The Last Gringa

There is so much that I could write about, yet so much that I cannot begin to put into words, but here I will try. 

I am here in my barrio of Yanacoto to live with and learn from my Peruvian host-family, to integrate into Peruvian society, observe and embrace Peruvian culture, and learn the Peruvian tongue.  While I am also in training to develop the same skills and knowledge, my experience at a Huancavelica fiesta supercedes any learning that could take part in a classroom.  First hand experience; I was witness to and a participant in a night of celebration of this Peruvian department located in the sierra region. 

At the bottom of our hill, we patiently waited for a combi (bus) in which we could all squeeze.  The third to pass has sufficient standing room; we get in.  The music is blaring, the black and strobe lights are lit, the cobrador (the man who hustles passengers on and off the combi) is vocal and active, and finally, the driver is speeding around the turns and over the speed bumps—only to slam on the brakes to pick up anyone on the side of the road.  Tossed and turned, but we make it to our stop.  Here, we squeeze into some mototaxis, essentially a motorcycle with a cart satisfactorily secured to hold three passengers in the back.  We leave the well-lit central highway and venture deep in into the darkness without headlights.  A thousand, bumps, holes, and rocks later, we reach or destination. 

We pay of steep entrance fee of 3 soles through a hole in a half a wall where a brick is missing.  From a different angle, we can see then three men simply sitting on a log on the other side of this wall.  When we get there, a dance circle has already been formed and the musicians have taken their positions.  Now begins the traditional scissor dance, baile tijeras of Huancavelica. I cannot accurately describe how this went down, but it is beautiful, amazing, hysterical, and intense.  They have intricate costumes, move their feet and bodies so quickly, fly through the air, and roll around on the ground.  All boys, and fairly young.  It turns into a dance-off.

After about an hour and a half of the show, rumors begin to spread that the castillos, huge towers build with fire works and sparklers, will be lit soon, this is at about 2 am.  We learn later that they are not typically lit until all the beer is gone.  So, at about 4 am, after all the other volunteers have gone home, the show really begins.  I was left with a friend’s host mother and her friends.  First, the Torro Loco is lit.  It looks like a paper mache replica of a bull and it is fastened with fire works.  Some lucky man places it over his body, the fuses are lit, and he runs through the party shooting off the fireworks in what ever direction.  In the mean time, everyone runs and hides from their impending death.  Meanwhile, certain partygoers are marching around with giant sugar cane branches in a nice pattern and rhythm throughout the celebration as all chaos breaks loose.  Finally, the bull’s fireworks supply was depleted, families begin to chop up the sugar cane to eat and take home for later. 

...pictures to come...

The music continues, and the dancing commences one last time.  My status as the last gringa standing coupled with the decimated beer supply lands me a spot in the circle of the elderly dancers who chose to dance about a foot away from the exploding towers of fire.  Hands squeezed tightly by two drunken elderly Peruvians, I gaze in awe the stunning structures as they shoot of colors, spin with flames, and burst with beauty.  It is 5 am and we go home.

On another note-- two bathroom related facts about my life. One, most restrooms in Peru do not supply toilet paper because people steal it, so especially as your stomach is adjusting to a new world, you must carry toilet paper with you at all times.  Two, I find myself hoping and wishing as I lift the toilet seat cover that the bowl holds nothing more than clear water.