#007: Fieldnotes, Khonkho Solstice. 06/21/06
7:06am
Woke up at 6am (two hours later than supposed to?) to head out to the site for the Solstice ceremony/festival.* Arrived at 7am, just as sun was about to rise. Crowd around firepit in center of site, near the Tatakala monolith. P___ (the shaman) burns offerings made last night; hayaya’s (cheers!) for Khonkho Likiliki and the archaeological project, Proyecto Jach’a Machaqa. P___ and some community leaders shake up and spray a few bottles of beer on the ground around the fire pit, on the crowd. Everyone laughs. I'm told by one of the archaeologists that this act has some symbolism of masculinity and virility to it, as if the men are impregnating Pachamama (the earth, or land) with the beer.
Some of the women in the crowd wear special headdressings, consisting of a black, lace-trimmed cloth draped over two sticks or pointy objects at the front and back of the head. One of the grad students tells me later these women are mallkutaikas, wives of mallkus. There are over a dozen mallkus present (not all wearing whips).
The llama is brought out, its hind and back legs are tied and it is grabbed by the its and held by its ears by a male community member who I recognize, can’t remember his name. Large, red shallow bucket brought out, lots of commotion in crowd, pushing forward. I move back, not sure I want to see what’s going to happen. I don’t realize they’ve killed it until I catch sight of its enormous neck wound, head bent back to open the way for bright, bright red blood to fill the bucket. People soon start to turn towards the sun with hands raised, as if catching the rays. I am told later this is the "Welcoming of the Sun" ritual, a more New Age element of the Solstice ritual. The man who made the sacrifice stands by his kill, knife in hand, bits of blood and flesh on it still. It was a kitchen knife, I realize; what a small instrument, to kill such a big, beautiful animal. The man looks up at the crowd and, in one of those seemingly choreographed moments of cultural strangeness, steps slowly away –his work is done here, he seems to say – as two gringo photographers move in on the dead llama.
The carcass is brought away, towards the Tatakala, and later I see blood splattered on the (upward) face of the monolith. An older local man is standing by the fence surrounding the stone. I point to it and ask him what it is. He responds, “el lugar de bien saber,” or, the well-known place, the place of reknown. I write that down in my little notebook and he asks me what I’m writing. “Tarea,” I answer; homework. We laugh. The llama is laid down beside the fence to be gutted and butchered. For now, though, it’s whole, it’s big black eyes wide open, open neck still steaming.
I look around, and there are about/more than 10 buses here from La Paz, plus trucks and a few taxis. Tables are set up all along the main path, with vendors (primarily women) selling soup, fruit, clothing, candy, beverages, something that looks like Native American fry bread. I find two of the archaeologists and sit with them at one of the tables to enjoy some of the fried bread with api, a thick, sweet blue corn drink. I try to estimate the number of people there, and it looks to be a little over 200, maybe 250 or 270. The archaeologists have a good laugh at my attempts to count chunks of people, squinting and eyeballing it through fingers stretched two-inches apart. It’d make a good picture, they say.
8:13 am
Follow along on a tour of the site led by the Bolivian project co-director, who’s showing and explaining to people the contents of each excavated pit (building foundations, a water canal) and the monoliths standing above ground. The people he is leading seem more wealthy than most folks, like a family of wealthy foreigners/tourists – one elderly man, two women (one his age, one younger) and a middle-aged man, very tall looks Texan. They don’t seem to be from here, judging by their clothing (new), hair (clean) and skin color (lighter). They shake hands with two mallkus, who also follow along on the tour. The family speaks slow, clear, Spanish and asks a lot of questions of their tour guide, or at least the elderly man does. He dominates the tour discussion and the other visitors in an interesting way. Talks about how important the site is (more so than Macchu Picchu) and how these artifacts should be in a big museum, like the ones in Berlin and Japan (?). He asks how the archaeologists know the exact dates of the artifacts, and the co-director responds by talking about carbon dating and stratigraphy.
We get to the biggest, tallest monolith. There are about six mallkus present now, and over 20 people total. The wealthy family seems very interested, and express concern for the preservation of the artifacts. The younger woman says that if the community has any sense, they’ll put these things in a museum. It would benefit everyone, she says… the community, the tourists. One of the mallkus (?), or another community leader, responds that it is not so easy, that these things have to be discussed with the community, and with surrounding communities too. This monolith doesn’t just belong (?) to Khonko Likiliki, he says, but a lot of others too. He also says something about how they’re not interested in these artifacts until the tourists start coming.
