This entry is a bit out of order, and for that I apologize…it pertains to my host sister’s wedding, which happened back in mid-December (coincidentally the same day as my real sister’s anniversary), and I will tell it as if I were writing it when it happened. Hopefully I’ll remember how it all went.
About two months ago, my host-sister Bilma (23 years old, the youngest of the three sisters but with a younger brother yet) asked me if she should get married. She had been with her “boyfriend” Juan Pablo for a good while now, and they have a one and a half year old son together, Daúl. I use the term “boyfriend” loosely because it is common here in Hárdeman to refer to someone you’ve been dating for a long time as your spouse. I know plenty of couples here who live together, have children and share everything but who are not married. I’m not sure why, but that’s just the custom here. So I would consider Juan Pablo more of a boyfriend, although we don’t have a name in English for what we might call him. Bilma explained to me that they wanted to apply for a loan to build a house on the property they shared, but in order to get the loan, they would have to be married. I found this abhorrent and was tempted to tell her it was a bunch of crap and if it worked like that then they should just say screw the loan company. But then I remembered I was in Bolivia. There aren’t unlimited avenues for money here, nor are there laws prohibiting this kind of silly rule. Plus, after thinking about it, I figured it didn’t really matter. They already live together, they have their child…I was pretty sure they were sticking together for a while. So, as opposed to asking her if she loved him (something that seems to play a minor role in many marriages here anyhow) I told her to go for it.
Now, I’m pretty sure my advice wasn’t the tipping point of their decision, but they did indeed decide to tie the knot. The date was set for December 16th and preparations began immediately…well, kind of immediately. They did get some nice invitations made up and sent out, but other than that, all of the preparations were left for the week of the wedding. I helped Juan Pablo tear down part of our house and put up a new roof, covering the area where the old building stood, allowing for more shaded area and a bigger dance floor. They brought a cow in from the farm and killed it (yes, a whole cow), meaning the entire week leading up to the wedding we ate everything that wasn’t worthy of being served at the wedding. It started out with cow liver, which wasn’t that big of a deal…sort of a funny texture, but it tasted like all the other meat here…like it had been cooked too long in oil without any type of seasoning except too much salt. Then it started to get interesting. We had cow tongue and stomach sauce mixed with rice, cow lung and even cow head soup. The cow head soup was surprisingly good. I chose not to ask exactly how it was prepared though, in fear that they would actually tell me the truth. I just ate it and smiled, thinking how my dad was probably chowing down on a nice 3-way from Skyline at that same exact moment. They began preparing chicha, a corn-based beverage which they let ferment in big 55-gallon barrels for the entire week. Chicha is really unsanitary in the way it’s prepared and served (in little buckets, with one dried half-gourd called a tutumbo used as a glass to pass around between everyone) and I was not looking forward to drinking it at the reception. I had my share of chicha when I lived with my host family in Cochabamba, where they at least prepare it a little better. You see, chicha is from Cochabamba and the surrounding regions, and it’s not something people in Santa Cruz drink very often. However, when people from the Cochabamba areas (called Kollas) move to Santa Cruz to live amongst the Santa Cruz people (known as Cambas), they like to prepare chicha for special occasions, like weddings. Still, since it was made in our house, it is just dirty stuff. To my delight (and the relief of my stomach), 65 cases of beer arrived on Wednesday. Have I mentioned Bolivians like to drink?
I will now take this opportunity to discuss something that has been brought up by a few loyal blog readers. And that subject is “What’s the beer like in Bolivia?” Well, to sum it up in two words, not good. I am by no means a huge beer connoisseur (not to be confused with “consumer”), I couldn’t tell you the difference between a stout and a pilsner and a lager, and I really don’t understand what hops are. I do know that I enjoy a nice smooth Guinness Draught, the taste of Honey Brown is pleasing to my tongue, nothing a beats a nice cold Corona on the water and that Strongbow is amazing, but truth be told, at the end of the day, I’m pretty satisfied with a cold bottle of Bud Light. In my humble opinion, I don’t think the beer in Bolivia is all that bad. While there are those days I long for something smooth; the light, rough, extremely average tasting beer of Bolivia serves my purposes just fine. By my count, there are 5 kinds of beer in Bolivia. Huari is considered the best, Taquiña and Paceña are about on the same level, and Ducal is the Bolivian version of Natural Light…cheap and abundant. Then there is Bock, which is in a whole different category because it has more alcohol in it. In the city, if you know where to look, you can find bottles of Stella Artois (although no Press Grill) or Corona in bottles. They are pretty expensive compared to the Bolivian beers, though. Of the local brews, I’ve grown to like Ducal the best, even though the flavor is supposed to be sub-par. One thing about the beer here, it is always REALLY cold…which for me has more effect on taste than the actual flavor itself. On a good night, there will be some coca cola around to mix with the beer, which I know sounds gross, but you should try it sometime. Use something light and cheap, about 2/3 beer and 1/3 coke…you may be pleasantly surprised. One of my favorite parts of Bolivian drinking customs is the fact that beer is always shared. In the states, if we all go out to a restaurant, we all order our own drinks and enjoy them on our own. Here, the table decides whether it wants beer or soda, then orders a big bottle and a little gets poured into everyone’s glass. You usually wait until everyone’s glass is empty and fill them back up again before you drink some more. This way, everyone is drinking at the same rate and when you are with a group, it is hard to let someone get really out of control drunk since they are drinking at a slow rate. As far as drinking habits here, beer doesn’t differ much from soda. (Note to Mom, skip to next paragraph). I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been riding in a car with someone on a hot day and the driver stops to buy cans of beer for everyone. At first I was a bit taken aback, but it wasn’t long before I joined in. And the funny part is, it’s totally legal to drink in a car (if you’re not driving) or on the street. So if you’re somewhere enjoying a nice cold beverage and all of the sudden everyone decides it’s time to go, you can take your beer with you out to the street, walk down the block, hail a cab, and finish the beer in the cab without even breaking the law. And even if it was illegal, you could easily get out of trouble by offering the police officer some of your beer. So, I guess you could say Bolivia has its perks.
Anyway, back to the wedding. After filling up on all kinds of yummy cow-part goodness (sarcastic), I was ready to see what the Kolla wedding was going to be like. My Camba friends had told me it would last three days, but I wasn’t quite sure what they meant. But the fact that everything but the mass was slated to take place in my house, I knew I would find out soon enough. Juan Pablo lives with us here in Hárdeman but is from another city called Camiri, a good day’s travel away. The night before the wedding about 30 of his closest relatives arrived in a rented bus and thus the party began. Before I knew it, there were about 40 people sharing the bathroom and shower and sink. Not having bought a wedding gift yet, I left early Saturday morning to go to Montero to get one. I found what I was looking for in a couple of photo albums and headed back to Hárdeman to see how preparations were coming along. Everyone was running around like crazy people setting up tables and music, decorations and preparing enormous pots of food. It’s not like there are any catering services in Hárdeman, so everything was done in-house…quite literally. When I got back (around 1pm) I was assigned to balloon duty with about 27 tiny children. Needless to say, they didn’t get much done…once all the balloons were blown up, my host cousin Inés and I made a huge archway out of them by using a thin length of PVC pipe serving as the frame. Everyone had something to do. Now let’s step back and think about this. All the relatives that are supposed to be attending the wedding at 4pm are running around like crazy people trying to finish the decorations. Since it’s Bolivia, I figured it wouldn’t actually start at 4, so I hopped in the shower line around 3:45 and made my way over to the church (about 2 blocks away). By the time the ceremony got started it was about 4:30. Not bad, really. Usually things are at least an hour and a half delayed.
