#003: Field notes, Khonkho (abridged). 06/13/06
06-13-06
Trip to Khonkho was somewhat surreal. Big orange truck, an old, enormous Nissan Patrol. Brown, rusty interior, no seatbelts, shit engine, hardly any room to breathe with all the luggage, equipment and food we brought. I sat in the front, between the driver and V., a Bolivian archaeologist and co-director of the project. My knees smushed against the air vent, I held onto the handle bar in front of the passenger seat for dear life as we wheezed and choked up and down La Paz’s cruel hills. I’ve never had a more entertaining car ride in my life.
We passed through El Alto, a dustier, more raucous exurb of La Paz, closer to the countryside. Tons more Indigenous migrants from the campo, more of those taxi-vans with voceadors hanging out the sides, screaming out their destinations. My professor curses their traffic-clogging existence constantly. As we entered the steamy, chaotic market area, a woman in Indigenous dress on the side of the road flagged us down. She came up to the passenger window and cheerily shook hands with all of us (everyone shakes hands a lot here), and handed V. two plastic bags full of misa ritual items (see: llama fetuses, candies, herbs like those found in the Witches´Market), part of some apparently pre-arranged transaction. I had no idea what was going on, really, or how she found us in time (no cell phones involved), but everything seemed to have worked out okay. Some of the archaeologists then went into the market area and picked up a few bottles of whiskey, pure-gran (98%) alcohol and two huge bags of coca leaves. I chewed them for the first time in the car - you take a small handful (a half a dozen or so inch-long dried leaves), chew them up a little and form a wad which you keep in the side of your mouth and add to with more handfuls as time goes on. You can also add a pinch of this gummy charcoal substance to the leaves before you chew them, which brings out the flavor and makes your cheek numb. It´s not bad.
Outside the toll booth marking the city limits, we passed by a car accident, a motorcycle and two cars smashed together, body on the ground covered in blood. What was amazing about it was the reaction – hundreds and hundreds of people packed on the bridge stretched across the highway, staring in awe, or maybe unable to pull themselves away.
Stopped at Tihuanaco, a tourist-ified archaeological site, and picked up B., another Bolivian archaeologist. The rest of the car ride was quiet, except for the clanking of the truck’s irreverent engine. I wondered what the countryside sounded like before we roared through. I can only imagine. About 45 minutes or so from Khonkho we turned from the paved highway onto a dusty dirt road, riddled with rocks. This leg of the trip was the most interesting, when the movie about the Archaeo-Explorers began to roll in my head. The six of us exploring unchartered land, silent and ready, bandito bandanas over our faces, an enormous, picturesque cloud of dust trailing behind us. In reality, of course, it was a lot more awkward: the bump-bump-bumpiness making bags and their contents spill everywhere, while those among us unfortunate enough to be sitting on the wheel-well fumbled with packs of paper napkins to substitute as seat cushions. Even this seemed kind of cinematic to me though, as I watched, still and scared and erect in the backseat, Tupperware container full of banana bread trembling in my lap, eyes wide and ceaselessly open to take in the scenery, the llamas, the kids and adults walking or bicycling along the side of the road who paused and used a saluting hand to shield their eyes from the sun as they stared deep into the passing truck, trying to inquire inside as to who we strange things were.
Arrived at our compound, el campamiento – two buildings, one with a work/dining room, kitchen and storage area, the other with a larger room and mattresses for sleeping. There we were greeted by five or so men – mallkus (community leaders, one from each of Khonkho´s four quadrants) and other prominent community members. Learned quickly, after an awkward first encounter, how to shake hands – shake with right hand, pat with both hands on shoulders (sometimes with a grandiose swing of right hand onto partner´s left shoulder), then shake again with same hand as before. It was a happy reunion for the archaeologists, who hadn´t seen some of their good friends in a year. I was introduced as Casimira, the ¨nuestra victima¨(new victim), and met with laughs, and ceremonious but warm greetings. Some older ladies would shake my hand for about three minutes, saying things I couldn´t understand in Aymara.
Soon after we arrived a group of local residents, men and women, gathered in the storage room of our compound, organizing what I was told was the misa ritual for that evening. One of the grad students and I set up the beds in the sleeping area in the building across the way, where were stacked dozens of mattresses made of rice/flour bags stuffed with hay, and heavy wool blankets. Got dark rather quickly after we arrived, and the four of us went outside to admire one of the most gorgeous night skies this world has to offer – slathered thick with stars that really do twinkle, and planets, and a moon so bright you don’t need a head lamp to see where you’re going. And the Milky Way! You can not only see it here, but you can make out shapes in the negative space, which is apparently what many of the constellations well-known in this region actually are. We haven’t been able to find The Llama yet, though.
