Killing LLama

WARNING: The following post contains photos of a graphic nature, which should not be viewed by anyone who has an aversion to seeing Tyler drunk. Or blood, whichever.

When one works in a mine such as the one we just visited, one has many dangers to deal with. Not the least is tripping over tourists traipsing around snapping photos and saying things like "Ooh, that one's missing an arm!" Other dangers include cave-ins, deadly gas (some left behind by tourists having eaten too much Bolivian food), and pulmonary pneumonia caused by a combination of breathing silicate dust while simultaneously smoking those deadly "cigarettes" while mining. To combat the dangers that can be avoided (and cigarette-induced lung failure simply is not one of them), one has no other choice than to appease the god of the mines.

For those of us who aren't familiar with the deity-based mountain ownership scheme, the mountain in which the miners work is owned by "Tio", essentially a satan figure as Tyler mentioned in his post. Tio is not really a bad guy, and in fact the miners drink with statue/shrines representing him in special places in the mines, the idol usually complete with horns and a giant phallus. The problem with Tio is that frankly he has a bit of a thirst for some blood. Nothing serious, he just wants a little of that old life-vino. So, they can either supply him with it by dying in horrible mine accidents, or they can attempt to satiate it by a ceremony in which they sacrifice llamas. It usually ends up being a little from column A, a little from column B, but 3 times a year they hold the llama sacrifices to reduce their chances of dying so Tio can wipe his mouth with the back of his arm and let out a giant "aaaah" of complete thirst-quenching satisfaction. (The fact that they hold them on three consecutive saturdays in a row says to me that they don't understand the concept of spreading the blood around a bit).

So, luckily for us, the llama-killin' was scheduled for the Saturday immediately following our tour. The tour company we went with was offering a day trip to one of the ceremonies, and since we hate llamas we decided to go. Each different mine on the mountain holds its own ceremony, and the one that the 20 of us tourists arrived at was at a small mine worked in part by the brothers of the tour guide. After stopping off at the miners' market to buy gifts for the miners and booze for ourselves (the whole "gifts for the miners" concept is brilliant; we bring the booze and coca leaves, and they get to drink and chew them), our bus dropped us off at a small shack on the mountain, with a dirt area behind and the entrance to the mine just past that. At this point, there were only 4 miners there, who all happened to be the brothers of our guide. In addition, there were a few women doing various things, and a bunch of children running around playing in a wheelbarrow, the self-same barrow soon to play a much more useful part in the day.



Unceremoniously dumping the children from the wheelbarrow, the women wheeled it over to a small faucet connected to a pipe drawing water from somewhere inside the mountain. This water was a dull metallic color and probably contained more lead than Tupac Shakur. Also included on the non-existent list of ingredients: mercury, cyanide, and Tio urine. So, after giving the wheelbarrow a rinsing consisting of exactly one half of an ass, they proceeded to change it's general function from "ore-hauling worktool" to "punchbowl". The miners love to drink an alcohol which is 96% pure (think paint-thinner), so using this potent liquid, a couple packets of juice-mix, and a fair quantity of the water coming out of the faucet, they created a drink that no one anywhere would ever order from a bar unless they hated booze, their body, and life itself. Having created this tasty beverage, they needed some method of transporting it from the wheelbarrow to all the victims scattered around the dirt lot. Luckily, there were a number of empty two-liter soda bottles scattered around both in the dirt and also in the trash pile off to one side, which after a quick rinse in the water that actually made them more dirty, worked perfectly. Now, when a miner whose remaining years are probably roughly equivalent to the number of times I will fart in any given day offers you a shot of this wheelbarrow-punch, one feels somewhat rude in not accepting graciously. The thought that runs through one's mind when pouring the stuff down their throat revolves mostly around the desperate hope that the high alcohol percentage will be enough to kill a significant portion of the bacteria and amoeba calling the liquid their home.

Soon, the guests of honor arrived, in the form of two beautiful llamas with their legs tied up so as to prevent their untimely escape. The miners sprinkle them with coca leaves and continuously pour quantities of cerveza over and around them, apparently to marinate them a bit.



More miners arrived, along with many more children (most of whom never seemed to tire of trying on my sunglasses). A couple of hours passed, the tourists getting tired and bored, before it became time for the main event.



Now I don't know about you, but I don't understand how anyone can look into the big, dark eyes of these creatures and not think "Can we hurry up and kill these things yet?". And so they did.



Previously, I thought it was simply theatrics when in movies you see blood spurting from a recently severed neck. Not so. In fact, the blood from these llamas sprayed at least 5 feet if not a bit more, and the man who had seconds before sawed into the llamas' necks playfully directed the spray towards the tourists like a horrific Super Soaker, laughing at the high-pitched screams of the girls (and me). Now, it would be a shame to let all that lovely blood spill onto the ground, so the women collect it in bowls and then slop it generously around the entrance to the mine, as the offering to Tio.



Now, one might ask, what becomes of the llamas after this gruesome treatment?



Mmm, now that's good eatin'. So while the women and a couple of guys proceeded to skin the llamas and cut them up to prepare them to become BBQ, more and more miners proceeded to show up. Most of the tourists left, leaving just Tyler, myself, and perhaps 3 of the original 20 with an increasing number of locals. While I was doing a fair job of avoiding the miners offering wheelbarrow-punch by ducking and bobbing through the crowd, Tyler had stationed himself at the entrance to the mine talking with Carlos, the director of the mine and his wife. Since Carlos was a man of some importance, the booze flowed in his direction with more frequency, and Tyler was the unwilling beneficiary of this abundance. As the day wore on, Carlos and Tyler become much more chummy, putting down large quantities of cerveza and wheelbarrow-punch. I joined their group once or twice, but quickly left to speak with the other, less-intoxicated miners as it was virtually impossible to stand near Tyler without the risk of bursting into flames should even the slightest spark ignite his or Carlos' breath.



Finally, the meal was ready (having been cooked on the grate in the picture over coals fired up by pouring large quantities of gasoline on them, always healthy). Everyone tore into the llama, served with a variety of different potatos which were quite tasty and much more interesting that the simple large white starch-balls we eat in the states. After, the booze flowed even more freely, until after an hour or so the tourists decided it was the wiser part of valor to get the hell out of there, as the now very drunk miners began to get a bit feisty. I suppose when one works in the mines all day and has only the occasional release to help vent some of the pressure of their lives, it isn't surprising that a bit of violence might be in order. So, we all caught a bus back to town, Tyler gushing over the wonderful time he'd had speaking of various subjects such as women, and women, with Carlos.

Sugar

That evening, despite Ty's state, we decided to head out to go to Sucre. Sucre is the official capital of Bolivia, even though all the major governmental functions have since moved to La Paz. Sucre is a very nice city, with a much more agreeable climate (we wore T-shirts and sandals for the first time in Bolivia). We've been told that there are a number of pleasant hikes in the area, but we did none of them. Instead, we used our day and a half in Sucre as a nice rest, eating giant fruit salads in the central market in the morning, and wandering around the streets in the afternoons. All in all, a nice way to relax for a bit, before the next stage in our voyages, which as the next few posts will illustrate, represent a much less pleasant and far more dangerous period in our travels . . .
- posted by Micah @ 12:25 AM