Just another weekend.

On Tuesday I was burning alive with some sort of delirious fever likely related to something stupid that I ate and linked to getting caught in the cold Quito rain without a jacket. Still on the mend from that experience, I went to Cuenca again this weekend for their carnival. Straight from the airport to the fair ground. You know those dodgy fall fair rides that go from town to town in Southern Ontario in October? Who knew that they would make it as far as rural Ecuador? These things are sketchy enough in northern countries where mechanics and safety standards abound, never mind rural Ecuador. And rural Ecuadorian Carneys make the Canadian group look like members of parliament. Bearing all this is mind; I wasn’t all that keen on going on “The Zipper,” some vomit comet contraption of a ride, but Rolando already bought the ticket. In I go. Turns out it wasn’t all that bad. Pretty fun actually, and the power outage happened after I got off, so no worries there.

Later that night we went for some cheeseburgers (sketchier than eating maggots in this country, but whom I to argue?) and went dancing at a local bar. Turns out that drinks are free in this place, as long as your drinking this sketchy orange drink mixed with locally made vodka. Not bad, actually, and it will get you up on top of the bar dancing.

The Next night:

In the MTV show Jackass they would open up every skit with a guy saying, “Hi I’m Johnny Knoxville,” and then they would announce the stunt that they were going to pull, pull the stunt and get all banged up or embarrassed. On Saturday night, while sitting down at the family dinner table I heard in my ear, clear as day, “Hi, I’m Johnny Knoxville, and this is the Latin American Family Dinner.”

Georgina and Gaby invited me to their parents place for dinner. It was me in amongst about 25 uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents and others. “We have a beef leg.” Some one said. An entire beef leg? Jeeze for lunch we devoured the better half of a pig. My god, people, how is it possible that there is hunger in this country? Beef leg soup for everyone, and then a heaping plate of chicken with rice, potatoes and everything else. The old man pours me a whisky (again made just down the street). Being polite I throw it back. Another is right there by the time my glass hits the table. Apparently drinking these slow is an insult. An entire jar gets filled with whisky and gassed water, and it’s going between me and the old man.

Bursting from a heaping lunch, a heaping dinner and now drinking whisky “mano a mano,” this is what I’m up against. The aunts are asking me about what I’m doing in Ecuador and immigration policy to Canada. The uncles are advising me to never marry, but are making a good effort to point out how beautiful some of the single nieces are. And the old man is keeping a good pace on the whisky. Eventually we get on to ripping into the U.S., and at this point half the jar of whisky winding down. Not sure how much more I could take, I need an exit strategy. Fortunately, the old man falls asleep in his chair….the whisky jar remains un-refilled.

The next day I head off to the Amazon. On the first bus there are no drunken singers, but some guy, I’m sure, took a dirt in his pants. My poor nose. I switch buses in Loja and keep going to Zamora. There are two girls in my seat (about 8 and 12 years), and their mother next to them. There must be a mistake, I think. But no. This woman only bought one seat for three people. Two girls on her lap turns out to be more like a girl on me and another on her mom. I’d give her another $2.50 to help spread us out, but the bus is already stuffed full. A BBQ’d chicken arrives. These people are family of the people across the isle, and they’re sharing lunch. The bus is jammed full, so I’m going nowhere. Buried under children, luggage, chicken, BBQ sauce and French fries, I’m here for two hours on this winding road. People are standing in the isle next to me, and while this chicken is well dead, I’m sure that there is a live one in the back somewhere. And for entertainment there is a lanky Brit sitting on the armrest of the chair in front of me groping his little brown lover. Good grief. These people need a room. Maybe the bus driver can stop for a bucket of cold water. If the winding road and chicken grease aren’t enough to make you nauseous, Romeo and Juliet will get you there.
Finally I arrive in Zamora to meet, yet another unemployed doctor. She worked in the local hospital for a year, but they let her go. There’s no work. Look at all of these empty beds, there’s no demand for you. We talk for a bit, and then I go back to my broiling hotel room for the night. The power cuts off at 11:30pm, and I roast with no fan until 7:30am.

Just another weekend in Latin America.