The ceremony was a pretty straightforward Catholic ceremony, but the kicker about it was, only about 1/4 of the family members attended because the rest were decorating the house! The bride’s own brother and sister didn’t even show up. I was kind of appalled, to be honest. The parents were there and a few random aunts, uncles and cousins and a slew of little children that seem to show up whenever something important is going on in town. Bolivians don’t seem to have wedding attendants, but they do have padrinos or god-parents for lots of different things. The most important padrinos are the actual wedding padrinos, who are a married couple who kind of “endorse” the newlyweds. You can’t get married here without them, at least in the church. And as far as I can tell, eloping is just not acceptable here. There are also padrinos for drinks (who pay for the alcohol), padrinos for music who pay the musicians and padrinos for food. This way not one person or family is paying for the whole wedding. A huge cost like that couldn’t be handled by your average campo family. Anyway, the parents of the bride and groom along with the wedding padrinos are the only ones up on the altar. I was a little taken aback when they asked for donations to the church but then remembered that the word “tacky” really isn’t a part of the Bolivian vocabulary. I did kind of get a kick out of the fact that before the wedding was official, the newlyweds, parents, and padrinos had to go up and sign a form, making it official. I thought this seemed pretty tacky too, but they say if you want anything to get done in Bolivia to be sure to get a signature. I guess that holds true for weddings too.
After the ceremony the bells were rung and confetti was thrown. I was a little surprised to hear the head Italian nun in town commenting to my host sister Marina (the middle sister) how “even though Bilma is younger, she beat the other two older sisters to the altar,” insinuating to her that she needs to get married as well in order to make her relationship and child legitimate. Then I remembered “tact” really isn’t in the Bolivian vocabulary either. All in all, it seemed like for everyone the ceremony was just a boring 45 minute requirement that justified partying for 3 days. Kind of sad if you ask me.
Back at the house, all of the decorations were up along with not one but TWO oversized sound systems, one for the band to use and the other for the DJ to use while the band was taking breaks. My host brother drove the newlyweds, padrinos and the all the random children around in the family truck for about 15 minutes while everyone else made their way back to the house. Once they got there, Bilma and Juan Pablo danced the traditional first dance, the name of which is escaping me at the moment. Then they brought out big plates of food and bottles of beer for everyone, and the party began. At the outset, just the families were there (still a lot of people) but pretty soon a good portion of the town started to arrive. I was having a jolly old time chatting it up with some newly arrived family members at some of my friends who showed up. The food was actually pretty good, since we were eating the normal parts of the cow this time. A few hours into the party, a line began to form at the head table for everyone to give their gifts. I ran into my room to get mine and hopped in line. Gift giving at weddings is a bit different here…you don’t put your name on your present and you just hand it to the bride and groom, they shake your hand and put more confetti in your hair. Then the padrinos of drinks give you a shot of singani (a grape liquor made here in Bolivia), another shot of “puro” alcohol mixed with some sort of fruit flavor, and then another plate of food and bottle of beer to take back to your table. With the beer flowing like wine, everyone was having a pretty good time. My friends Ana, Maritza and Kristina (all sisters) showed up around 10pm and we had a good time dancing around to the music and I even showed them how to play flipcup, which they got a big kick out of. Lucky for me, dancing in Bolivia is extremely simple (and boring really) and it doesn’t take much for them to think you are a halfway decent dancer. Again, one of the perks.
