Here’s an entry taken straight from the Ecuador diaries. Actually, it’s the only entry, so it just is the Ecuador diary. It was written quickly by hand on a rainy morning in a little notebook, and I just re-discovered it the other day. I left it largely as-was:
It’s raining now en el campo. No one seems to be awake or here but me and—I believe her name is Lola. She is probably five or six and adorable, with big black eyes and a thousand questions. My thumb is bruised from some after-dinner volibol with the familia. Two days ago rode back to Cuenca with the padre to visit cousin Marco, who was celebrating Carnaval in style at his American-paid house in the city. He and some of the other men there spoke passable english, having lived in the States for twenty-odd years. Some legal, some illegal. They assured me that my país was, in fact, a land of opportunity. Marco raved about the American justice system—had taken his landlady to court by himself, she with a prominent lawyer, and won. “Because I was innocent,” he declared with a dusting of the hands. “If you are innocent,” he said, “they can’t touch you.” I told him usually yes, but sometimes los inocentes do go to the carcel. The police tried to arrest him in the subway because someone had been stealing jewelry there and he apparently looked foreign enough to be the culprit. “But look,” he told them showing his oil-stained hands, “I am a mechanic. I have a job.” So they apologized and let him go. Another man, bundled tightly in a jacket because of the flu so that only his face showed through a circle of green hood, waited patiently to talk with me in broken English and Spanish. He was very happy to see me here in Ecuador, drinking Zhumir, eating salchichas, and talking Spanish. For my career, he told me, this will be important. He prefers socialism to capitalism, he said, but no matter, no matter, because—and here’s where he makes his point—that doesn’t define us. “What is your name?” he asked. Kyle. “Okay, you are Kyle, see. You are not American or Ecuadorian or capitalist or democratic. You are Kyle. Wherever yo go. You are not nacional, you are mundial. See?”
And then the party moved inside where the Zhumir and Coke continued circulating and the dancing began: Bachata mostly, which only Marcos really knew how to dance. But the padre convinced me to get on my feet anyway (with a lot of help from the Zhumir), and I danced what I knew of salsa, mostly with the older women, while the padre just kind of bobbed around with a big smile. We did that until 3 or so in the morning until I was falling asleep on my feet.
Postscript: Notable things I ate during Carnaval in Ecuador:
The head of a chicken, located in the bottom of my soup. Said the padre, “Que sabrosa, la cabesita..” (how flavorful, the little head…) We’re talking skin, brains, eyes, and that gross wobbly-glove thing on top of the head. Promptly threw up.
Cuye, a.k.a. Guinea Pig. See horrifying picture below:
