A few weekends ago I attended the USINQUI (local indigenous community organization) annual party. At about 11am, my family and I waited outside our house for about half an hour before hailing an empty pick-up to take us up the road to Javier’s house. Javier is the other shaman in the area aside from my host dad, and their differing techniques as healers seem to have driven a subtle but perceptible divide between the two families. My sisters helped Javier’s wife and daughters hand out round after round of soup—first chicken broth (I got the head, whoopee!), then thick stew with a whole hardboiled egg in each bowl.
I ran into two of my students, who showed me the chickens while we ate our soup.
My sisters were bustling around to feed the hundred or so people that had gathered, and told me afterward that Javier’s wife had been mean to them. This only topped off the night before, when a few of us had showed up to help prep for the party and were given the cold shoulder for a few minutes, then told that everything was already done. We then walked back to my house in the dark since there were no more busses (something I’ve been repeatedly told not to do alone). I was baffled by the whole experience, but back to the party…
After we ate, several of the men formed a circle and started dancing. Many were dressed in wooly chaps and two of them were carrying a long pole on their shoulders with live chickens strung upside down by their feet. I don’t think the chickens were enjoying it too much, but they did make quite a sight, especially when some tried to flap their way up to stand on the pole. The band, playing traditional San Juanito tunes on panflute, charango and kena, was dressed in wild costumes, with wigs and sunglasses.
The dancing was only interrupted once by the local bus trying to pass through on its rounds.
At around 2pm, the party started to mobilize. First went the dancers, then the band, which had now evolved to include a lot of brass instruments and drums, then the crowd. Four of the girls carried fruit baskets on their heads while we walked—I helped carry one for a few minutes and thought my neck was going to snap under the weigh if I wasn’t careful. We were all eating dust from the road, but everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, even the little kids being dragged along by their moms.
We paused at every intersection along the way to do a special dance, then continued on our way to the community of La Banda. There was already a large crowd when we arrived, people from all of the surrounding communities that had already made their trek. Our dancers went to the middle of the big circle and danced for a few minutes to announce our arrival and the turning in of our chickens. There was a lot of community pride involved, and the mood stayed high even when it started raining. At that point, I figured it was a good time to make my exit since I had another party to get to.
The prized roster was held aloft and dancing.
It was still raining an hour later when I arrived at Kent’s house in Rey Loma for his goodbye party. He and his family had cooked a delicious roast chicken and mashed potatoes, and I brought some vegetables to steam. Paul and Kristen and their daughters brought a beautiful cake, and we all ate and chatted happily. We weren’t too sad because the real goodbyes wouldn’t come for another week.
On Sunday, my family and I threw another goodbye party for Kent at my house. Preparations began early, with the purchase and killing of three cuy (guinea pigs). Eating cuy is reserved for special occasions here, I think mainly because of the lengthy preparation involved. For animal lovers and faint of heart, please STOP READING and don’t look at the next few photos.
If you’re interested, first we plucked fur off the throat so the knife could cut cleanly,
bent the head back,
then slit the throat and let the blood drain out.
The cuy didn’t make any noise at all, which surprised me given the circumstances. I was also surprised by my reaction—I had been worried that I would cry, but it all seemed very well-executed and sensible so I felt ok about the whole thing. We were killing an animal to eat, even if it was a cute little furry one that I used to keep as a pet when I was young.
After the deed had been done, we dipped the bodies in boiling water to loosen the fur, then pulled it off in chunks. We held them for a few seconds over open flames to singe off any remaining fur, gutted them (ok, I didn’t participate in that part) then speared them with sticks lengthwise and roasted them over the fire.
MOM START READING AGAIN
While all of these efforts were taking place, Kent had sent me a text message inviting me to eat cuy at his house. Noooo, I thought. This was supposed to be a surprise going-away party, but now I had to make up an excuse about why I couldn’t come over, and try to think of a way to delay the eating of our cuy. I told him to come over to play Frisbee (the pretense for getting him over to our house) whenever he was done eating cuy.
As the hour approached, it started to rain, the cousins got hungry and ate, and my nerves were fried. Nothing was going according to plan. Such is life. When Kent arrived, we had a good time playing Frisbee, then one of the cousins got a bloody nose and we went home. The meal had turned out well, Kent’s suspicions were answered, and we were sent off to Quito with a whole extra cuy and mountain of potatoes. After eating cuy twice in one day, poor Kent just couldn’t eat any more. We searched the whole bus station for a deserving cuy recipient and finally settled on a janitor, who was psyched. Plenty of cuy to go around.