The local and very well-respected shaman arrived later that evening. Shamans are sort of contracted out for their services here, and gather reputations for their wisdom and experience. Such was definitely true for this shaman, who just recently had an 83rd birthday, and seemed to have an aura of understated greatness to him, in his slow movements and soft, hoarse voice. He was set up in the storage room, on a blanket-covered mattress surrounded by benches, surrounded by people attending to him, watching him. We came in a little later – unsure of when it was appropriate. We met and shook hands with everyone (about twenty people), were met with big big smiles by all, and one of the archaeologists soon presented the bag full of misas to the shaman, who peered into it along with a few other men to make sure everything needed was there. One thing was missing, and V. went into the other room but couldn’t find it, and everyone seemed a little concerned. Eventually, the shaman began anyway to make the offerings: a bowl was placed before him and, with a dull knife he began chopping up some skin/flesh (from a pig? llama?) and a chunk of what looked like cheese or fat into three piles in the bowl, then sprinkled them with red wine from a soda bottle and molded them into two-inch balls. We all watched intently, as beer, cigarettes, coca leaves and a small bottle of the hard alcohol were being passed around, the latter taken in small sips. Two or three people sitting near the shaman took out pieces of brown hair or maybe lana (llama wool) out of the plastic bag and began stretching them out into rectangular nets, then handing them to the shaman who tightly wrapped one around each offering. He then scattered out the chosen coca leaves onto the mat before him, to determine when the offerings were to be burnt. Midnight it was.
One by one, people began making offers with the alcohol, sprinkling it on the ground and muttering quiet prayers. Cheers (Hayaya!) were called out for “Doktor J___,” my professor, and Proyecto Jach’a Machaqa (the name of the archaeological excavation), and echoed by everyone each time. The room became smokier and smokier, as one person at a time would walk the circle distributing unfiltered, Bolivian cigarillos with names like Astoria and Casino. One of the men from the community also walked around with a pouch of coca leaves, and you had to say something in Aymara before you took a handful and after, but I didn´t quite catch it. Prof. J.´s well-recieved gift of a flask of whiskey made more and more rounds, while beer was circulating around in a single glass, as per the customary system – one from our team would pour the glass and hand it to someone in the circle, who would pour a little bit of foam on the floor as an offering, consume the contents, then hand the glass back to the pourer who shook out the remaining foam, refilled the glass and passed it to the next person in the circle. I learned later that the rule goes, one group brings the beer, and a person from the other group is required to serve as pourer: a necessary reciprocal element of partying.
One woman – pointed out to me as mallku’s wife, or mallkuteka, had a blanket sack on her back. I eventually saw a hand sticking out and realized her baby was napping peacefully back there. Her son, seven years old or so, came in later and sat by her quietly. Talked about this later with one of the Bolivian archaeologists; he said he asked the mallkuteka why she and the kids didn´t just go home to sleep, and she replied that they had to be there. It was an obligation of being in her position, and, as he explained, part of the custom for women “apoyar en su esposo,” to lean on one’s spouse, in everything they do.
At about 11:30 we left for the archaeological site, where the offering ceremony would take place. The women and children and some men rode in our truck – I walked with the archaeologists, a 20 min. or so walk, and very, very cold. The fire was burning by the time we arrived, and we all sat around it, enjoying the heat, while some of the local men searched nearby with shovels for the firepit on which last year’s offerings were burnt. Soon thereafter this year’s offerings were placed on the fire. I learned later that the purpose of this ceremony was not so much to welcome us or the Project, but to get permission from the site itself to excavate (in this region, land, and certain sites on the land, are sacred – they are the gods, more or less). It also ended up being a good icebreaker – a few people popped open bottles of beer, shook them up and started spraying foam high up in the air, chasing people around the fire with them. We all laughed together, loud, maybe for the first time that evening. The ceremony, and drinking, continued long after the fire died down. Just when I was sure it was time to go home and, finally, literally, hit the hay, another case of beer was brought out and presented to the Doktor, and a final glass was passed and refilled, passed and refilled. At about 3 am we made the trek home, and all slept very well that night, I´m sure.
