I have dubbed the month between my last blog post and now "The Month of Crazy," because there are times when life just gets in the way.
Rather than attempt to recount every single bit of crazy that has occurred between the Then and the Now, I'd like to go back to the 17th-19th of February:
Carnaval. Which, coincidentally, was also crazy.
Ah, Carnaval. It is the festival, celebrated in countries around the world, that occurs just before Lent. It is Brazil's most famous holiday, with Rio de Janeiro alone drawing thousands of foreigners. In the States, the closest thing we have to it are the grandiose Mardi Gras celebrations in New Orleans. Here in Ecuador, certain places are noted for their Carnaval celebrations. Residents of coastal towns dance on the beach and spray each other with liberal amounts of foam; the city of Ambato holds a tamer, more "cultured" (so they claim) Festival of Flowers and Fruits. But the most famed festivities in Ecuador are held in the mountain city of Guaranda.
This year, I spent Carnaval in Guaranda.
Perhaps you would like to hear the tale?
It begins with a busride from Guayaquil to Guaranda; pauses briefly when the bus breaks down on the side of the road in a tiny village surrounded by rice fields; and continues when a second bus was sent from Guayaquil to pick us up and complete the journey.
And so I got to Guaranda alive for Carnaval. A bunch of us PCVs stayed the weekend at the home of one of our host families; they were kind enough to let 10 gringoes sack out on the floor of their guest quarters. Our first night there, we all trooped downstairs to meet the host family and pay our respects. After the peremptory round of kisses (Emilia Posteña dictates: When entering a roomful of Ecuadorians, one must greet each and every one with a kiss on the cheek), they sat us around the kitchen table, and Abuelita (that's Grandma) produced with a flourish a water bottle filled with
pájaro azul, a traditional liquor. She began passing out shots and admonishing us to "take our medicine." After she'd administered a couple doses of the stuff, someone decided it was time for bed. We bid the host family goodnight, and they responded with, "See you at 7AM for the pig slaughter!"
The next morning saw us all gathered on the back patio, waiting for the fun to begin. Well, everyone except a few tenderhearted individuals who were less inclined to bear witness to such a bloody event; they went to the Sunday market and bought fruit instead. The yappy family dog was chased out of the patio and the pig, or
chancho, brought in. He was a big, black hairy brute, maybe twice the size of a Labrador retriever. He stood in our midst and surveyed us with apathy, apparently unaware of his impending doom.
Suddenly, and with no visible signal whatsoever, one of the host brothers gave a jerk to the rope tied round the pig's hind leg, flipping the pig on its side as two other brothers rushed in and began trussing its fore- and hind legs. Upon which the pig began emitting a series of long, high-pitched wailing notes that continued unabated throughout the entire subsequent succession of events and until its death.
The host family then called forward Thom (NOTE: Names may have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent), the PCV they had singled out as meritorious of Doing The Honors, and handed him a puny-looking kitchen knife. Thom looked at it askance, took a deep breath and approached the pig. Abuelita, who was crouching by the pig's head, pointed out where the knife should enter (under one of its forelegs) and at what angle. Without further ado, Thom plunged the knife in.
The pig's squeals intensified. We all watched, rapt, to see the effects of Thom's work...but nothing else happened, just the squealing. As an afterthought, Thom nudged the knife in a little further, then pushed it in up to the hilt and wiggled it around for good measure. Still nothing. After what must have been only a minute but what seemed like a very long time indeed, Abuelita removed the knife and plunged it in afresh through the same hole; after all, if Grandma can't do it, who can? Only this time, Grandma couldn't do it. My friend Miguel shook his head grimly. "If they'd pierced the heart it'd be dead by now," he said and walked away.
Minutes ticked by. The host family circled up to discuss the next best course of action. Meanwhile, the pig bled out onto the patio and most of the Peace Corps Volunteers began to lose interest lest they also lose their appetites. Finally--and after two false alarms--the pig was pronounced good and dead.
That's when they brought out the blowtorch.
Q: How long does it take to char a pig?
A: A long time. And after the charring comes the skinning, in which you must take the edge of a knife or other kitchen utensil and scrape off the top, charred layer of skin.
And after the skinning comes the butchering and the gutting. And after the butchering and the gutting comes the cleaning and the cooking.
The host family spent all morning and the better part of the afternoon preparing the chancho, but since this was our one day to
jugar - play - Carnaval, we excused ourselves and headed outside. And here is what we found:
Bands of children roamed the streets, brandishing cans of foam and looking for a fight.
In the central park, a big stage was set up with speakers blaring music. Everyone crowded around
jabas (12-count crates of Pilsener beer) with a cup in one hand and a can of foam in the other, dancing and spraying away to their hearts' content.
Alliances were made.
(And were broken shortly thereafter.)
Vendors braved their way through the crowd to re-stock the weapon supplies of those of us engaged in foam warfare. It was $3 for the bigger cans, but when you're in the throes of battle you'll pay just about anything...
People wearing protective gear became instant targets.
Then again, so did everyone else.
Getting home after our battle energies had waned proved a challenge: rooftop and balcony assailants - usually around the age of 10 - made walking through the streets hazardous as they pelted unwary pedestrians with water balloons. Also vulnerable were passengers riding in the backs of pickup trucks. Trust me. I speak from experience.
But we ran the gauntlet, and when we got back there were hot showers and freshly toasted, crispy-crunchy pig skin to munch on. And that, my friends, is the picture of happiness.
Photos by Ben Niespodziany and Deanna Camell.
