A Fermented Surprise

A town festival celebrating Jesus. "Senor de los Milagros." Everyone gathers. Evening, at the town square. People, many people. Celebration, Music, Band, Dance. We find a spot in the front. Sitting, watching the stage as performers display their talents. Applauding and cheers. "That one was good, the next one is even better," they say. "Here they come--watch." I watch. Small children enter the stage. Dressed like Incans, face paint, no shoes, Indian feathers in their headband. "Aren't they cute?" Milene says. "Yes, cute, very cute." Music cues. They start to dance. The music propels them onward. Faster, faster, faster. In circles, in lines, in formations. They're good. But wait, what's this? The group leader comes forth from the dancing circle. He carries a big clay pot. Thrusts it upwards so that all may see. Whispers start. "What's that?" "What's in there?" I don't know. He puts it down. The other dancers come forth. Jugs. They all have clay jugs. They dip them. Inside the pot. Liquid, they fill the jugs with liquid from the pot. Silence. Here they come. Into the crowd to offer their liquid. "Not me, please not me." I don't want to be chosen. But I am the gringo. I can't hide. Here one comes. A smiling face. An offer to share. Arm outstretched, jug in hand. Pause. I pause. Think: to drink or not to drink? A quick glance at Milene. Nothing. Neither approval nor denial. She is of no help. People are watching. The whole town is watching. "What will the gringo do?" Pressure, I feel pressure. It's too great. My arm moves instinctively, I cannot stop it. I take the jug. Pause. I've gone this far. Might as well. Quickly, sip and gulp. Nasty, ew nasty. Fermented something. Probably fermented corn juice--chicha, they call it. But I did it. Pressure off. Eyes are off me. Others are offered a drink from the dancing children. Satisfied. I did it. Accepted as a member of town. But wait. What's this? The group leader heads back to the big clay pot from which the liquid came. The dancing children circle around. They dance. Faster, and faster. Attention is focused on the pot. The child bends down. Hands extend into the pot. He grabs something inside. Suddenly--he thrusts his arms above his head. Oh no. Underwear. Women's underwear. Giant women's underwear. Giant women's underwear that had been soaking in the fermented liquid for an unspecified time period. He grins. Underwear stretched above him, he parades around, showing the audience, like a WWF title belt. He is proud. Laughter, an eruption of laughter from the crowd. Not me. I do not laugh. After all, I just drank fermented underwear juice.