We walked along a narrow dirt path that led to the cemetery just outside the village. More accurately, he walked and I stumbled, as I still felt the beneficent effects of my pitcher and a half of chicha. The burial ground was at the base of one of the smaller cliffs that shot up behind the village. Within a high, cracking adobe wall, crude blocks of plaster marked the rounded mounds that covered the bodies of the poor members of the community. The wealthier ones were placed in a miniature mausoleum, made of adobe, to the rear of the burial ground.

Now, as the cemetery took on a gloomy look in the late afternoon shadows, a group of 30 or 40 campesinos stood with vacant, indifferent faces around the wooden coffin. El padre, without talking to anyone, went directly up to the coffin and began reading prayers in Spanish, the words pronounced in a slow and measured tone. I stood about 10 yards away, on the lip of the freshly-dug grave, feeling as though at any moment I might just tumble in. I had to conjure up all of my will power to keep from bursting out in a wicked laugh at this scene that in my condition seemed so ridiculous.

Here was the man from Yankee Stadium, dressed in a solid black robe that looked so incongruously effeminate on his ponderous frame. His face seemed lonely without the company of a cigar. Here was this white norteamericano perfunctorily reading prayers in Spanish that probably none of these impoverished peasants could understand. What was more, four or five of the deceased's friends were smoking cigarettes. They had an almost compulsive look on their wind-burnt faces as they held the cigarettes up to their mouths and inhaled frantically, like teenagers trying to get the most out of each drag. Dark brooding clouds sat on the hulking cliffs above, as if God had resigned himself to the fact that as a matter of course it was necessary to provide a funereal sky for this funeral.

The padre then read the prayers in Quechua, his voice betraying his lack of familiarity with the language. After finishing he began to walk toward the gate of the cemetery. "Aren't we even going to wait until the body's buried?" I asked him almost gleefully. I had never seen a burial. No, he answered, it was time for dinner. By now there was a noticeable buzz in my head. We set back for the church, so that the padre could get rid of his vestment.

But just outside the gate of the cemetery, we were met by a couple of campesinos, one of whom carried a heavy earthen jug on his back. "Ah, padre, padre, un vaso, por favor." Father, father, one glass, please, they said excitedly as they pressed around the priest. I began to understand what was going on, and so I tried to move off to the side, where I hoped I would not be noticed. Padre Ray had little choice. The campesino with the urn, his face dirty from the day's sweat, eagerly swung the container off his back and took from his pocket a small cup, on which he blew to remove any dust that may have accumulated, and then dipped it into the urn. It was chicha. The padre took the glass and downed the chicha in a gulp. The taste of the liquor in my mouth turned my stomach, but there was no escaping it. El amigo del padre has to join in too if he did not want to be rude. So I took the glass, spilled a little out in the customary Quechua gesture of thanks to Pachamamma, or Mother Earth, closed my eyes, and drank. "Que bueno!" How good! I said through my teeth as I handed the cup back to the peasant.

Now I had to eat dinner, while, at the same time, pretending to the padre that I could still talk rationally. I don't remember which was more difficult. In any case, I do remember that with each mouthful of grilled meat, salty potatoes, and watery corn, I experienced what the Bolivians call una revolucion del estomago. The weak electric light that hung above us cast a pale glow on the oily table where we ate. Ray was reserved as usual, so I was unable to determine if he was aware of the depths to which I was rapidly plunging. After he had finished his bottle of beer, we got up and walked out into the street. El padre walked ahead, with his firm resolute step, and there I was, bringing up the rear, unable for the first time in my life to walk a straight line. Fortunately it was pitch black, so that Padre Ray was unable to see me swaying behind him. Once inside Ray's quarters I immediately went into my room and got into bed.

All through that miserable night I saw on the ceiling plump Indian women pouring chicha into small plastic glasses.

This is the second in a series of articles on Bolivia. The third and final part will appear a week from today.