Trip to Khonkho was somewhat surreal. Big orange truck, an old, enormous Nissan Patrol. Brown, rusty interior, no seatbelts, shit engine, hardly any room to breathe with all the luggage, equipment and food we brought. I sat in the front, between the driver and V., a Bolivian archaeologist and co-director of the project. My knees smushed against the air vent, I held onto the handle bar in front of the passenger seat for dear life as we wheezed and choked up and down La Paz’s cruel hills. I’ve never had a more entertaining car ride in my life.
We passed through El Alto, a dustier, more raucous exurb of La Paz, closer to the countryside. Tons more Indigenous migrants from the campo, more of those taxi-vans with voceadors hanging out the sides, screaming out their destinations. My professor curses their traffic-clogging existence constantly. As we entered the steamy, chaotic market area, a woman in Indigenous dress on the side of the road flagged us down. She came up to the passenger window and cheerily shook hands with all of us (everyone shakes hands a lot here), and handed V. two plastic bags full of misa ritual items (see: llama fetuses, candies, herbs like those found in the Witches´Market), part of some apparently pre-arranged transaction. I had no idea what was going on, really, or how she found us in time (no cell phones involved), but everything seemed to have worked out okay. Some of the archaeologists then went into the market area and picked up a few bottles of whiskey, pure-gran (98%) alcohol and two huge bags of coca leaves. I chewed them for the first time in the car - you take a small handful (a half a dozen or so inch-long dried leaves), chew them up a little and form a wad which you keep in the side of your mouth and add to with more handfuls as time goes on. You can also add a pinch of this gummy charcoal substance to the leaves before you chew them, which brings out the flavor and makes your cheek numb. It´s not bad.
Outside the toll booth marking the city limits, we passed by a car accident, a motorcycle and two cars smashed together, body on the ground covered in blood. What was amazing about it was the reaction – hundreds and hundreds of people packed on the bridge stretched across the highway, staring in awe, or maybe unable to pull themselves away.
Stopped at Tihuanaco, a tourist-ified archaeological site, and picked up B., another Bolivian archaeologist. The rest of the car ride was quiet, except for the clanking of the truck’s irreverent engine. I wondered what the countryside sounded like before we roared through. I can only imagine. About 45 minutes or so from Khonkho we turned from the paved highway onto a dusty dirt road, riddled with rocks. This leg of the trip was the most interesting, when the movie about the Archaeo-Explorers began to roll in my head. The six of us exploring unchartered land, silent and ready, bandito bandanas over our faces, an enormous, picturesque cloud of dust trailing behind us. In reality, of course, it was a lot more awkward: the bump-bump-bumpiness making bags and their contents spill everywhere, while those among us unfortunate enough to be sitting on the wheel-well fumbled with packs of paper napkins to substitute as seat cushions. Even this seemed kind of cinematic to me though, as I watched, still and scared and erect in the backseat, Tupperware container full of banana bread trembling in my lap, eyes wide and ceaselessly open to take in the scenery, the llamas, the kids and adults walking or bicycling along the side of the road who paused and used a saluting hand to shield their eyes from the sun as they stared deep into the passing truck, trying to inquire inside as to who we strange things were.
Arrived at our compound, el campamiento – two buildings, one with a work/dining room, kitchen and storage area, the other with a larger room and mattresses for sleeping. There we were greeted by five or so men – mallkus (community leaders, one from each of Khonkho´s four quadrants) and other prominent community members. Learned quickly, after an awkward first encounter, how to shake hands – shake with right hand, pat with both hands on shoulders (sometimes with a grandiose swing of right hand onto partner´s left shoulder), then shake again with same hand as before. It was a happy reunion for the archaeologists, who hadn´t seen some of their good friends in a year. I was introduced as Casimira, the ¨nuestra victima¨(new victim), and met with laughs, and ceremonious but warm greetings. Some older ladies would shake my hand for about three minutes, saying things I couldn´t understand in Aymara.
Soon after we arrived a group of local residents, men and women, gathered in the storage room of our compound, organizing what I was told was the misa ritual for that evening. One of the grad students and I set up the beds in the sleeping area in the building across the way, where were stacked dozens of mattresses made of rice/flour bags stuffed with hay, and heavy wool blankets. Got dark rather quickly after we arrived, and the four of us went outside to admire one of the most gorgeous night skies this world has to offer – slathered thick with stars that really do twinkle, and planets, and a moon so bright you don’t need a head lamp to see where you’re going. And the Milky Way! You can not only see it here, but you can make out shapes in the negative space, which is apparently what many of the constellations well-known in this region actually are. We haven’t been able to find The Llama yet, though.
