May 24th
Now, for my version of Choquekillca. As I mentioned earlier, my host mom had some
cargo deliveries to make, so I graciously assisted, unaware of what I was
getting myself into. My host sister
tagged along for some deliveries, and a friend for another delivery. I assumed
these deliveries would be like the toffee deliveries I used to do for my mom
during the holidays – I would go with some bags of food up to the front porch, engage
in a short but meaningful conversation with a person I knew meant a lot to my
family, then hop back in my car and listen to my teenagey music. I knew it was different when I walked around
behind my host-family’s kitchen and saw a battle occurring: woman vs. cuy
(guinea pig). This is what we were
delivering. Every day of the fiesta had
a different food theme – we were delivering cuys for Cuy Day, which was
Tuesday. Ana Maria grabbed the cuys by
their necks and threw them in a bag, being sure to give families equal parts
boy and girl cuys because they taste different.
The cuys screamed like baby pigs, then, as Ana Maria told me, quieted
down because they knew they were going to die. As I carried bags of guinea pigs to these
parties, they would sometimes move, and I wondered about the loveliness of
these gifts if I were to be bringing them to a similar party back home. We went to the first cargo at 11am. Women were preparing food in the kitchen, and
although it was pig day, the men outside were skinning the head of a cow. There’s really no other way to put it. It wasn’t pleasant, but they placed it in a
friendly position for me to take a photo of it, before yelling at a child to
not sit in the blood. Then they gave the
child a piece of raw head meat to play with.
Then they served me, my vegetarian friend, and Ana Maria some corn and
beef. I ate the beef while looking into
the eyes of its owner. I think I’ve
grown a lot since I’ve been here. They
gave us beer to drink as well, as a gift for the gifts we gave them.
We arrived at the second cargo just as the dancers were
returning from their stint protecting the Senor.
I knew Ana Maria had a plan to mooch
some lunch off this cargo, so I played the part. I got a beer right away, and also got Ana
Maria’s beer, since she wasn’t drinking.
We sat at the VIP table for some reason, and watched the latecomers and
newbies get whipped. Ana Maria gently
sipped her Inca Kola while murmuring insights like, “Jose?! I can’t believe he would be late. And Sonya!
That girl.” It was like watching
a strange sporting event. They served us
tripe and stomach soup, along with chicha, a pisco and papaya blend, and that
brown water-bottle liquor. I drank for
both Ana Maria and myself. After the
tripe soup, my food nemesis arrived:
lechon de choncha. Pieces of pig,
roasted with the hair still on it. It
smells terrible, and there is about one full bite of edible meat available, of
which you have to look anxiously for with your hands under the thick, hairy pig
skin. Children often pull at the skin
with their mouth, causing me to gag.
Last time I ate this dish, I was unable to get out of bed for the next
two days. I had to do it again
though! I washed it down with more
beer. I wasn’t feeling too sick, due to
Ana Maria’s foolproof plan for lechon eating: first the lechon, then pisco,
then the brown liquor, then cold water.
No water while you eat the lechon, though. That’s what I did wrong last
time. A few hours after you eat lechon,
you have to drink mate, or herb tea. I
did all that, as recommended, and did not feel sick. After sitting there for a while, surrounded
by people dressed in full costume, masks included, we went to the third cargo
to deliver that last cuy installment.
Here, I was handed one more huge beer.
The owner of the cargo poured me some chicha, at which point I regally
declined, saying I already drank too much and ate too much, and pointed to my
bloated belly. She begged me, “please
mamacita, take this one glass of chicha, its just one glass, it only has
natural alcohol. Please do me the favor,
please”. I couldn’t say no! They then sat us and served us, I kid you
not, more lechon de chonca, which I started in on again. I don’t know where or how my stomach expanded
to fit all of this into – I think somewhere after looking into the cow head’s
eyes my brain maybe shut off. Buckets of
pig parts were being brought in and brutally chopped up, and I munched on my
lechon and drank my chicha, telling girls in their costumes they looked like
princesses. Looking back, I’m betting by
this time (about 2pm) I was pretty toasted.
Ana Maria didn’t seem to mind though.
We realized then that we were late for the bull fight. This day keeps getting better! So we ran back to our neighborhood, where the
corrida was conveniently
occurring. It was my very first
bullfight, and Ana Maria convinced me it would be g-rated. We sat two rows up on cement seats and
watched as very drunk people let the bulls into the ring while matadors dressed
like the animated version of themselves flung pink and red blanked in front of
their faces. Before I knew it, one
pompous matador had stabbed the bull with those stick pom-poms and, to the boos
of the crowd and Ana Maria shouting, “Don’t kill the bull! We’re all farmers!” with everyone else,
thrust a sword into the neck, and heart, of the bull. He died right there, and his poor ears and
tail were cut off to give to the Spanish matador who did the deed. We would later eat that bull, but in that
moment, amongst tears of children behind me, and boos of the farmers who live
in my neighborhood, it was a terrible event to witness.
This type of partying continued on for the next three
days. It never felt like people were going
overboard, or had overdone it, or were out of place. It felt like a genuinely good time. As I walked through the town at 9:30 in the
morning to put more credit on my phone, people would invite me to come drink
with them, ask me my name, and then, across town hours later, remember me and
say hi. It was a beautiful time to share
with these beautiful people. As I walked
home on my dusty pathway just out of town Monday night, the second to last
night of partying, I saw a man by himself in the moonlight, playing the
accordion. He saw me and changed the
tune a little as I strode by, guided by moonlight and the glow from the snow on
top of Mt. Veronica. I giggled
immensely, my voice tilting and rounding around the idea that I live here now –
this is where I live.
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