This Family Likes to Drink - And I Get No Sleep

Christmas morning I woke up hungover. That was a first.

There was nobody gathered around a Christmas tree eagerly awaiting presents. That was also a first. There were no presents to hand out. The smallest cousin got his Wii the night before and that was it for presents. On the actual day of Christmas the idea was just to spend time with the family. And we did this at a public pool. Another first.

The first thing I did on Christmas day was call home to wish my family a merry Christmas. That was about the only thing I did that day that seemed tied to the holiday.

The pool outing was interesting. We all piled into two trucks and drove to this large, German-run pool complete with basketball courts and a bar. It was a little chilly and about to storm, so my coworker and I made a b-line to the bar as the uncles went straight into the pool. We watched them play and carry on from the comfort of the bar. Until the thunderstorm started. And then we were all huddled into the small bar. So after an hour at the pool, it was back to the house.

The following days were fairly routine. Random relatives would drop in each day to say hello and pay their respects to Papito. We would generally sleep in as late as possible - usually until one of the cousins couldn´t wait any longer for the nicer shower in our bathroom and come through waking us up. Afternoons we would eat a big lunch and later we would go to the Puente, a large covered area by a bridge where locals sold various foods cooked on-site and other locals gorged themselves on these empanadas, ahmintas, and home-made sweet drinks. At night the cousins who were old enough (and one who wasn´t) went out to dip into Tarija`s night life. Tarija`s night life is apparently at it`s peak this time a year, when kids from all over the country are in town visiting family. It`s remarkable; sort of like American families who know other families only by the time they spend with them at the beach or other annual vacation spots. All the kids know each other from the two weeks a year they see each other out at the bars and clubs in Tarija. But Tarija isn`t really a backpackers destination. So, being one of the only gringos in the city, I stood out at the bars and clubs. I am sure people will remember me, too, when I go back next year. At the end of the night, usually around 5am or later, we would stumble to our beds and sleep as late as possible the next morning.

This routine was occasionally broken up. We would go out to a big dinner at a restaurant. And one day we visited one of Tarija`s vineyards - Tarija is home to the highest vineyards in the world. Another full day of drinking wine.

But all this eating and drinking finally took its toll on me on the eve of New Year`s eve. After another trip to the Puente, my stomach started to cramp something awful. I had been waiting for this. So far I had been fairly lucky with my eating adventures in S America. In fact, I had started to believe I was immune to all the dangers that come with eating foods my weak American stomach isn`t used to. But now my stomach was in bad shape (I blamed the fried cornmeal from the Puente - I had serious doubts about the hygiene of the woman cooking them in the big black, crusty pan) and I wasn`t excited about having pissbutt the day before big parties were supposed to go down.

All day New Years eve I was trying various combinations of pills hoping to relieve my stomach of its burden and better my chances of having a decent New Years out. Who celebrates New Years in a different country without drinking? Not this gringo. Pepto wasn`t working; the white, toxic drink tio gave me to down (with a pinched nose) wasn`t working; even the drugs proccured from a drive-thru pharmacy were only stopping the pains for a few minutes at a time. I relunctantly avoided the asado-cooked meats offered up for lunch that day and the glasses of wine that accompanied them. I spent most of the day lying on the bed watching whatever movies I could find in English (and some that weren`t). As each hour ticked down I prayed for my stomach to grant me this one night. I promised it could be as upset as it wanted to be on January 2nd. But tonight was my night.

It didn`t listen. And so I decided to ignore it.

The family toasted away on the patio and I took no part in these toasts. But when it came time for the cousins to pile into the car for the formal party we had all bought tickets for earlier in the week, I clinched my stomach and made my way gingerly to the car. My coworker and I discovered a few days after we bought the tickets to this event that it was a formal one. Neither of us had anything remotely resembling something formal. His cousin, all decked out in her formal dress, didn`t make us feel any more confident in our jeans and button-up club shirts. But we went anyway.

And when we arrived and saw all the guys in attendance wearing suits, we pretended not to care and went for the free drinks. An hour later, when the heavens opened up and let forth the mighty roar of a heavy downpour, we smiled at each other and watched as the fancy shmucks all dolled up for their party got drenched or clung to each other as they pressed to the edges of the meager tents set up outside. The last laugh was on me, though, when I got stuck talking to one of the more boring of these shmucks for hours while everyone darted off to the dance floor. And there was no ditching him. For two hours I listened to him drag on about how great American music was (using some interesting examples to illustrate his point) and how good he was at mimicking their sounds with his band. When he excused himself to head to the bathroom I darted in the opposite direction to find my coworker and curse him for stranding me (I had been waiting for this moment, wondering how long a guy downing mug after mug of beer and glass after glass of whiskey could possibly hold it for so long).

As the party wound down, and I got slightly more eniberated with each drink I could find, the sun started to breach the horizon. I was ready for sleep. The cousins weren`t. Apprently there was an after party in the main plaza. It took very little convincing to get me to go. My coworker wasn`t biting. He went straight to bed. And, at 7am, instead of going to sleep, I followed the cousins to the city`s plaza where everyone who was at the party, and still dressed in their formals, were drinking beers (etc) from boxes by their feet.

It was here I learned about the strong feelings of distaste for one another that each half of Bolivia felt for the other. Well, mostly how much people from Tarija don`t like people from La Paz. The people of Tarija, in general, are not fans of the president and blame the people of La Paz for putting him in office. They don`t stop to consider that these people visiting Tarija are mostly white and don`t like Evo Morales either. Or the large amounts of alcohol in their systems at this point didn`t let them stop to think that point through. And these huge amounts of alcohol only fueled this dislike. Fights broke out every where. Over something as simple as a different accent.

Some how I managed to avoid all these confrontations. In fact, the only incident I encountered was a guy offering me his pink tie when I mentioned how much I liked it. For the rest of the morning I felt a bit more formal. Even as I got progressively more drunk. As the time coasted toward noon, the visitors from La Paz started heading home, and the locals of Tarija broke out into song. The sight of the man bent over himself on a park bench with a puddle of vomit in front of him was enough to convince me it was time to call it quits. And home we went.

Only to be told we needed to get ready for Papito`s birthday party. I made the effort to at least shower the previous party off of me before getting back into the car to be shuttled to another tio`s house for the big BBQ. My stomach had long since ceased to be in pain. Or it was so full of booze that it was numb to the pain. So when crusified pig was offered up, I dove in. When more wine was offered, I dove in. And my buzz continued. My sensitivity grew. I told my coworker how much I appreciated being with his family during the holidays. It was a hushed, serious moment. But one that was overheard by the tios. They pressed me to make a formal annoucement telling the entire family what I had just told my coworker. They weren`t taking no for an answer. And so I suddenly found myself standing in front of the entire family, seventh glass of wine in hand, telling them how much I appreciated each of them. They didn`t understand a word, so my coworker stood beside me and translated. There were toasts. There were hugs and kisses and offers to host me next year. Eventually me, my coworker and the tios were hugging, eyes welled-up, telling each other how much we loved each other, man. It was a mess. But an endearing mess. I felt loved. And very drunk. The hours after this are a blur. Drinks were spilled, shirts were changed, and at some point I found myself sitting at a restaurant in the middle of the night, drinking more.

I think around this point I was found to be sleeping at the table and we called it a night at 1am only to come home and break out more wine and more toasts. Some how I managed to find my bed around 4am. At least I think it was 4am. The next day I would leave Tarija and my second family on a bus bound for Bolivia`s salt flats. My liver needed the break.

For pictures of my New Years in Tarija, and my entire time there, follow this link:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603709649737/