I go back and sit with some of the archaeology students on the ground, near the row of vendors. We’re all kind of stretched out on the ground, trying to conserve our energy, maybe. Nobody’s looking too good this early in the morning. A mallku makes an announcement and a table is set up beside the row of vendors, where the elderly man in the grey jacket and his Texan companion are set up with brochures, etc. He is a Congressman, the Bolivian co-director tells me, and his being here is, obviously, a very political move. His team hands out campaign posters and literature, probably regarding the upcoming election over the Constituyente (Bolivian Constitution).
3:39 pm
Beer on “Gringo row:” All the archaeo-/anthropologists and some community members are crowded around one of the vendors’ tables, buying cases of beer for 36 B’s each (six Bolivianos – less than $1 – per 36 oz. beer), having a jolly old time. We start to acquire an audience, too. Little kids, teenagers, older women stop and stare at us, some for a half hour or so, maybe more. Some of the smaller kids come up right next to me, practically holding my hand, and just quietly observe, watch us pour glasses of beer and joke around with each other. I can’t quite tell what the blank expressions on the younger ones mean – whether they’re trying to make sense of us, or just plain mesmerized by our unusual characteristics and goofy behavior. Probably, they’ve just never seen gringos before in their lives. I appreciate their honesty.
We grow to ignore the crowd, in a way, and keep on just as conspicuously, drinking and laughing boisterously, all in good fun. Some teenage boys stand near us with their bikes, staring. I whip out my camera and take some pictures of them (normally I’d ask, but if they’re gonna stare…). One gives me the finger, but too briefly for me to catch it on film.
6pm
The sun is starting to set, so the group decides to head back to camp. One of the grad students and I wait for another in our group who went down the hill to pee; she’s not coming back, though, probably left already. We start walking down the road and within a few minutes notice a man sitting on the ground, practically in the ditch which runs alongside the path. He’s slumped over, head down, holding a backpack. We ask him if he’s alright, and he’s conscious, so we help him up, each take an arm and walk him back towards town. The walk, which takes about twenty-five minutes under normal circumstances, takes twice that long. I carry the guy’s backpack, and he freaks out every couple minutes or so, in barely audible speech, about its whereabouts. We try to figure out where he’s from, but he eventually stumbles out that he’s from a different community. We decide we’ll just take him to the plaza, the town square – it’s better than a ditch. We pass some folks on the road, and they don’t recognize him. They tell us to forget it and leave him, and we wonder if we should, but, judging by his condition, the outcome wouldn’t be good if we did. We’ll just do the good Samaritan thing, we say self-effacingly.
We manage to get the guy back to the plaza by nightfall. I’m glad as hell I brought a headlamp. A kid, ten years old or so, comes seemingly out of nowhere on his bike. We ask if he recognizes this gentleman; he doesn’t. The kid just watches us debate over where to put the guy, which is frustrating. ‘Where is your home?’ I want to scream at the kid. Why are you here all alone? We (grad student and I) decide to sit the dude down in the doorway of the school, figuring that at least he’ll be sheltered from the wind there.
We finally get back to camp around 7:30 pm, where the group’s having tea, and a good laugh teasing us about the “boracho” (drunkard) we “walked home.” One of the other grad students believes us though, and is worried about the guy. At the Solstice last year, one man actually died from alcohol poisoning, and it really shook everybody up – community and archaeologists alike. At the grad student's insistence we get in the truck, pick up the guy at the plaza and bring him to our camp. On the way back, just outside the entrance to our compound, another guy appears out of the darkness and stumbles towards the car, hands out zombie-like, asking for a ride. Now this is just too much. We dodge the guy (“already got one, sorry!”), but he follows us back to the compound. After we set up the first guy on a mattress in the storage room next to the kitchen, the second shows up in the doorway. There’s some debate, but most of the archaeologists throw up their hands and leave it up to me and the concerned grad student. We sigh and set up another mattress.
The first drunk guy woke up at around 12am, probably a result of the dance party some of us are having in the work room across the hall from him. Before stumbling off into the night, he tells the grad student who saw him leave that he can’t stay here because he’s not from here, this isn’t his community.
As the dance party winds down later on, one of the Bolivian archaeologists tells me that what me and D. (the grad student) did for that guy earlier was nice, she understands why we did it, but she wouldn’t recommend doing it again. People get drunk like that here all the time, she says, and you just can’t walk all of them home. Good point, I suppose.
* The Solstice Invierno marks the beginning of winter. It’s a “New Age-y” ceremony, as the cultural anthropologist called it last night, which takes place at Andean archaeological sites throughout Bolivia and Peru, combines new and old spiritual practices, and draws a ton of tourists (read: $$$). The festival at Tiwanaku, where the tradition began in 1980, was expected to draw upwards of 20,000 people this year, including the president, Evo Morales, himself. The festival at Khonkho (est’d 1990) is considerably smaller than that, but still a big deal for the town.
