Partying. San Mateo Style

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A couple of days ago, we decided that we had been drinking too much tea, and too little kusha (the local corn based alcohol). It was time for a fiesta. We decided to invite over all the teachers and everyone else in town that never “!Gringo!”-ed when we walked by. It would be epic. I spent half the afternoon deciding what I would wear, finally deciding on my finest non-skimpy shirt, a pair of freshly washed jeans, and even a bit of makeup (yes you heard that right).

We had invited the teachers over at 7. They came at 6 (does siete means 6 in Chuj?) Because of their premature arrival, we hadn’t yet bought the alcohol, so we decided to make it a group excursion. While leaving the house, I realized that I hadn’t seen this Kusha-stuff sold in any stores. Moreover, all the stores in San Mateo closed at about 5pm. I figured that the “Kusheria” was somewhere in the boonies of this boony town, and that we were in for a nighttime trek.

This trek lasted about 15 seconds. One of the teachers, Profé Andres knocked on the door of the shack two houses down from our apartment? Andres and the wrinkly elder that answered the door had a long conversation that eventually ended with the exchange of a 1 liter bottle of clear liquid for 16 quetzales (about $2). I was impressed. The others were not. “That’s it?”

“That’s all they had,” Andres explained, so we continued up the hill. 20 feet later, Andres knocked on another hut, and this time managed to buy a gallon jug of the stuff. As we walked the 50ft back to my house, I asked teacher-Diego why there we had two Kusherias right next to our house

“We’re in the Kusha slum. Didn’t you know?”
No. Yet this helped to explain the Kusha-man phenomenon. Every day from about 6am on, crowds of sweaty faced men were always sloshing around the neighborhood. These lovely fellows were all too drunk even to yell “¡Gringo!”; and preferred to stumble after us with outstretched arms mumbling something in Chuj that sounded sexual. There’s a word in French, “minable” which roughly translates into acutely pathetic. A couple of months from now, once I know more words in Chuj than just goodbye and table, I’m sure to find an adjective that makes “minable” seem like a compliment.

Sadly, by about 8pm, each of the teachers looked about a pathetic as the Kusha-men. I’ve never seen such debauchery, not even at those nasty frat-parties I was dragged to my freshman year. The second we got back to our apartment with the colossus of Kusha, the teachers pour themselves a pint of the stuff. By the time I had a glass in front of me, they each had chugged the entire thing. I figured that Kusha must be a sissy drink; perhaps with the alcohol content of a wine cooler. Then I poured myself a bit, and holy crap my mouth entered the pits of hell. Oh my god, was it 10,000 proof? I poured out 90% of my glass, filled the rest with mango juice, then slowly sipped away. By the time I had finished my glass, the teacher’s faces were dripping, and two of them had forgotten how to speak Spanish. They rushed out the door before they could further embarrass themselves, and we Gringas were left to sulk over a bathtub full of corn-poison.

How disappointing was that! Our legendary party had been void of dancing, void of discussion, and worst of all, it had ended at 8:30 pm! We’d just have to have another party next week, us new teachers decided. The veterans shook their heads. All “parties” in San Mateo are like this. That’s how they do it here: the men drink themselves sick in an hour, then stagger home to nurse tomorrow’s hangover. Oh dear home with your wine and dance parties, how I miss thee! One thing’s for sure. At least these party nights leave me ample time to lament about them on the page.

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