By about 3am my friends had left and I was about ready for bed, despite the still-thumping music blasting literally 8 feet from my bed. No matter, I have become accustomed to sleeping through just about every other type of noise and was pretty sure with the help of the alcohol that I wouldn’t have any trouble sleeping. I was right, for a while. Around 7am, the music began thumping again (or maybe it never stopped, I really don’t know) and I was disturbed from my slumber. I made my way out of my room only to realize that they weren’t kidding when they said the party didn’t stop for three days. The alcohol was still flowing freely and while it was really only family members left, they were all still dancing and having a good time. I took special notice of my host cousin Milton, who is studying to be a priest. The night before he wasn’t drinking anything and helping clear dishes and stuff and I remember thinking “that’s good, at least one good example for these kids.” Well by Sunday morning he was as lit-up as anyone. Totally tanked. I walked right out of the house, avoiding several attempts to get me to drink and went out front to get my bearings. I saw some friends sitting out in front of their house, so I moseyed on over in my pajamas and took a seat, hoping my headache would go away soon. It didn’t.
Around 10am I ventured back into the house only to be assaulted and have some chicha shoved down my throat. While I was unwilling, I thought one little drink wouldn’t hurt. WRONG. Not 15 seconds after entering my stomach, the chicha was making a prompt exit, back out the way it came in. I must say I felt better afterwards, and headed back inside and did a traditional Bolivian dance called the cueca with my host sister Lidia. Everyone got a kick out of the fact that I knew how to do it (we learned during training) and there was a big applause at the end and of course the offering (mandating) of more chicha. I continued refusing, explaining to them that I just threw up the last tutumbo they gave me out front, and that I would show it to them if they didn’t believe me. Finally one of my host cousins Inés came up to the woman trying to persuade me and told her to lay off, that it wasn’t how we did it in the states. About 10 minutes later the same lady motioned for her to come over to where she was. She was sitting with Inés so I figured I was safe. She drunkenly explained how Inés had told her how she had made a fool out of herself and kept asking me for forgiveness. I said of course, not to worry about it and gave Inés a thankful look. And then, I swear to god she said (and I’m not making this up) “here’s some more chicha to bury the hatchet. Drink it!” Inés rolled her eyes and walked away, and in hopes of finally getting this lady off my back, I downed it and walked off…consequently to the same exact spot out front and threw up again. At least I knew all the chicha was out of my system. “To hell with this,” I thought. I went back inside, changed my clothes and left.
I walked down the road to the Jimenez household, another family with which I spend a lot of time. They are Cambas, and had been warning me all week about how Kolla weddings were. I showed up looking like hell, politely declined lunch and asked if I could lay in their hammock the rest of the day. They agreed immediately, and that is how I found myself dozing in a hammock on a Sunday afternoon, humming Jimmy Buffet tunes and waiting for my hangover to pass. I stayed in the hammock until about 5pm, when finally my headache had gone and my appetite had returned. I graciously thanked my friends and headed back into the lion’s den. The party was still hopping, and some of my host brother’s friends motioned me over to their table and drunkenly began assaulting me with the tiny bits of horrible English they have picked up along the way. I played along and told them they should start teaching they are so good, downed a tiny glass of beer to appease them and found some food. I checked out my host cousin Milton again (the priest to-be) and saw that he had successfully managed to get the red sauce from the food all over his nose and cheeks by just about passing out into his plate every time he bent down to take a bite. Later I learned that they call him “Padre Borracho” which means “Father Drunk.” Nice.
I went and got my video camera and used it as an excuse not to drink. I was up moving around, taping people dancing and taping all the passed out people who were just snoring in chairs or with the their heads down on the tables. My host family got a huge kick out of this later when I showed them. I fended off a few questions about where I had escaped to all day but before long I left again to go and meet a friend for some more food. When I came back there were even more drunk people passed out beyond belief (this time the groom included) so I got my camera back out and got some excellent footage, which my host family also enjoyed after the fact. After taping I did some more dancing and avoided the drink when I could. I had a couple people come up to me and attempt to communicate only through hand motions and facial expressions, which I found extremely entertaining, since I knew very well that they could speak just fine. But they refused to. They just kept motioning with their heads and hands and making faces like “that’s outrageous” or “that didn’t bother me a bit.” Then a glorious thing happened…it finally started to rain. It had been threatening all weekend, but the skies finally broke open around 1am. I used this as an excuse to go to bed, which worked fine because in Bolivia, the rain is a valid excuse for not doing just about everything.