Woke up at 6am (two hours later than supposed to?) to head out to the site for the Solstice ceremony/festival.* Arrived at 7am, just as sun was about to rise. Crowd around firepit in center of site, near the Tatakala monolith. P___ (the shaman) burns offerings made last night; hayaya’s (cheers!) for Khonkho Likiliki and the archaeological project, Proyecto Jach’a Machaqa. P___ and some community leaders shake up and spray a few bottles of beer on the ground around the fire pit, on the crowd. Everyone laughs. I'm told by one of the archaeologists that this act has some symbolism of masculinity and virility to it, as if the men are impregnating Pachamama (the earth, or land) with the beer.
Some of the women in the crowd wear special headdressings, consisting of a black, lace-trimmed cloth draped over two sticks or pointy objects at the front and back of the head. One of the grad students tells me later these women are mallkutaikas, wives of mallkus. There are over a dozen mallkus present (not all wearing whips).
The llama is brought out, its hind and back legs are tied and it is grabbed by the its and held by its ears by a male community member who I recognize, can’t remember his name. Large, red shallow bucket brought out, lots of commotion in crowd, pushing forward. I move back, not sure I want to see what’s going to happen. I don’t realize they’ve killed it until I catch sight of its enormous neck wound, head bent back to open the way for bright, bright red blood to fill the bucket. People soon start to turn towards the sun with hands raised, as if catching the rays. I am told later this is the "Welcoming of the Sun" ritual, a more New Age element of the Solstice ritual. The man who made the sacrifice stands by his kill, knife in hand, bits of blood and flesh on it still. It was a kitchen knife, I realize; what a small instrument, to kill such a big, beautiful animal. The man looks up at the crowd and, in one of those seemingly choreographed moments of cultural strangeness, steps slowly away –his work is done here, he seems to say – as two gringo photographers move in on the dead llama.
The carcass is brought away, towards the Tatakala, and later I see blood splattered on the (upward) face of the monolith. An older local man is standing by the fence surrounding the stone. I point to it and ask him what it is. He responds, “el lugar de bien saber,” or, the well-known place, the place of reknown. I write that down in my little notebook and he asks me what I’m writing. “Tarea,” I answer; homework. We laugh. The llama is laid down beside the fence to be gutted and butchered. For now, though, it’s whole, it’s big black eyes wide open, open neck still steaming.
I look around, and there are about/more than 10 buses here from La Paz, plus trucks and a few taxis. Tables are set up all along the main path, with vendors (primarily women) selling soup, fruit, clothing, candy, beverages, something that looks like Native American fry bread. I find two of the archaeologists and sit with them at one of the tables to enjoy some of the fried bread with api, a thick, sweet blue corn drink. I try to estimate the number of people there, and it looks to be a little over 200, maybe 250 or 270. The archaeologists have a good laugh at my attempts to count chunks of people, squinting and eyeballing it through fingers stretched two-inches apart. It’d make a good picture, they say.
8:13 am
Follow along on a tour of the site led by the Bolivian project co-director, who’s showing and explaining to people the contents of each excavated pit (building foundations, a water canal) and the monoliths standing above ground. The people he is leading seem more wealthy than most folks, like a family of wealthy foreigners/tourists – one elderly man, two women (one his age, one younger) and a middle-aged man, very tall looks Texan. They don’t seem to be from here, judging by their clothing (new), hair (clean) and skin color (lighter). They shake hands with two mallkus, who also follow along on the tour. The family speaks slow, clear, Spanish and asks a lot of questions of their tour guide, or at least the elderly man does. He dominates the tour discussion and the other visitors in an interesting way. Talks about how important the site is (more so than Macchu Picchu) and how these artifacts should be in a big museum, like the ones in Berlin and Japan (?). He asks how the archaeologists know the exact dates of the artifacts, and the co-director responds by talking about carbon dating and stratigraphy.
We get to the biggest, tallest monolith. There are about six mallkus present now, and over 20 people total. The wealthy family seems very interested, and express concern for the preservation of the artifacts. The younger woman says that if the community has any sense, they’ll put these things in a museum. It would benefit everyone, she says… the community, the tourists. One of the mallkus (?), or another community leader, responds that it is not so easy, that these things have to be discussed with the community, and with surrounding communities too. This monolith doesn’t just belong (?) to Khonko Likiliki, he says, but a lot of others too. He also says something about how they’re not interested in these artifacts until the tourists start coming.
