The week began with un almuerzo de cofraternidad with my association. I was coming back from errands in Chiclayo and was rushed to get there on time, which I’ve finally learned means about an hour after the scheduled start time. So I rolled in, fashionably on time, and sat down just as the cebiche was being served. There were bottles of Pepsi on the table and about 20 people gathered around. Perfect, I thought to myself, a low-key lunch and plenty of time for me to teach my English class and get in an afternoon run. We tuck into our cebiche and goat, make a few toasts and then Papy strolls in with a case of beer. Silly Jess, have you learned nothing about Peruvians? He takes the microphone (oh, right, one of the museum guards moonlights as a DJ and he had kindly offered his musical talents to our little celebration) and instructs us to get the party started. Cumbia sufficiently cranked, chairs shoved to the wall, cups circling, we take to the dance floor. As afternoon rolled into evening, the drinks kept flowing and the music kept playing. I was feeling my dance moves, and emboldened by compliments on my dancing (“you have really improved since the last time we danced”) and a few vasos of Pilsen I requested some Michael Jackson and proceeded to perform a thrilling rendition of Thriller. Alone. In front of everyone. They loved it. Our relationship has reached a new level thanks to the immortal words of MJ. Suffice to say, I did not run on Monday. Nope, I stayed until the bitter end (8pm), outlasted only by the DJ who was last seen passed out behind his stereo. Happy anniversary to us!
A few days later we celebrated the official anniversary of the opening of the museum. The museum director had warned me that their budget did not allow for much, but they wanted to do a little something to commemorate the day. I got to the complex around 2pm just in time to see the band start. Oh yes, there was a live band playing on the steps of the museum. It was a motley gang of local musicians who I’m assuming offered their services for cheap. Not that they weren’t talented, it’s just that they weren’t very talented. We did a little folkloric dancing on the steps of the museum, took some pictures and called it an afternoon. I was actually surprised by the restraint. Usually a low-key party means one meal instead of two and ten cases of beer instead of twenty, but they really stuck to it this time. Just a few hours of singing and dancing and couple vats of chicha de jora (corn liquor).
The merry music makers.Turns out this wedding is in Chiclayo (fan-cee) so we head down to the road to wait for a car. As usual, I am given no information or details, I simply go where I'm told. Mom tells me the wedding starts at 5. We arrive to the church at 5.45. No one is there. We ask the guards (the ceremony was in the main cathedral of Chiclayo – a tourist spot) about a wedding and they tell us there is a wedding at 6pm. They also mention that I will not be allowed to enter because my dress is too short. I instantly feel ashamed and cheap and start tugging at my dress desperately trying to cover the scandalous three inches of thigh showing. My host mom doesn’t seem too concerned about either comment, prudently (prudishly?) wearing pants, so we sit on a bench outside and wait. 6pm comes and goes, along with an entirely different wedding party. I’m beginning to think our grand adventure is over before it starts when up pulls a green bus bearing the name Sipan in huge letters. Ah, turns out we were supposed to get on the bus the family had rented for the evening. Also turns out the wedding starts at 7pm. Details, details. I end up being allowed in, God deciding he would let my risqué attire slide this one time, though I’d secretly been hoping I wouldn’t be able to go so I could sneak across the street for a glass of wine and some French fries.
The happy couple.The ceremony was…um, different. I don’t know if it was because it was in such a public church or if this is how it always is, but everything was very public. It was basically a regular Catholic mass, open to anyone, with a few additions (vows, a homily about love). And no one seemed very happy. There was no smiling, no tears, no real emotion at all. Only a frilly white dress and few rose petals strewn about gave any indication that it was in fact a wedding. Business taken care of, we board the bus and head for the reception site. (Note the following photos were taken by my 12-year-old photographer’s assistant. She was big on taking pictures but not so big on focusing or zooming.) After an hour or so of toasts, receiving lines, first dances and photos, the reception resembles any other Peruvian party. We get our plate of mystery meat accompanied by rice and beans (added bonus this time – hotdogs and olives in the rice…um, gross). In fact, the party lasted so long that we received this meal twice. Not really wanting a second round, I turned mine down, much to the disappointment of everyone at my table who retrieved plastic bags from the depths of their other plastic bags for a makeshift doggy-bag. I was sitting with the campo family. I’m pretty sure we got a few dirty looks from the Lima/Chiclayo crowd. Snobs.
Somewhere early on I was informed that we would not be shuttled back to Huaca Rajada until 4am. Without any other options, I committed myself to enjoying the party and doing everything possible to keep myself awake. This included lots and lots of dancing. As Most Improved Dancer, I must say I was a popular partner. Maybe too popular since at one point the bride’s dance partner (not the groom) tried to switch in the middle of a song prompting her to snap “are you here for her or for me?” Awkward. I think my popularity might have had something to do with the fact that I was the only woman over the age of 18 who (begrudgingly) went out to catch the bouquet. I ducked when it came towards me.
Me awkwardly trying to avoid the bouquet toss.
The rodeo clown dancing with the bride.The next day I forced myself out of bed, or should I say, I was driven from my bed by the oppressive heat, after only a few hours of sleep. I had some last minute coordinating to do with the girls I’m taking to a leadership camp. Meaning that I ate about four lunches since it’s impossible to go to someone’s house without sharing a meal. There’s a heady feeling that comes with parents telling you they trust you to take their daughters away for a few days. I pedaled back home, belly full of generosity, overtaken by my love of this country and its culture. Yeah, I know, my mood swings give me whiplash at times.
Cut to four hours later. Huaca Rajada was celebrating the beginning of Carneval with a yunza, which is a big party that culminates in the chopping down of a gift-laden tree. My family and I walked over to the plaza after dinner and the party was in full swing. As in, everyone was tanked. Not to belabor the point, but drunken Peruvian men really annoy me. I spent most of the evening dancing with my six-year-old nephew. But I’m glad I stuck it out in order to see the main event. (Sadly there are no photos because my photo assistant killed my camera’s batteries in her attempt to capture every single moment of the wedding.) So the organizers of the party have to dance around the tree wielding a large axe. They take turns swinging at the base of the tree until it topples. The person who delivers the killer blow is then charged with throwing (and funding) next year’s event. Everyone (excluding yours truly, I have learned enough in my time here to know that drunks + axe + falling tree is a recipe for disaster) gathers round the tree waiting for it to fall so they can pounce on the free gifts, of which a large percentage were, oddly enough, brooms and dustpans. The tree fell, madness ensued and then it was over. It was kind of anticlimactic, although that could have been because I was standing at a cowardly distance of about 100 yards and couldn’t really see all the mayhem. Judging by the hangovers of many neighbors, the party continued until the wee hours, but once the tree fell I headed home for some much-needed rest.
And that, friends, was my week. Jealous?
