Easter in Bolivia

It is holidays, I think, that bring out the distinctions on our cultures.

I can picture the US this week, giant bunnies everywhere run amok. Children comparing the relative merits of hollow chocolate rabbits vs. solid ones (Is there really a contest on that point?), and green jellybeans vs. yellow ones. What drove me whacko as a kid was that my older sister used to actually hoard her chocolate rabbit in the back of the fridge, until maybe Thanksgiving. Really, there ought to be a law saying that the rabbit passes to your brother if it isn’t gone by May.

But I digress.

In Bolivia Easter looks a little different. First, the big event here is not Easter it is Good Friday. Among Christians in this part of the world the event is the crucifixion, not the comeback. You can see this as well in the images of Jesus on the cross in the north vs. the south. Crucifixes here are all blood and gore, the stuff of a Mel Gibson movie. My theologian friends would say that in Latin America, a suffering people identify with a suffering deity.

Last night here in Cochabamba was a time of visiting churches and making midnight pilgrimages into the mountains. Tradition here is to visit twelve churches on that Thursday night before Good Friday, and the Catholic churches of the city are adorned with elaborate altars, singing nuns, packed pews, and a heavy dose of candied apples for sale outside. Thousands are on parade walking from one church to another.

The pilgrimages, of mostly young people, involve leaving home at around 11pm and heading to a high spot in the mountains to see the sunrise. My 17 year-old son Miguel set out last night (he’s a Catholic, I’m not) with his friends, armed with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. In reality, I think it is more about an excuse to stay out with your friends at night, but whatever, he got some good exercise.

Good Friday is also a holiday here. Offices, schools and life in general are shut down. That’s good, Bolivia can use a break right now.

As usual we will throw a little Gringo tradition into the mix. This afternoon a mass of Bolivian friends is coming over to participate in a spectacle that I know they consider to be really, truly odd. We are going to take some chicken eggs, boil them in water, and then color them in little cups. What are these gringos thinking? Do they really like to eat hard-boiled eggs? Do they only like to eat them if the shell is dyed purple? Does it change the flavor?

In Bolivia it’s not hard-boiled eggs that mark the holiday. The special plates here involve pumpkin and potatoes. Che Guevara once said that the first sign of homesickness is missing the food. Don’t worry about us though, they are selling chocolate eggs on the street here too.