Monday morning marked day three of the festivities. Things were definitely starting to die down, especially since the majority of Juan Pablo’s family had left late the night before. So at least we were back to normal amount of people in the house. Next door at my host uncle’s house (their house is essentially ours as well, there is nothing separating our yards) there were still about 3 or 4 really drunk people playing the charango, a little Bolivian ukulele. They were passing it around along with a bucket of chicha, and singing the same two lines over and over again at the top of their lungs. One of these lines was “don’t call me a drunk,” which I got a laugh out of…but I don’t remember the other one. Pretty awful. But people were starting to clean things up and you could tell there was some effort to get things back to normal. But Monday was the day of the gifts. To my surprise, they made me padrino of gifts, which means instead of buying something, I had to race against the madrina of gifts taking gifts from the pile on one side of the yard back to the other side in sort of a race. The madrina of gifts was my host sister Lidia, who I am the closest with, so it was sure to be fun.
I showed my host brother how to operate the video camera so I have some good footage of my participating in the wedding and got ready to run. They gave us the go ahead and off we ran…I was definitely the faster runner and could carry more, which is probably what prompted her to cheat. Not to mention everyone was rooting for her and helping her out. I loaded up a tv cart (one of the gifts) with a bunch of presents and she came along and stole and rolled it back to her pile…but not before I managed to knock off most of the gifts I had put on. Everyone got a huge kick out of us struggling back and forth between presents and I was having a great time, proof to them that you don’t need to be wasted to have fun. The kicker came when my host uncle and cousins loaded up the bed (another gift) with about 50 presents and carried it to her side. This I found extremely unfair since nobody was helping me. I stole a few off of the bed before they made it back, but it was no matter. I lost the contest, 80 presents to 40. And they all pretended like it was legit too. Ah well, it was fun despite the trampa.
Then the craziness of opening gifts began. The newlyweds ripped through the paper like 8 year olds on Christmas. Some of the bigger ones weren’t wrapped…besides the bed there were two stoves, and four dressers. Since nobody puts their names on their gifts, they don’t have to worry about keeping track because they won’t be sending thank you cards. I began to see why they don’t put their names on gifts because it allows all the gifts to pretty much suck. Ninety percent of the gifts were either a blanket or a dish set. Someone even wrapped up an old dusty set of dishes that you know they pulled out from under their bed after 10 years of dirt piling up. They got about three blenders and one shoe-shining kit. Which is why it was no big surprise that when Bilma opened my gift of photo albums, she looked right at me and said, “This is from you, isn’t it Benjamín?” I nodded my head yes and was at first confused but then realized it was just about the only gift that took a little thought which automatically pinned it on me.
The rest of Monday was spent cleaning up and watching the videos I had taken, which everyone enjoyed for sure. While it was a pretty fun weekend, I was ready for things to get back to normal around the house. I enjoyed how they were really into celebrating, but at the same time it seemed a little off to me that no one went to the mass…nobody seemed to care about the actual wedding but enjoyed celebrating the fact that they were getting married. All in all, it was a really cool experience that I won’t ever forget.
On the left is the road heading south out of town. If you look closely you can see that right at the edge of town it dives under water and stays there for about 25 kilometers.
This is my host brother Pepe on top of the tank. Behind him you can see the high water. Usually there is no water there.
Andy unloading the barrels that would be the latrines.
There was hardly enough food for the people, so this dog wasn’t getting his share of table scraps…yuck.
Friday was the fifth day and it was raining as hard as ever. Bryan and Andy had already left and Rudy and I woke up with nasty colds, so we decided not to go out to the communities. We nursed our colds by eating some Ramen noodles and playing Monopoly with some other volunteers in town who are missionaries. It was a happy end to a long week for me, because I headed back to my site the next morning.
This used to be the road.