The local and very well-respected shaman arrived later that evening. Shamans are sort of contracted out for their services here, and gather reputations for their wisdom and experience. Such was definitely true for this shaman, who just recently had an 83rd birthday, and seemed to have an aura of understated greatness to him, in his slow movements and soft, hoarse voice. He was set up in the storage room, on a blanket-covered mattress surrounded by benches, surrounded by people attending to him, watching him. We came in a little later – unsure of when it was appropriate. We met and shook hands with everyone (about twenty people), were met with big big smiles by all, and one of the archaeologists soon presented the bag full of misas to the shaman, who peered into it along with a few other men to make sure everything needed was there. One thing was missing, and V. went into the other room but couldn’t find it, and everyone seemed a little concerned. Eventually, the shaman began anyway to make the offerings: a bowl was placed before him and, with a dull knife he began chopping up some skin/flesh (from a pig? llama?) and a chunk of what looked like cheese or fat into three piles in the bowl, then sprinkled them with red wine from a soda bottle and molded them into two-inch balls. We all watched intently, as beer, cigarettes, coca leaves and a small bottle of the hard alcohol were being passed around, the latter taken in small sips. Two or three people sitting near the shaman took out pieces of brown hair or maybe lana (llama wool) out of the plastic bag and began stretching them out into rectangular nets, then handing them to the shaman who tightly wrapped one around each offering. He then scattered out the chosen coca leaves onto the mat before him, to determine when the offerings were to be burnt. Midnight it was.
One by one, people began making offers with the alcohol, sprinkling it on the ground and muttering quiet prayers. Cheers (Hayaya!) were called out for “Doktor J___,” my professor, and Proyecto Jach’a Machaqa (the name of the archaeological excavation), and echoed by everyone each time. The room became smokier and smokier, as one person at a time would walk the circle distributing unfiltered, Bolivian cigarillos with names like Astoria and Casino. One of the men from the community also walked around with a pouch of coca leaves, and you had to say something in Aymara before you took a handful and after, but I didn´t quite catch it. Prof. J.´s well-recieved gift of a flask of whiskey made more and more rounds, while beer was circulating around in a single glass, as per the customary system – one from our team would pour the glass and hand it to someone in the circle, who would pour a little bit of foam on the floor as an offering, consume the contents, then hand the glass back to the pourer who shook out the remaining foam, refilled the glass and passed it to the next person in the circle. I learned later that the rule goes, one group brings the beer, and a person from the other group is required to serve as pourer: a necessary reciprocal element of partying.
One woman – pointed out to me as mallku’s wife, or mallkuteka, had a blanket sack on her back. I eventually saw a hand sticking out and realized her baby was napping peacefully back there. Her son, seven years old or so, came in later and sat by her quietly. Talked about this later with one of the Bolivian archaeologists; he said he asked the mallkuteka why she and the kids didn´t just go home to sleep, and she replied that they had to be there. It was an obligation of being in her position, and, as he explained, part of the custom for women “apoyar en su esposo,” to lean on one’s spouse, in everything they do.
At about 11:30 we left for the archaeological site, where the offering ceremony would take place. The women and children and some men rode in our truck – I walked with the archaeologists, a 20 min. or so walk, and very, very cold. The fire was burning by the time we arrived, and we all sat around it, enjoying the heat, while some of the local men searched nearby with shovels for the firepit on which last year’s offerings were burnt. Soon thereafter this year’s offerings were placed on the fire. I learned later that the purpose of this ceremony was not so much to welcome us or the Project, but to get permission from the site itself to excavate (in this region, land, and certain sites on the land, are sacred – they are the gods, more or less). It also ended up being a good icebreaker – a few people popped open bottles of beer, shook them up and started spraying foam high up in the air, chasing people around the fire with them. We all laughed together, loud, maybe for the first time that evening. The ceremony, and drinking, continued long after the fire died down. Just when I was sure it was time to go home and, finally, literally, hit the hay, another case of beer was brought out and presented to the Doktor, and a final glass was passed and refilled, passed and refilled. At about 3 am we made the trek home, and all slept very well that night, I´m sure.
posted by kazmira at 1:41 PM
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