Last week was Easter. And when I say last week, I don’t mean last Sunday – I mean last week. Any you who’ve had the pleasure of staying in Latin America during the early spring have probably gotten to experience Semana Santa - Holy Week. Lunes Santo, Martes Santo, Miercoles Santo, Jueves Santo… all the way on up to Sunday. Here in Paraguay though, they do it a bit differently, (imagine that). They still call it Semana Santa, and Lunes Santo, etc, but nothing really happens ‘til Wednesday and nothing holy ‘til well, well we’ll get to that in a minute. Wednesday is when the chipa the making begins.

A small aside about the wonder/complication that is chipa (pronounced cheep-a) and it’s ubiquitous role in Paraguayan culture:

Chipa – like any Paraguayan food worth the pound of salt that’s in it – is made from a combination of corn (and corn flour/meal), mandioca (flour made from mandioca that is. Cassava is what I think mandioca goes by in our parts), salt, Paraguayan cheese, egg, milk, and strangely enough anise. Oh, and gratuitous amounts of grassa, or as you know it – pig fat. Yummy. Chipa comes in various forms: almidon, guazu, so’o, etc. That’s not really important now though. The real deal, your standard issue chipa is made from all the good stuff above, mixed into a doughy-like consistency, and formed into various shapes: twists, bagels-like rings, little football looking like things (or maybe they’re supposed to be loaves?), little teats (I guess that would be the most appropriate word) or occasionally just little sticks (although that’s pretty lazy). The “bagel-ring” is the standard. These are then laid on banana leaves (to prevent sticking – genius!) and placed in the tatakua (brick oven, igloo shaped. Basically the same thing as a brick-oven pizza would be cooked in. In fact a brick-oven pizza would be delicious in it, but it’s primary existence is for the cooking of the chipa – which is nowhere close to as delicious as brick-oven pizza).

Chipa, is your garden variety special occasion food. It is loved and adored by all. And therefore it would seem, highly coveted. Realizing my experience with this could be unique, I consulted a few others and it seems I’m not alone. On several occasions surrounding chipa preparation, I (and others; Americans mind you) have experienced a practice I’ve come to regard as “chipa stin-g” (as in stingy). Massive amounts of chipa are prepared (and eaten during the preparation) and then only one or two pieces are offered afterward, most often once it has cooled – and it doesn’t take a Johnson & Wales degree to figure that those ingredients don’t cool well. The substance quickly becomes downright squeaky to eat, just before a plaster-like state sets in. This lack of generosity with a food item – particularly for such a national treasure of a food – is highly out of character for Paraguayans. They love to offer food. Lots of it. (Something I find myself becoming more and more grateful of each day). But chipa seems to be the exception. It seems it is never offered en masse. Unless in the guazu form – then there is no escape from the amount of pig fat you will need to consume.

The result of this all, is that to be offered chipa, to possess chipa, to gift chipa, or to allude to the promise of preparing chipa, is akin to wielding some sort of power here in Paraguay. Chipa is king here – and Semana Santa is his thrown.

So, Holy Wednesday, the chipa making beings in earnest. It is prepared all day. In amounts resembling boosts in wartime production of arms. It piles up. And up. And up. Then Holy Thursday rolls around. Holy Thursday I’ve recently been informed is (supposedly) the day of the Last Supper. More on that in minute. Seeing as though supper in Paraguay is a small meal at best, usually more of a large snack, this final feast is celebrated at the lunch hour. Fresh pig grilled. Chicken too, if you’re lucky. You eat ‘til you can’t eat any more. Then you drink. Holy Friday (aka, Good Friday) then shows up. And with it all that chipa. Chipa that’s a good 36 hours old by the time you wake up. They take the whole “no meat on Friday” thing to another level on Viernes Santo and go with a full on fast – with a Paraguayan twist. The only thing you’ll be eating today is chipa and milk. The milk will be fresh, the chipa, pushing two days old. Yum. The rules of chipa coveting are now suspended. It is now practically (and often literary) thrown at you everywhere you go. Anywhere you visit you will be leaving with a bag of chipa (old, squeaky chipa). It is not long before your kitchen – one you have tried so hard to remove any hint of Paraguayan-ness is filled with chipa. And you don’t even have one of those brick oven things! Seemingly inedible and useless, innovation strikes. Two words: dog biscuits. The shape, size, consistency – it’s all perfect.

Holy Friday also comes with the tradition of heading to the cemetery in the morning to visit and “clean up” the mausoleums (above ground is the standard here) of each family. I was invited by a family I know to go on the trek – so I “would know where it is”. I politely declined, seeing as though my loved ones are interned elsewhere.  By the time Holy Saturday arrives it’s like “okay, enough”. And then it’s Easter. As any bad catholic masquerading to be a good catholic would do, I asked all week if there would be a mass on Sunday. My main interest in this being that the church is my nearest neighbor – close enough that I could hit with a load of bread. Or a stale piece of chipa. No, no, no, was all heard each time I asked. Just at the ruta – 5 km away. So I enjoyed the holiday and slept in. I awoke at 8:30 and as  I brushed my teeth I unlocked the front door and opened my side window (it’s a good 4’ tall). The hinges creaked as the wooden window swung open. And with it swung the heads of half the congregation out the church window, looking at me, in boxers and tee shirt with Crest Multicare foaming from my mouth. Happy Easter.

Now, a point from earlier. Granted, it can be pointed out that technically I did not complete my catechism as young adult. However, I’m amazed this hasn’t come up before. Holy Thursday is the Last Supper. Christ dies at 3 pm on Friday. Sunday (Easter) he rises again. Maybe I need to buy a bootlegged copy of The Passion of the Christ, but I distinctly remember there being quite a bit of mention of “three days and rising again”. Friday at three to Sunday at three is only two – Even here.

Just noticing again how Catholicism has a nifty way of making events work out to its own traditions – including a holy week that sets aside a mere hour for holiness.

But maybe I’ve just eaten too much chipa.

kb

(written previously)