy of the spectators around the field, where about twenty teams stoically endure the punishing sun and the ceremonial chatter of the organizers, which echoes tinnily through loudspeakers.
Elí Sánchez refers to the ani sheati, the great Shipibo festival that once brought hundreds of people together around an ancient ritual: the clitoris-cutting ceremony for girls. “We lost the ani sheati, and for a long time we had no other way to come together again. This is today’s way of reuniting, as other peoples around the world do.” But now the ritual is not of blood and moon in the name of fertility, as in the ani sheati—it’s about defeating the opponent and winning. Yet there is no longer a generous jungle to provide, and so the tinny loudspeaker announces that the event’s only sponsor is the oil company Maple, which has caused so many environmental problems in Shipibo territory. And there is no longer territorial autonomy, and so the opening ceremony concludes with hands over hearts and voices timidly singing the Peruvian national anthem.
The oil company Maple, which has caused so many environmental problems in Shipibo territory, sponsors the event under the slogan: We generate regional development with social responsibility.
* * *
On the day of San Francisco’s debut, the Pedagogical Institute is bustling. Many people have come from San Francisco, including Roy’s family. “I’ve been watching the morning matches—we’re going to win them all,” Roy says confidently. The reigning champion is up against Paoyhán’s B team, their great rival; it shouldn’t be much of a challenge. Maybe that’s why they take the warm-up lightly, while their opponents appear serious and focused. Only Jayro, San Francisco’s coach, keeps a grave demeanor as he lays out the strategy just before the match, surrounded by players and community members—it’s everyone’s team. Jayro’s seriousness contrasts with Roy and his teammates’ carefree attitude, as they assume victory is a given. But it isn’t. Just a few minutes into the game, the fierce opponents score the first goal, thanks to a defensive mistake by my Roy, who is swiftly substituted and leaves the field with his head down. Near the end, San Francisco equalizes and advances to the next round in a penalty shootout. “I don’t know what happened to the boys today,” sighs Jayro, the coach, at the end of the match. “They played very poorly.”
* * *
Second day. When Roy is substituted (again) in the twentieth minute of the first half, I hatch the suspicion that his poor performance is due to my presence: after all, I am not so much documenting the Mundialito as the life of my young friend and his family. Could my constant observation be an extra pressure? At halftime, a goal down on the scoreboard, the San Francisco team takes sullen refuge in a corner of the pitch, under a large mango tree, to receive the coach's instructions and the imprecations of the frankly exalted fans. “Defense!”, shouts someone in Spanish, very used by the Shipibos for football matters. To me, Roy's sufficiency during the first day seems unfounded (and I think they will not get far), but in the second half I see glimpses of good play. They tie the match, and again in the penalty shootout, they go through to the next round. The mood has changed after the game when players and coaching staff evaluate the match, surrounded by the demanding fans, who don't miss a beat. “We played on the attack. We know what we are doing,” the coach says slowly, and it is not clear whether he is speaking to the players or to the critical fans in the community.
* * *
I want to speak with Elí Sánchez, vice president of the tournament’s organizing committee, who during the opening day referred to the Mundialito as the new ani sheati—“great drunken fest”. “It’s not just football players who come here; the grandparents come, the mothers come… The young people pitch in from their own pockets just to be here,” Elí explains. There’s a common thread between the ani sheati and the Mundialito: it’s a gathering space for people living scattered across a vast territory. “One of the successes of this Mundialito is that a man who had separated from his partner came to reconnect. We helped solve that. There were two men here talking about agriculture, and while everyone else was shouting ‘goal,’ they were deep in their own conversation—it’s a meeting point.” But the parallels end there. It’s true that traditional rituals also included competition—wrestling matches between hosts and guests, archery contests, and most notably, the ritual fight between a cuckolded husband and his rival. In that case, the outcome was predetermined: the rival had to offer his head to receive long, deep cuts to the scalp. But things have changed; now everything revolves around the ball—around competition. “It gives us satisfaction that activities that were not originally ours, but that we’ve now made our own, also serve to bring us together, like we used to do in the past,” says Elí, who trained as a teacher in the 1970s, right here in these now crumbling facilities once built by the Summer Institute of Linguistics.
