Nothing says “welcome to my home” more than a bloody pig head, hanging idly on a large hook, outside your bedroom door. It was the first thing I noticed upon entering the courtyard of the house I was staying for the night. I took a mental note not to bump into it if nature called at an untimely hour. Bolivian hospitality at its best, I thought sarcastically.
No sooner had I put my bag down then I was being whisked into a tiny spartan room off an adjoining courtyard where at least a dozen people were dancing in a tight circle. I ducked my head through the door and was immediately accosted by three ladies, tight black plaits snaking down their backs. Three pairs of cracked, wrinkled hands were offering me cups of a frothy orange substance out of plastic buckets. “Chicha”, one of the women informed me, flashing a cheeky, gold toothed smile.
My stomach immediately started doing somersaults. I was familiar with this local alcoholic brew and its production process, involving maize being ground and moistened in the human mouth.
There was no time for petty thoughts about hygiene because one of the women almost had the frothy substance to my mouth and the others were sloshing the liquid about carelessly, creating a quagmire on the dirt floor.
I grasped one of the cups, took a deep breath and tried to put thoughts of saliva out of my mind. One sip, the ladies eyes lit up with encouragement. The taste wasn’t terrible, it was the tepidness that was a little unnerving. A second sip was greeted with cackles. A third, long sip was met with even more drunken enthusiasm by my new friends, their slightly off-kilter stances suggesting this party was well underway before I arrived.
The cup was snatched from my hands as I was pulled into the throng of bodies stomping around in a circle. Just as I thought I’d passed the test I saw my cup being plunged into a pink bucket and emerge full before being thrust at me so forcefully that half of it cascaded to the floor.
“Gracias”, I managed meekly as I fumbled for the cup. The music grew louder, along with the exuberant cheers of my hosts. The beat quickened in time with their frantic steps until our infinite revolutions around the room came to a dramatic and cathartic crescendo of music, dance and chicha.
Wandering back to my room I glanced up just in time to avoid a collision with the pig head. As I side-stepped out of the way the wind caught the beast and it seemed to give a wry nod, to Bolivian hospitality no doubt.
