A World Built on Awkwardness and the Art of Embracing Flaws

I have just concluded several days of observation among the Muisca people, whose society diverges from my familiar timeline in a most peculiar way: their rites of passage center not on the triumph over external challenges—such as the grueling physical tests or elaborate ceremonies one often finds—but rather on what I can only describe as "achieving peak awkwardness."

Yes, dear journal, you read that correctly. In this timeline, Muisca society hinges entirely on a cultural belief that *true adulthood is attained when one fully confronts and embraces their own capacity for embarrassment*. It is referred to, quite poetically, as "la gran torpeza," or "the great clumsiness." This ethos appears not only to influence their rites of passage but also, fascinatingly, their art, politics, and even trade relations.

The tradition begins in late adolescence, around 16 by our reckoning, when every individual must participate in an event called the "Danza de la Incomodidad" (Dance of Discomfort). They are dressed in deliberately mismatched garments (imagine bright feathers clashing with clunky, mud-adorned sandals, quite literally a fashion disaster) and tasked with performing an improvisational, stumbling jig in front of the entire village—eyes wide, limbs flailing, and rhythm optional. The goal is precise: to butcher the act spectacularly, leaving space for no feasible recovery, while their peers jeer mercilessly yet with apparent affection. Only when a participant transcends the searing mortification and completes the dance without fleeing, crying, or clinging to dignity do they emerge as an "adult"—at least, in the eyes of society.

There was something almost therapeutic about watching this ritual unfold. Humbling, yes, but also unifying. The adults, once inducted themselves, recall their own comedic calamities (and failures) with surprising pride, forming a collective identity steeped in shared vulnerabilities. In other words, society here doesn’t just tolerate awkwardness—it venerates it as a vital tool for breaking illusions of self-importance. Personally, I can’t help but find it refreshing given how Social Media Timeline #7029 (my other recent stop) encourages people to curate entire lives free of imperfection.

It all sounds harmless—endearing, even—until you witness how deeply this culture's "awareness of awkwardness" has seeped into every facet of their daily lives. For instance, negotiations over precious salt (their chief commodity) are riddled with excruciating rituals of staged mishaps. Two traders will purposefully drop gourds, interrupt each other, or burst into simultaneous, overlapping apologies before concluding anything productive. The logic, I gathered, is that anyone unwilling to look foolish cannot properly be trusted in business—because they’ve clearly been practicing deceit. It’s maddeningly slow, though strangely effective. My interpreter assures me that trade disputes are exceedingly rare in this world since everyone’s too busy laughing at themselves to hold grudges.

Political life, meanwhile, is a masterpiece of secondhand discomfort. Leaders aren't chosen based on charisma or military prowess but through an annual "Festival of Flubs," where candidates must deliver intentionally terrible speeches peppered with stutters, mispronunciations, and long, agonizing pauses. The crowd cheers most enthusiastically for the least polished orators, believing the most transparently flawed leader will rule with honesty. Watching one provincial governor accidentally refer to cacao as "cow saliva" during a debate (to thunderous applause, no less) was, I confess, one of the most surreal moments of my career.

Still, there are cracks in the system. Not everyone embraces discomfort willingly. I’ve observed a shadowy underground of perfectionists—outlaws, really—who train themselves to avoid the "great clumsiness" entirely. They speak fluently, move gracefully, and dress too well, which ironically makes them social pariahs. I hear whispers that some have fled to the uncontacted tribes beyond the mountains, desperate to live among cultures not obsessed with public humiliation. They call themselves “Los Pulcros” (The Pristine). The irony is palpable.

As I prepare to leave, I find myself wondering about the implications of this tradition. On one hand, perhaps this timeline’s Muisca society has achieved something enviable—a collective immunity to the fear of looking foolish. On the other, it’s impossible to ignore the inefficiencies introduced when society revolves around tripping over itself to achieve self-acceptance. Could such a culture ever produce a conqueror? An empire? A legacy of pure dominance? Unlikely.

And yet, perhaps that’s the point. The Muisca here are unapologetically human, stumbling their way through history with a peculiar earnestness not unlike the rest of us. By leaning into their flaws rather than burying them, they've created a world less fixated on impossible ideals—and more forgiving because of it.