Teachers were the first Shipibo intellectuals and led political and union movements to strengthen the Shipibo people's position in the new landscape. “We distanced ourselves from the Institute’s missionary ideology and admitted that we had fallen into a paternalism that led us to a different horizon—to the forgetting of our culture, of our artistic and sporting practices.” Paradoxically, it was the missionaries who first introduced the ball to the communities—and Elí was one of the main promoters of the Mundialito, which was founded in 1992. “There was a mission in my community, and it was the missionary who bought the ball,” he recalls. “My uncles, my grandfather, played football—but a kind of football… The one who kicked the hardest was the best team, even if there were no goals.”
Coaching staff, players, and fans listen closely to the coach's talk in the final minutes before the first match. In the background, Lake Yarinacocha.
* * *
Roy is lying face down on his bed, in the middle of an emotional slump. I ask if he’s feeling sad, but get no answer. I repeat the question. “I’m just tired,” he replies without looking up, without lifting his head. His brother Daniel mocks him: “He’s sad.” Roy is upset because he was subbed out in the twentieth minute of the first half. “I wasn’t playing in my position. I’m a defender,” he laments. His mother walks in. “He played without having breakfast. That’s why he had no strength,” says the great Olga with her practical domestic wisdom. “You can’t play without breakfast. It’s very important,” I agree. It seems to lift his spirits that we’re talking to him about it—he regains some energy, and after confidently saying, “We’re going to win tomorrow too,” he puts on a DVD with documentaries about the life and achievements of great football stars.
* * *
Roy doesn’t do very well in the first match of the third day: the opposing team takes the lead with a goal scored by the forward Roy is supposed to mark. Fortunately, Roy’s mistake is corrected, and the team manages to advance to the next round, which is played a few hours later. In this second match, Roy’s performance is finally brilliant, and San Francisco beats their eternal rival, Paoyhán, the formidable four-time champion. It’s a great victory, and so back in the community, there’s a festive atmosphere in the air (and it can be heard). Over the loudspeaker, the football club president, exultant, calls for financial support to provide drinks for the players the next day and invites the community to attend an open meeting where various issues related to the decisive day will be discussed. I walk there with Roy, who says that San Francisco’s gameplay stirs a lot of envy in other communities: “They don’t want us to be champions. They say all kinds of things about us. A bunch of words showing they don’t like us. That we’re arrogant. Most are against us. But despite everything, we’re going to make it.”
The night is cool, and the ground is muddy. Several benches have been set up along the wide main street, lined on both sides with gardened houses, a few shops, and an evangelical church—all simple and rustic, made of wood and palm leaves. Several dozen people buzz excitedly until the football club president steps into the center of the crowd and solemnly takes the floor. “Players, whole town… Once again San Francisco has shown its football, its strategy, and we have brought victory for the pride of our people and fans. And if we win the first match tomorrow, we go straight to the final. To the final!” The president grows passionate, as does the whole crowd, who shout: “We’re going to win!” “Friends, now yes, the fans are happy,” continues the enthusiastic president. “The first day even the board was worried because our young players—first match… I don’t know what happened, they didn’t show their football. But the second match we surpassed ourselves, and today the boys have shown what San Francisco football is. They say we’re like Brazil!” The crowd laughs, moved by the comparison. “Friends. I think this is the moment when the whole village is united, and the entire population will support us again.”
The community leader speaks next, mostly in Shipibo, but I clearly understand when he passionately exclaims: “We’re going to be champions!” The crowd repeats and applauds with full conviction. Nearby, some young men share a secret with me: “The thing is, San Francisco has television, and other communities don’t. And since we have TV, we can watch the techniques of the best players in the world.” Then several neighbors take turns sharing their opinions. Everyone is listened to with the same respect. Children run between the benches. A group of dogs breaks into a fierce fight; someone grabs a stick and brutally breaks up the commotion. The meeting ends with the president asking for strength for the players, and it dissolves amid applause, overflowing joy, shared laughter, and barking dogs.
More than sixty teams participate in the Shipibo Little World Cup. A similar number are excluded for failing to qualify in the previous zonal eliminations.
