Kindness of Strangers

Sunday, March 1, 2009

When we arrived in Ollantaytambo, an ancient village nestled in the Sacred Valley that’s been continuously inhabited since Inca times, we noticed a white station wagon ambling down the road. Its windshield was crusted in flowers, and it left a plume of toilet paper and colorful confetti in its wake. Later that afternoon we stumbled upon the village church, a white adobe beauty with old church bells. As we creeped through the massive front doors we stepped upon a blanket of confetti littering the courtyard. Inside, the pews were lined with fresh flowers that had been affixed to the ends of each aisle, with enough tape to withstand hurricane-force winds. We continued down the cobbled streets, watching in amazement as two men cradled an enormous pot of something. Then we saw the arch of pink and white balloons gracing a crowded doorway. All the signs were there: a wedding reception was in progress.

We curiously ducked our heads in the doorway, and within seconds were greeted by a man with deep pink eyes where the whites should have been. He looked as if was having a very good time. “Is it a wedding?” we asked. “Yes, please, come in, come in,” he encouraged. We looked nervously back and forth between one another, debating as to whether we should continue, but before we had a chance to respond, we were being passed through the crush of villagers to the front of the packed room. Rows of men, women, and children sat shoulder to shoulder on simple benches wearing everyday clothes in the dimly lit reception hall, and by the time we arrived to the clearing in the front of the room, all eyes were on us. Nearly the entire population of Ollantaytambo must have been there. We were officially Peruvian Wedding Crashers.

We found ourselves standing squarely in front of the head table, the bride and groom seated directly before us. I noticed that the couple was older. The bride was wearing a simple white wedding dress, with a veil and confetti sprinkling her coal hair, which was pulled back from her smooth, round, solemn face. Her husband was dressed in a simple navy suit and he sat to her right, looking equally serious. Two more men and women flanked their sides, dressed in casual business attire. What appeared to be the couple’s family sat in benches to the immediate left and right of the head table, and before someone offered us their seats, we ducked into the nearest doorway.

That doorway turned out to be the service entrance, and we watched wait staff clad in jeans and cozy sweaters parade enormous platters of drinks and dreamy pink wafer cookies through the opening. First came the chicha, a classic Peruvian firewater, served in tiny plastic Dixie cups; the servers insisted we each take one, which we happily accepted. A band played in the background, four men dressed a la Jefferson Starship in bright blue, sparkly tops and pants with silver cuffs. They were playing rousing renditions of nouveau Andean music, but the crowd sat completely still, in total silence, never clapping after the songs. It was a very strange paradox.

After a few enthusiastic songs, champagne glasses filled to the brim with agolden chica were served to the head table, and the speeches began. During one of the speeches we learned the couple already had two girls – they must have been the ones running around in frilly white dresses. No one clapped after the speeches. A round of pisco sours were served, and the wait staff coaxed us once again to drink up. I could swear that the groom made direct eye contact with me; I smiled and raised my glass to him. He did the same.

Next came the bouquet toss, and the band called for all the single girls to come to the front of the reception hall. Only one girl, dressed in a pink T-shirt and jeans, reluctantly made her way to the empty circle in front of the head table. The band leader called again for all the single girls, and she was eventually joined by a small clutch of young women. The bride stood with her back to the girls, limply holding the bouquet in her hand. “Uno,” called the band leader, the trill of a drumroll in the background. “Dooooooos,” he said, in his most high-pitched voice. “Dos y media. Trrrrrrrrres!” She didn’t throw the bouquet. It was a psych out bouquet toss that the band leader and the bride had worked out in advance. Nobody laughed. They went through the motions again, and when the bouquet was finally tossed, there was no mad dash and screaming as would have transpired in the United States. Instead, it silently bounced off the girl in the pink shirt and landed at her feet. Everyone stared blankly at it. No one would pick it up, so the band leader staged a redo. The bouquet landed once again at pink shirt’s feet, which she reluctantly picked up and shyly showed to the crowd. Nobody clapped.

The same routine transpired with the single men, but instead of a garter, a sprig of white flowers was thrown; the men were slightly less reluctant than the women. Afterwards, the bride and groom danced with the young man and woman who had caught the bouquet and flowers. It was not unlike something you might see at a junior high school dance. The couples awkwardly shifted to and fro across the dance floor, staring vacantly over the shoulder of one another at some far away point on the ceiling that only they could see, never making eye contact.

After the dancing, frosty Cusquena beers in amber bottles were produced from plastic crates and passed amongst the crowd. Now the head table had a tidy row of chica, pisco sours, and beer placed in front of them. Mr. Jefferson Starship announced something, which caused a group of young women to race towards the wedding cake, a fluffy white thing sitting below an ancient sign framed by two swans which read, Nuestra Boda. Our wedding. It was then that I noticed the decorations, or lack thereof. Some flowers were taped to the walls of the hall within an inch of their life (clearly, whoever was responsible for the décor at the church had continued their rein here). A few streamers clung to railings. The cake was topped with a western bride and groom, but a golden llama eclipsed the plastic couple in the foreground. There was no photographer. In fact, hardly any of the guests had cameras. This was no Martha Stewart extravaganza. More than anything, it seemed to be a community affair, a gathering of people assembled to wish this newlywed couple well. Everyone was invited. Even us.

To the crowd’s delight, some sort of a string was pulled from the cake. Then, the cake was cut, yielding massive slices for the bride and groom, who promptly proceeded to smear icing all over each other’s faces. Some things are universal. Just then, the now-bulging crowd parted, as four men supporting massive trays that cradled giant bowls snaked their way towards the head table. It was soup: this was what was inside that giant pot that those men had been parading through the streets earlier in the afternoon. Soon, bowls were passed to everyone in the hall, containing the most delicious creamy corn soup I had ever laid eyes upon. Bowls were passed to us, but we politely declined. The feast was just beginning, and we couldn’t impose any longer.

As we pushed our way back through the masses, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible (impossible), we were greeted by our “friend”, his eyes looking more red than ever. He encouraged us to stay, but we thanked him for letting us be a part of this experience, the kindness of strangers never failing to amaze. There is a time in my life, in the not-too-distant past, where going blindly into an experience like this would have completely terrified me. But I found myself saying “yes,” walking happily into the unknown, glad to be invited to be part of something very simple and very sweet.