Day of the Dead (it's not what you think)

Here’s what died in my house the other day: a goat, two chickens, several birds (pretty parrots, because apparently they eat the corn) and my desire to eat meat, or eat at all, really.

My host dad arrived home in his old jeep that he says is as old as him and he’s not joking. The floor is thin, at best, and in places missing altogether. It starts about every other time he wants to go somewhere. He doesn’t get frustrated. “I like old things,” he jokes. “My wife, for instance.”

So the old jeep comes careening into the driveway probably shedding parts along the way. Out steps Don Yonny and then his son, Orlando, who lives and studies in Camiri. Orlando is on the handsome side of things with a dazzling white smile, a rarity in Bolivia where the excess of sugar rots your teeth and chewing coca leaves makes them all fall out.

However, I’m a little disturbed by the tied-up bleating animal he yanks out of the trunk. They let it flop around for a while and watch them sharpen knives. A nephew arrives to join in the fun. My host mom insists I go watch, and I go out of curiosity, and to make sure Leona is in not involved.

Stop reading here if you want. I don’t blame you.

First the nephew drives some sort of stake into its neck, and the goat is flailing but not dying. They argue a bit over the best way to kill a goat and who’s better at killing goats, meanwhile the goat is flopping around in the dirt in a total panic. Even Leona crawls into my lap and averts her eyes. Orlando takes charge, slits the throat and blood pours out into a pot ‘for the dogs’. Ahem. Except for my dog. She eats Purina puppy chow.

They string the thing up by its legs and Orlando actually manages to skin it without getting a speck on his decidedly non-farmer clothes. I am impressed but have already decided this man is entirely too manly for me. Later the innards appear in a bowl. Turns out we eat those. And the head complete with eyes and skull. Ahem. Except for me. I have a new stove in my room and one last precious box of Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese.



The thing is, I really respect the way Bolivians do not waste food. They raise their own animals without hormones or chemicals. They kill what they need to survive and use every part of it. Anytime someone kills an animal in the community, others purchase portions for their families so nothing goes bad, either. Local gossip includes who has the meat today, and whether we’re buying portions to cook or plates of ready-made lunch.



There is always more demand than supply. Prices are relatively stagnant and those who cannot pay are occasionally invited, for example, we have a lady who comes once a week to do dishes and laundry and clean. She has lunch with us.

Regardless, I can’t bring myself to even take a bite of goat face. And much later, when I find Leona in her newly purchased dog bed nestled in with what remains of the skull, I’m thoroughly mortified. That same afternoon Doña Vicky saunters in with two live, squawking chickens by the legs, one in each hand. I raise my eyebrows. She shakes her head and smiles. Guess we’re having chicken tomorrow.