Todos Santos.

God?
November 5, 2007

It starts at around dawn. Family by family the file towards the cemetery with all they’ll need for the day: fathers with hoes, sons with machetes, mothers and daughters with plastic wreaths and buckets of chicha. One can tell how long its been by the hour a family heads to the cemetery: Don Demetrio, who lost his wife to illness two years ago, is one of the first to arrive. Ana and Cecilio, who’s little boy was accidentally killed last Sempember, had everything prepared days ago. By nine o’clock, the houses are empty and the grave site is abuzz with voices and the hacking of metal against earth. Each plot is in a different state of preparation. Don Justino’s mother is seeing the bright sun for the first time in a while, as he scrapes away the weeds and tall grasses. The professor’s brother is smelling the fresh sweet dahlias atop of his headstone, by far the most magnanimous, all finished with white tiling. Papa Araray is looking sharp with a fresh blue coat and is double-fisting cups of chicha and wine; his family finished their cleaning last night and is currently passing around the tutumba in the shade. The ease with which the families mingle suggests a long history and a common lineage; the Ararays share their chicha with the Cuevases, the Arapinos visit with the Terceros clan. In a town of five-hundred people and some ten extended families, everyone is an aunt, uncle, god-parent, or cousin. Some plots are marked by tall crosses, others by a cement moseleum, others by two wordless branches, worn by the years. No matter their material, by 11 o’clock each one will be cleared and adorned with flowers, wreaths, tiny white candles and cups of alcohol. Its Todos Santos in Chimeo, a day to spend at the side of loved ones who have passed on.

Here it is a more humble holiday than that of larger towns. All week the streets of Villa Montes have been lined with sweet doll-shaped breads and colorful meringues. People fill the cemetery starting at dawn and its silence wont return until long after most have gone to bed and the red wine has run out. In Chimeo its merely a morning-long activity; at noon everyone will head to their mother’s or sister’s for a special lunch of rice and chicken. Lunch is washed down with a few glasses of vin-up, a boxed alcoholic beverage whose label proudly proclaims “Made of white grapes and vegetable extracts!”, and Pett Cola. (Note: This drink is called a Chola, and the act is known as “Choleando.” Literally, to woman in traditional Bolivian dress.) After the first few boxes the guitar comes out and the more musically talented begin strumming and singing traditional tunes. A few more boxes convince the more timid of the group to join in song and the lunch table is turned into a mélange of clapping, stomping, strumming, and an occasional Chaqueno “ayayayaayayayyy!”.

By dark the less serious drinkers have retired and the only ones left walking the street are doing so with a distinct stumble. The adults congregate in a few houses and the kids take this opportunity to stay out on the soccer field until midnight. This is when I return home- the guitar and clapping rising from neighboring houses are tempting and impossible to ignore, but I know the drinking Ill find there is not anything that I want a part of. Typically, one person walks around with a jug of chicha or vin-up and cola, “inviting” guests, one by one, to a glass. Its generally considered rude to turn down any sort of food or drink in Bolivia, and as the jug comes around and around, vegetable-extract drunkenness comes quick and hard. Everyone is better off the next day if I just stay home and admire the music from afar.

Because this year the second of November fell on a Friday, Todos Santos became a three-day event. Most spent these three days eating and drinking well with their families, and in Chimeo we celebrated the holy weekend by scheduling a baptism. Chimeo does not have its own priest, rather we share a couple priests and nuns with Villa Montes and other surrounding Guarani communities. Therefore, baptisms are never personal but rather common. This year seven babes were baptized on November, and those who did not do so on this date would have to wait until the next mass wedding and baptism, scheduled for Christmas time.

I have not been to mass since I arrived in Chimeo. Every Sunday at 630 I hear the bell calling worshippers to our charming teal chapel, and Im usually awake, but I never go. Im not terribly religious and prefer to spend my free mornings reading and generally taking it easy with my coffee or tea. So when my dearest friend Ana asked me to be the god-mother or Madrina of her new-born son a few months ago, I had to hesitate. Can I be a good madrina even if I have my doubts about Catholicism? Can I be a good madrina from another hemisphere? What if my Spanish begins to fade away with the years and I can no longer communicate as well with little Jhonny and his family? In the end, I put these worries aside and accepted- if Ana thinks me worthy as a madrina and role model for her son, then I should accept and do the best I can, no matter what the future brings. She knows Im baptized Catholic, and she also sees that I spend Sundays with the bobolinks instead of the Padre. There are no secrets here.

So on the Saturday after Todos Santos, I entered the Terceros family as madrina of Jhonny Terceros Cuevas. We spent the morning arming the multi-purpose chapel with white and colored balloons and white toilet paper. We laid out the benches and quietly awaited the father. In a meeting on Monday, the Father, a young Argentine, pleaded that we make sure to arrive early, avoiding the Bolivian tradition of starting everything an hour late. As the hour of the Padre’s arrival approached, however, three of the seven to-be-purified children were present. Ana wrung her hands in anticipation.

Oh the Father said to be on time. –she fretted.- Where are the people? Oh hes going to be angry with us.

This is something Ive noticed within my community, especially amongst women. Instead of fearing the implications of non-compliance like lower productivity or a lost opportunity, there seems to be a bigger fear of whatever authority figure’s disstisfaction or reprimand. I think about it constantly in trying to prganize my own projects in Chimeo. Do the day-care center ladies fear my wrath if they don’t water the communal veggie garden? Does my cooking club only come because I want them to, not because they particularly want to learn to make something new? I suppose their motives are not anything I can control; I can only hope that whatever project I introduce will be interesting and useful enough in the end to be carried after my departure.

Back in the Chapel, we went through the same mass Ive known from birth. The readings. The liturgy. Communion. The prayers and creeds-I don’t know them in Spanish, but recited in my head in English. The liturgy was all very nice, about being the best examples for our children and god-children that we can be. Send them to school. Don’t hit them. Go to church and bring them with you. Everyone in agreed, si, si Padre. We understand Father. He is a holy man, a good man for certain who dedicates his life to serving his God and others. This is extremely admirable. Much of his message was to the point. Don’t hit your children, they learn more from words and example than from a minute of pain. I wanted to jump up and hug him for that one- the universality of hitting your kids in Chimeo really makes me uncomfortable. Kids ask me if my parents ever hit me, and when I reply Never. Never ever. We don’t do that in my family. They look at me with a measure of admiration and confusion. The worst is in the households I visit the most, parents like to threaten the kids for me. Take a bath or Jacqueline wont let you come to her house to read tonight. Stop crying or Jacqueline will go get the belt. Its so ridiculous that I almost laugh, and I wonder what kind of glorious demon figure I might be in the minds of these three-year-olds.

Towards the end of the ceremony, we lifted the kids one-by-one as the Padre poured holy water over their foreheads. The kids came in all sizes. Jhonny was the easiest- he weighs all of five kilograms and slept through the whole thing. It took four people to baptize Estella, who is a lanky nine-years-old. I took a foto of each child for their parents, who have few if any fotographs of their children and will surely cherish this one.

I felt proud to enter the community for good as a Comadre. It makes me feel a more permanent fixture now in Chimeo. Decades from now, his kids will ask him who is Madrina is and he will explain to them about this foreigner who spent two years in his tiny town. Its almost daunting. Ill need to send letters and fotographs of my life and the kids I may have one day to my aihado, as well as an occasional birthday or Christmas gift. He wont remember much if anything about life with his Madrina, how I used to pick him up when he cried or that I served mate while his mom nursed him. I hope to one day return with my own kids to know Chimeo, to know the family I now find myself part of.