* * *
Heavy rain has turned the field into a mud pool in which the San Francisco players dive to win their semifinal. The opponent in the final starts at an unusual disadvantage: due to scheduling delays, they had to play two matches that same morning, and their players arrive at the final with 180 minutes already on their legs. The venue is packed with spectators. The match is very exciting because the rivals take the lead in the first half and San Francisco can’t find the net. As the minutes pass, nervousness spreads among the impatient crowd. Two women shout angrily: “Pass the ball!” “Why don’t they hurry up!?” Finally, they manage to equalize and take control of the game, but at the end of regulation time there are no more goals. The champion will be decided on penalties, San Francisco’s lucky chance, which, as on previous occasions, tilts in their favor. The crowd shouts and cheers as the San Francisco players embrace their decisive goalkeeper, raise their arms, take off their shirts, and wave them above their heads while shouting: “Champions! Champions!” The team’s supporters invade the field and mingle with the players. The technical staff hugs each other. Tears are shed. Songs are sung.
Soon after, the closing ceremony takes place with the trophy presentation. The players line up solemnly in front of the table of authorities, which is well stocked: high-ranking regional government officials, engineers, various directors, all dressed elegantly and dignified, proud protagonists. The Peruvian anthem is sung and the “authorities” give their speeches. For half an hour, they steal the spotlight: the first award goes to Gílmer Soria, president of the tournament’s organizing committee, while the exhausted players seem like mere spectators. Finally, the players receive their trophy and the envelope with the prize money, but a few minutes after raising the trophy, it becomes obvious something is wrong. The club president speaks angrily with his players, hands on hips. I approach and understand it’s a monetary issue: a significant portion of the cash prize is missing. They were supposed to receive fifteen hundred dollars but four hundred are missing. The players, the fans, the technical staff, all gather, agitated and unsure how to handle the anger. When they see a member of the organizing committee, they swarm him. The club president, with a distraught expression, confronts him: “The winner should receive four thousand two hundred soles as first prize, but here there are only three thousand two hundred.” The committee member replies with something like “a proposal.” Jayro, usually calm and kind, cuts him off angrily: “No, no, no! Fifty percent is for the champion, yes or no? You’re stealing from the people!”
Tempers flare. The unfortunate committee member tries to find a way out of the venue but is surrounded by the San Francisco residents. “Poor people coming here, making their sacrifice, and bam, here they steal from us. This isn’t right,” says a man. “They think we’re all ignorant,” shouts a woman bitterly. There is much confusion. The club president spots another organizer sneaking toward the exit and walks to meet him, accompanied by the crowd. They catch up to the man, surround him, and demand explanations. “You have to return the money!” Applause. The people grow more heated and emboldened. “Return the money! We’re watching you all the time, listening all the time; it’s not just this year you do this.” The cornered man mutters something barely audible and fearful about “tomorrow.” But several women shout: “Today!” “We want the commission, we want the commission!” the women demand, dressed in traditional attire, insisting the organizing committee be presented in the venue. Fear darkens the face of the distressed captive. “They won’t let you leave, they won’t let you leave!” someone shouts threateningly.
The players and coaching staff erupt with joy when the goalkeeper saves the decisive penalty.
They escort the hostage to the Institute’s offices, where Elí Sánchez, the vice president of the organizing committee, has been located. A human tide surrounds both men. Tension is rising. Elí runs his hands through his hair when a woman from a distance threatens him: “Look me in the eyes, look me in the eyes.” Elí’s voice trembles, and he struggles to explain himself when questioned, but finally admits that money is missing. “What’s missing is an explanation,” he says. “Let’s talk.” Elí calls the president of the organizing committee, Gílmer Soria, whose work was recognized during the closing ceremony. Ten minutes later he arrives on a high-powered motorcycle, passes by where his two comrades are cornered, parks in front of his office, and calls the representatives of the three awarded teams.
About two hundred people wait outside the offices for the meeting’s outcome. From time to time, their mood flares up; they whistle and approach the window shouting. The most active are the women. After half an hour, the president of the San Francisco football club exits the meeting with a grave expression. “Is there a solution?” He nods with an unfriendly, expressionless face, heading toward the dock. “Let’s go,” he announces without further explanation. And everyone—players and fans, boys and girls, men and elderly women—heads to the dock, where three boats await to take them back to San Francisco. It’s the last minutes of the day; the sky is completely clear and has taken on a violet hue. The trophy rides on the roof. San Francisco is four-time champion.
