Culture, Camisetas, and Cuyes

We took a trip this weekend to Cotocachi for more cultural exposure. Some activities included visiting a leather factory, swimming in a waterfall, and listening to live traditional Andean folk music. Friday night we split up and stayed at the houses of some indigeneous Ecuadorians. Some PC trainees stayed down the road from me at the house of one of the members of the folk band. All of the other members came over that night and we jammed together, sharing American and Andean music. I played Phish and the Grateful Dead while they sang in Quechua.

I came away from this party with an interesting cultural perspective. At one point, we got on the topic of the Spanish language, where us Americans had learned to speak, etc. This opened up a discussion about how they despise Spanish. In fact, they speak Quechua between each other and Spanish only when they must communicate with foreigners. It almost pains their tongues. I had never before fully understood the cultural implications of this alien and imposed language on these indigenous members of society.

The central square of Otavalo on Saturdays is allegedly the largest flea market in all of South America. Although I would not have come to that conclusion myself, it was daunting in scope and rich in diversity. Haggle, haggle, haggle. I came away with two camisetas, an Alpaca wool sweater, and a leather sombrero, most sold by the people who made them. Second Sima reference: I got the hat down from $25 to $13.

WARNING/AVISO: The rest of this post may not be suitable for the faint of heart.

Guinea pigs are surprisingly hard to catch. After 45 minutes of chasing them around the pen this morning, Mama Iness and I decided that eight would be enough. My first guinea pig or cuy (pronounced coo-ee) experience proved a test of the nerves for the next two years of my assignment in Integrated Farming and Animal Production.

When I woke up and asked what our Sunday activity would be, my madre said she would be preparing cuyes for lunch tomorrow. When asked if I could help, she replied it was something only the women do. My thoughts: 1) I don´t care, and 2) The women here are badass.

Once caught, we set a big pot of water over a wood fire. When she (remember Iness has 82 years) bent the head into the chest and proceeded to break the neck, my stomach wretched. I almost walked out of the smoky room to escape the reality of my situation. Instead, I found that my decision to enjoy meat on my dinner plate on a regular basis could only be justified if I was willing to look death in the face. In short, I broke the necks(a sound so similar to the cracking of knuckles that a knuckle crack in Ecuador is actually called a cuy), removed the eyes, skinned the hair with boiling water, removed intestines, and set to dry for the kitchen tomorrow. Comfort zone = expanded enough for today.