I go back and sit with some of the archaeology students on the ground, near the row of vendors. We’re all kind of stretched out on the ground, trying to conserve our energy, maybe. Nobody’s looking too good this early in the morning. A mallku makes an announcement and a table is set up beside the row of vendors, where the elderly man in the grey jacket and his Texan companion are set up with brochures, etc. He is a Congressman, the Bolivian co-director tells me, and his being here is, obviously, a very political move. His team hands out campaign posters and literature, probably regarding the upcoming election over the Constituyente (Bolivian Constitution).
3:39 pm
Beer on “Gringo row:” All the archaeo-/anthropologists and some community members are crowded around one of the vendors’ tables, buying cases of beer for 36 B’s each (six Bolivianos – less than $1 – per 36 oz. beer), having a jolly old time. We start to acquire an audience, too. Little kids, teenagers, older women stop and stare at us, some for a half hour or so, maybe more. Some of the smaller kids come up right next to me, practically holding my hand, and just quietly observe, watch us pour glasses of beer and joke around with each other. I can’t quite tell what the blank expressions on the younger ones mean – whether they’re trying to make sense of us, or just plain mesmerized by our unusual characteristics and goofy behavior. Probably, they’ve just never seen gringos before in their lives. I appreciate their honesty.
We grow to ignore the crowd, in a way, and keep on just as conspicuously, drinking and laughing boisterously, all in good fun. Some teenage boys stand near us with their bikes, staring. I whip out my camera and take some pictures of them (normally I’d ask, but if they’re gonna stare…). One gives me the finger, but too briefly for me to catch it on film.
6pm
The sun is starting to set, so the group decides to head back to camp. One of the grad students and I wait for another in our group who went down the hill to pee; she’s not coming back, though, probably left already. We start walking down the road and within a few minutes notice a man sitting on the ground, practically in the ditch which runs alongside the path. He’s slumped over, head down, holding a backpack. We ask him if he’s alright, and he’s conscious, so we help him up, each take an arm and walk him back towards town. The walk, which takes about twenty-five minutes under normal circumstances, takes twice that long. I carry the guy’s backpack, and he freaks out every couple minutes or so, in barely audible speech, about its whereabouts. We try to figure out where he’s from, but he eventually stumbles out that he’s from a different community. We decide we’ll just take him to the plaza, the town square – it’s better than a ditch. We pass some folks on the road, and they don’t recognize him. They tell us to forget it and leave him, and we wonder if we should, but, judging by his condition, the outcome wouldn’t be good if we did. We’ll just do the good Samaritan thing, we say self-effacingly.
We manage to get the guy back to the plaza by nightfall. I’m glad as hell I brought a headlamp. A kid, ten years old or so, comes seemingly out of nowhere on his bike. We ask if he recognizes this gentleman; he doesn’t. The kid just watches us debate over where to put the guy, which is frustrating. ‘Where is your home?’ I want to scream at the kid. Why are you here all alone? We (grad student and I) decide to sit the dude down in the doorway of the school, figuring that at least he’ll be sheltered from the wind there.
We finally get back to camp around 7:30 pm, where the group’s having tea, and a good laugh teasing us about the “boracho” (drunkard) we “walked home.” One of the other grad students believes us though, and is worried about the guy. At the Solstice last year, one man actually died from alcohol poisoning, and it really shook everybody up – community and archaeologists alike. At the grad student's insistence we get in the truck, pick up the guy at the plaza and bring him to our camp. On the way back, just outside the entrance to our compound, another guy appears out of the darkness and stumbles towards the car, hands out zombie-like, asking for a ride. Now this is just too much. We dodge the guy (“already got one, sorry!”), but he follows us back to the compound. After we set up the first guy on a mattress in the storage room next to the kitchen, the second shows up in the doorway. There’s some debate, but most of the archaeologists throw up their hands and leave it up to me and the concerned grad student. We sigh and set up another mattress.
The first drunk guy woke up at around 12am, probably a result of the dance party some of us are having in the work room across the hall from him. Before stumbling off into the night, he tells the grad student who saw him leave that he can’t stay here because he’s not from here, this isn’t his community.
As the dance party winds down later on, one of the Bolivian archaeologists tells me that what me and D. (the grad student) did for that guy earlier was nice, she understands why we did it, but she wouldn’t recommend doing it again. People get drunk like that here all the time, she says, and you just can’t walk all of them home. Good point, I suppose.
* The Solstice Invierno marks the beginning of winter. It’s a “New Age-y” ceremony, as the cultural anthropologist called it last night, which takes place at Andean archaeological sites throughout Bolivia and Peru, combines new and old spiritual practices, and draws a ton of tourists (read: $$$). The festival at Tiwanaku, where the tradition began in 1980, was expected to draw upwards of 20,000 people this year, including the president, Evo Morales, himself. The festival at Khonkho (est’d 1990) is considerably smaller than that, but still a big deal for the town.
posted by kazmira at 3:57 PM
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