Februaray 2013
“Your problem,” Segundo was telling me in emphatic Spanish punctuated with hand gestures, “is that you can’t speak Spanish.”
He was weaving his fresh Toyota Tacoma around people and dogs through the maze-like back alleys of Peguche, an almost entirely indigenous down adjacent Otavalo. I decided not to try to explain the irony of the fact that I understood what he was saying.
I nodded and said, “claro,” the typical affirmative.
According to statoids.com, the “county” of Otavalo is nearly 58% indigenous, which frankly seems low to me -- the city’s mestizo population must skew that number lower. From what I’ve seen the hills surrounding the city are populated almost entirely people of Incan descent, many of them subsistence farmers, if not small market farmers. And markets in Otavalo are where it’s at.
Opposite the phenomenon in the US -- where the wealthier you are, the better your view -- in Otavalo, generally speaking, the more money you have, the closer you live to the center of the city. I often looked at the little huts and farms around Otavalo and thought that in the U.S. these properties would have all of the fancy houses with the fancy vistas. Instead, you can look up into the hills and see that the city is rimmed with little farms everywhere, punctuated by stands of imported eucalyptus trees.
Anyhow, we were on our way to see the mayor about our visa troubles. I didn’t actually think this was going to do anything -- I wanted to meet the mayor of Otavalo. Yes, the mayor of Otavalo lives in Peguche, which I take to be the traditional, spiritual hub of the region, in large part because the Cascada de Peguche is something of a holy site for Otavaleño -- even though most of them are Catholic now.
When I told him of our visa woes Segundo offered assistance straight away. "Don't worry about it... you worry too much." A spry man with a quick laugh and an infectious smile, it's almost impossible not to like him immediately. This was our second trip to see the mayor. His Honor’s house sat at the end of a dead-end lined with very modest dwellings, though his was a sprawling compound outlined by a massive, flowering vine covered wall. Segundo pulled up to the front gate and stopped abruptly. The front was decorated with intricate iron filigree, and the gardens were well-kept. He was obviously a very wealthy, very important man. And he was “family.” I was never sure if Segundo meant that literally.
Segundo told me to wait in the car while he buzzed the intercom. No answer. He pecked out some numbers on this cell phone. It seems the mayor was unavailable.
“Choo-tah!” he muttered. This was our second attempt at an audience. I don’t think Mr. Mayor really could have done anything anyway, but I was impressed that Segundo was so willing to help.
I’d gotten to know Segundo and his sons, Orlando and Andreas (both in their early twenties), by patronizing their little teinda or store, “Su Tienda” over the first months we lived in the neighborhood. In our excursions around the neighborhood, we’d occasionally run into Orlando and his novia, Cintico canoodling. Since families are ever-present in homes, it seems that young folks take any opportunity outside the home as opportunities for romance: parks, streets, vacant lots, etc.
Whether out and about with Cintico or in the store, whenever I’d come across them, Orlando would say, “holaaa Joosteen!” Though very traditional and very devout, Orlando and I are Facebook “friends” as well. After six months (by our calendar, not Orlando’s) it was time for him to pop the question. And this required the centuries-old tradition of the pedido de mano.
Literally meaning “asking for the hand,” the pedido is the formal marriage proposal. A few weeks after we abandoned our attempts to meet the mayor, I was down in Su Tienda, and Segundo invited me -- “and your family” -- to the ceremony. Of course, we accepted. The rest of the arrangements were made via Facebook messages.
The pedido de mano is quite a tradition, one which you can see depicted in detailed dioramas at the Museum of Anthropology at the University of Otavalo, if you want to see what it looked like in antiquity -- or way out in the country beyond the wealthy sphere of Otavalo.
Basically, when you (boy) are ready to ask a girl to marry you, you and your entire village proceed to the neighboring village where your prospective fiancee and her family live -- and that’s where you ask the girl’s father for permission to marry his daughter. Add to this that no one in your pueblo goes empty-handed: people come with all kinds of gifts, mainly food. And when they walk to the next town, they play music the whole way.
I’d seen a pedido procession out Pete’s third-story apartment window, without really understanding what was going on. The procession was huge. A hundred people (I’d guess) carrying baskets of food in cloth sacks on their backs, crates of beer. They stopped at every intersection, and the band struck up the music while cars stopped and waited nonplussed for the party to pass.
Musicians play guitars, flutes, pan-pipes, bass drums -- maybe even fiddles and accordion. They dance a shuffle to the rhythm in a tight circle that forms the nucleus. Around the musicians, the rest of the company paces in a meandering spiral, sometimes nodding or throwing a little elbow flair in. They all carry something: baskets of fruit, crates of beer and soda, boxes of breads, sacks of potatoes and usually a couple poles laden with a dozen (more or less) chickens and cuy (or edible Andean guinea pig).
The chicken-pole is just that: a pole strung between the shoulders of two men, with chickens, maybe 10-15, tied to it and dangling by their feet. This is also done with the more expensive and very special “cuy” or guinea pig, a must-have for any indigenous wedding. (Cuy aren’t bad, greasy maybe, but the most common method of preparation is to leave the head on, which made them slightly less palatable to Kerry and me.) The reason, I gather, that the animals are strung out live is that the wedding follows within a week. If you’re going to bring the gift of protein-rich sustenance, it’s live food, best to keep it alive for freshness’ sake.
Orlando’s pedido began at their house, block from our apartment where friends and family gathered. A couple of big cargo trucks parked out front and the “garage” was loaded with sacks of potatoes and other root veggies. The musicians sat on the sacks, wearing either their traditional white culottes or just plain jeans. They all sported leather jackets, braids, and fedoras -- which is to say they looked like all of the men of a certain age in Otavalo.
