Toma mas?

If you're ever in the campo and you hear this question, you'll realize that it is less of a question and more of a statement preparing you for more beer to be poured into your glass. On sunday I attended the anniversary party of the tiny village of Paisaje (yes the same one we went to last wednesday for the garden project, as well as one of the towns featured in the garden projects album on the Etta Projects facebook page). Like all parties that I have attended before, where I was not the driver, it is quite customary to have a few drinks before hand. You never want to show up to a party and be that nervous anti-social guy who heads straight for the bar. We sat down at a table with roughly 15 other people and the "toma"ing commenced. I walked up and introduced myself (hadn't met any of these people before) to a group of older gentlemen sitting at one end of the table. I was immediately served. These were some salt of the earth old-timers. I didn't hear the story of their lives, but rather the developing story of their life, and the fear they had towards structural changes that deviated from their way of life. All in all, I was locked in a rather serious conversation for the first 45 minutes of this party with gentlemen whom I'd never met, whose names I do not know, in a language where I can only hope to grasp the meaning of words, and worst of all I was instructed to wear jeans! I hate pants in humid weather. I'm from the pacific northwest, we don't do well in non-temperate climates. But yet, I acclimatized! AFter that first 45 minutes that I saw as my initiation into the group around the table, we partied. Before I'd even turn around my glass was always full, and you can not refuse a "toma mas". The night progressed and the sports court was cleared of dancing people, and soccer playing children, and they had their pageant, La Reina de Paisaje. Such a great time. These young woman would walk around waving and smiling at all the people surrounding the patio and when they would get to the particular area where their family would be seated, their drunken fathers, brothers, cousins, grandfathers, uncles, you name it, would run up and lay their shirt down on the ground so the lady wouldn't get her heels dirty. Amazingly enough, the young woman from our group won, and with much hooplah and felicidades meant that yes "TOMA MAS". And we continued to Toma Mas until I was ushered back to the car. I must say, if you ever have the opportunity to attend a function thrown by a village, where the majority live in mud huts, go. Because most likely they will throw down, and throw down tough.

That being said, I feel my days of toma mas are coming to and end here in bolivia. I've acclimatized and it's not longer so, hot hot hot. I've started excercising to work off the milonaiza (fried chicken/steak), the pique macho (cooked steak with peppers and chorizo served on a bed of french fries), the salteñas (chicken or carne picante with potato and vegetables baked inside a slightly sweet crust) or any of the other incredibly fattening foods that have the oh so wonderful MSG. And for all of you wondering, the three mile run in 95 degree weather is a pain in the ass (actually the quads because there are no hills in this part of the country). Work is steady, and my spanish is improving...who could ask for anything more.