Day 85 The Fiesta

Saturday 1 Nov 2008: The Fiesta

We attend a fiesta and all the staff of the colegio was invited by the school’s accountant who is part owner of a restaurant called, “El Plato Criollo (The Creole Plate or dish).” Teri tells me it is located on our side of the river on Av Grau. “Av Grau is downtown,” I say to her and she tells me that she recently learned that our side of the river is a different town called, Castilla; it is not Piura. Miraflores is not actually in Piura, but in Castilla, and that’s why all the street names change at the river and that is why completely different streets can have the same names. It’s amazing, I think, what I’m NOT going to know about this place after another 280 days here.

The ticket to the party, which Teri paid nine soles each for food and drink, says 1:00 so we arrive at 1:30 and are greeted by a gregarious woman, the accountant/owner, and she tells us enthusiastically that 25 people are coming but right now there’s one other person there. Teri and I glance and smile at each other (we figured we’d be first) as we’re led to a long table, set for 25, against one wall of a 40-foot square space; a teacher Teri does not know well is sitting alone at one end of the table and we sit next to her. There are probably 15 other customers eating and drinking at small tables spread around the space when we arrive. Several of the people appear to be “regulars” based on how they are patting and hugging the hostess, and I can’t help but notice that one table of old guys has a lot of empty beer bottles on their table.

A live trio made up of an electronic keyboardist, lead singer, and backup singer is doing a sound check and it is loud. In Piura every place where music is playing it is playing loudly; even the sound check makes it hard to talk without shouting. In a few minutes when they start playing and singing it is deafening; I mean, the sound level is just short of pain threshold—in order for Teri to hear my words I put my mouth a few inches from her ear and shout, “This is probably damaging our ears!” She nods and shrugs. A waitress brings us a large bottle of beer and three glasses. People straggle in by ones and twos over the next hour and a half while our ears are assaulted; several different teachers, after arriving, ask the hostess to ask the trio to turn down the volume and she nods at them, but then doesn’t do it. I think the hostess may already be tipsy because at one point she saunters over to our table and says while looking right at me that she has been dreaming about being asked to dance by a big strong gringo. After Teri laughs and translates, I’m tongue-tied, so I shrug my shoulders and pour myself more beer.

By 3:00 there are about 15 of us seated so we’re served cabrito with beans, rice, and yucca. The cabrito is cooked medium-rare and I’m surprised at how tender, sweet, and delicious it is—like lamb. Yobani tends to overcook meat—we decide, between savored bites of rare cabrito, that Teri will have to have a chat with her about being more fuel-efficient at the stove.

By 4:00 almost all the teachers are there and the fiesta really begins. Beer has been flowing for three hours and is still flowing, people are dancing, and many of the regulars are soused; they’re clapping and singing loudly along with the music; one grizzled old dude wearing a shabby baseball cap takes the mike and makes up for his poor singing with lots of shtick. I’m having fun playing the observer and I happen to notice that all eight of the men teachers and the husbands of the woman teachers are now standing in a circle outside the restaurant on the sidewalk and they seem to be passing a bottle—I’m the only man left at the table. Teri taps me on the shoulder and points outside; Marlon, one of the men teachers, is waving at us and, after much gesticulating on our part, we determine that he’s asking for me to join him—I tell Teri I don’t really want anymore beer so I wave back at Marlon and shake my head. In a few minutes he’s motioning again for me to join him. Finally Teri convinces me that I’m being rude and that I should go on out there and be one of the ‘guys’ on the sidewalk.

When I get outside Marlon, who speaks a little English, tells me that they’re sharing beer and I see that they have one glass and a large bottle of beer and they’re passing them both around the circle. So they pass the bottle and glass to the guy on my right named Pepe and he pours and drinks and passes them to me. I pour and I drink and pass them to Marlon on my left and Marlon leans close to me and says, “Pepe is, how do you say, gay?” and smiles at me. I look around and all the guys are smiling at me. I shrug and say, “Es no problema por mi,” and they all crack up. In a moment Marlon says lets go inside now, and I suppose that their little joke has broken the ice and I’m one of the guys now, so it’s time to get to the serious drinking.

The eight of us guys crowd around a small table away from the gals and suddenly there are several big bottles of beer on the table and my glass is filled each time I empty it. Wahoo! Let’s get blasted! The music doesn’t seem so loud anymore. The hostess shakes her booty over to me and grabs me by the hand and the next thing I know I’m shaking my booty and a few gals nod and smile at me as I dance. When the song is over I sashay over to Teri and ask her to dance and we’re having a fine old time when I notice a teenage kid and his father sitting at a table and the kid is pointing and laughing at us—I wink at the kid and keep shaking my booty! I whisper in Teri’s ear as we’re leaving the floor, “How can we get out of here?” and she says, “We can just go.”

We say our good byes to the guys table where I leave eight soles for beer, we wave good byes to the gals table on our way out the door, and the fresh air feels good when we get outside. We walk home and that feels good too, and I ask her, “I wonder if we’re closer to being deaf?” Don’t worry—Teri didn’t miss her punch-line—not with a straight-line like that one.