Inside, basket upon basket of fruit occupied every spare surface. Chairs lined the walls for everyone, and soon they were full. Women began to bring out some chicken soup in bowls. Segundo welcomed us to his home warmly, and we all had some soup.
Soon the crowd moved outside because apparently the chicken and cuy had showed up. It was time to string them up! Women worked little knots for the feet of both animals, while men poured beer and chatted.
A word on Ecuadorian style drinking and partying: it’s not the healthiest way to consume alcohol. Whether liquor (which President Correa mad really, really expensive with tariffs, and therefore oftentimes inaccessible) or state-made beer, the usual method is for one guy to be a pourer. There’s always one little 4 oz cup, the Pilsen (brand) beer is poured into it, and passed to a person, who knocks it back in one gulp. He then shakes out the cup and hands it back to the pourer, who repeats the process until the liquid is drained. Then there’s a little rest before the process is repeated. The wedding, by the way, typically goes for several days straight -- and so does the drinking.
“You’re lucky,” said a pouring guy to Kerry as he offered her a cup at the wedding, “we used to do this with hard alcohol.” Like with several things (cuy included) we were able to feign ignorance and beg off.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. One of the cuy got loose in the yard, and that was pretty exciting for some of the kids who were charged with rounding up the rodent. It didn’t take long before they had him back on the pole. There was to be one chicken-pole and one cuy-pole, and I was asked if I’d like the honor of being one of the chicken-bearers.
“Claro que si!” Of course I would.
The kids, my kids that is, were mostly speechless, especially when faced with a dozen wiggling, dangling cuy on a pole. I suppose some would call it cruel -- but I look at it as both practical and ceremonial. Aside from the freshness, there’s the fact that cuy are a highly sustainable source of protein -- all you need is a little backyard hutch and some regular bundles of alfalfa. At one time a common staple, cuy is now only brought out at fancy ceremonies.
So it was time to load everything up, and drive into the hills. Since it would have taken everyone from this “village” hours to walk to the prospective fiancee’s house, they put a modern spin on it: everyone loaded into trucks, pickups and huge haulers, and we drove up into the campo in a giant caravan.
About a mile or so from Cintico’s house, we all unloaded. Here the musicians struck up, everyone carried a basket, or a bag or a crate The chicken and cuy-bearers took positions on their poles, and we walked. At each intersection, we stopped and danced.
The few cars trying to pass (it must have been around 9:00 in the evening) had to wait it out. At one point a curious thing happened. Segundo was trying to move the crowd to allow a car’s passage, the driver being a bit more aggressive in trying to circumvent the fiesta, but one of the older men pulled him aside and (I’m presuming here based on body-language) reminded him that the pedido was first, that that car was part of the community, and the ceremony was of primary importance. The driver would simply have to wait it out. Which he did. Segundo seemed to remember this as well; he nodded profusely and went back to the dance.
Eventually, we ended up at Cintico’s house where the company was well received. There were more chairs lined around a courtyard, more drinking, and more chicken soup. The party was doubled in size.
Finally, it was time for the actual asking. Orlando presented Cintico with a white bunny decorated with a blue ribbon, which I took for a symbol of fertility, but may have just been for cuteness. And then he asked Cintico’s father for her hand in marriage.
Of course the guy said yes -- this was all planned out in advance. But I wonder if it was back in the day, if the village just showed up at another village, and said, “surprise!” Everyone stop working your asses off and party and dance and eat for a week! Who’d say no to that?
The party wore on and our kids went down, one at a time. I danced holding Oakes so long that I lost feeling in my arm. We were finally able to catch a ride down the mountain and back to Otavalo from someone who wasn’t too drunk. We were in the wee hours of morning, and neither K nor I are great after 10!
But it was memorable for sure. The extravagance in particular. Segundo and his family are quite wealthy, and I’ve made the case before -- citing Pete -- that Otavaleños are some of the richest, if not the richest indigenous people on the planet -- primarily through negocios, business. The famous Otavalo market brings in something like 9 million dollars a year. Often one family controls several stalls. Having watched the market pack up on numerous occasions, you can see someone drive a new $30,000 - $40,000 Chevy pickup in to pick up all of the goods.
Segundo has lots of little negocios, including property. He also goes to Colombia often to buy things -- bags, shirts that say “Ecuador” -- I’m only guessing, but I’m fairly sure it’s goods that end up in the market, goods that are cheaper to buy from your neighbors to the north. Otavaleños are also sometimes well-traveled, judging from some of Oralando’s friends on Facebook, sending back pictures from Europe or the Caribbean. Segundo himself worked for a couple of years in Costa Rica.
And in Otavalo, indigenes run the local government. Every public function -- like the lighting of the Christmas Tree in the town square -- is done in both Spanish and Kichwa.
Our landlords -- a Swiss woman and an Ecuadorian man, maybe atypical but not unusual in Otavalo -- were surprised. “I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’ve never been to a pedido,” William said. Simply mestizos don’t mix with indigenous, at least not in Otavalo, not outside of public space. William plays “volley” every week, has been playing with indigenous people for 20 years -- and still, he’s never been invited to their homes.
So why were we invited? “You’re status,” William said matter-of-factly. There’s something about associated with gringos that supposed to be about success. Orlando has since tried to entice me into negocios, selling hats in this case, and I had to tell him that I am the worst business man/salesman on the planet. If I had to guess, I’d say that Segundo and his sons do well because they hustle, as in they work hard. And they are smart.
The fertility bunny must have worked as well since Cintico and Orlando have one healthy little gordito, David. We still check in once in awhile via social media, and it seems that they are all doing well, the pedido de mano a success.
No comments:
Post a Comment