[Note: This took place November 2, 2008.  I'm a little behind.  Also, I'm leaving on a boat cruise into the heart of the jungle, so there might not be any more updates for a month or so]

Cellmate: …and when there was no meat, we ate fowl and when there was no fowl, we ate crawdad and when there was no crawdad to be found, we ate sand.
H.I.: You ate what?
Cellmate: We ate sand.

-From “Raising Arizona”

The Magical Gringo as an eater of sand

Gringos tend to be a spoiled lot, so I’ve done my best not to pitch whiny gringo fits when things are a bit less convenient than 21st century US living might’ve left me accustomed to.

But seriously, Ecuador: What’s with the plantain-and-queso-mash for breakfast every day?  Hell, I dig plantains.  Queso’s just mozzarella’s semi-retarded cousin, and almost as versatile as far as cheeses go.  On their own, they’re a welcome supplement to any food in the “succulent” or even “savory” categories, yet the combination of the two without the kind assistance of any other ingredients is so dry and bland, it’s really about on par with eating a giant ball of wet sand.

Yes, the exciting, home-cooked Sunday brunch in Guayaquil is once again the dense, dry, flavorless plantain/queso mix I had the privilege of knowing, mildly liking and then subsequently hating in Chone.  As a twist, I offered to cook this time under the expert tutelage of Nancy and Monsy, whose stunning company almost makes my my least favorite breakfast food palatable.  I steam up some plantains before using a large, round stone to squash the queso into the still-finger-burning hot starchy mix until a dijon-mustard colored mash with small white specks is ready to be shaped.  With free reign over the choice of shaping the fresh mixture, I opt for balls over patties simply for the infantile comedy fodder.

The starchy denseness proves too much for me, like four meals condensed into something the size of a tennis ball, and I bail with half a ball crumbled sadly on my plate.  If you can look beyond flavor when it comes to food, there really is no better way to get four people completely stuffed for under two bucks.

The Magical Gringo as an Actor

Three bucks gets us into the expansive park — it’s no Six Flags, but has a zoo, performance center, cheap rides and interactive (pettable) livestock.  Pestering the parrots that mark the entrance to the zoo section gets us nowhere and we proceed deeper in, past more varieties of vivid birds, howler monkeys and other bizarrely shaped local land mammals.  It’s no National Zoo, but the hands-on nature and scenic backdrop makes for a nice walk.

Monkeys at the end of the zoo section stop short of hurling feces at us, but glare with a fierceness rarely seen from their North American counterparts.  Hissing while maintaining eye contact, we stay longer than necessary, impossible to escape the draw of being so unintentionally taunting.  The dense, woody section of the zoo opens wide to 19th century style bulidings — the church is authentic, but the empanada stand’s about as valid as fried macaroni on sticks sold at Rennaisance festivals.  Time’s a factor, as the hour-long performance begins every hour on the hour.  We’ve got ten minutes to spare, but when taking in a play in a non-native tongue which I barely grasp enough of to handle talking about where to meet, greet and excrete, I’d rather not be in the nosebleed section.

Ok, fine.  The “nosebleed section” is only five rows back, but it looks to be made from a less comfortable cut of bamboo.

The stage is the front patio of a colonial era farmhouse, lined with a few tables and chairs as props but fairly sparse otherwise.  There’s enough slapstick in the show to keep a gringo like me from pulling my hair in consternation for an hour, but constant laughter at much of the dialogue leaves me feeling a bit left out.  I’d imagine it’s much like how my parents felt watching me do Shakespeare…

The characters are fairly textbook, but played with enough energy and joy that it rarely drags, despite the lack of subtitles.  Basically, three hombres work for a fairly wealthy farmer that, surprisingly enough, has an attractive and available daughter.  Naturally, the youngest of the farmhands is the pauper with the heart of gold that falls for her.  The two others are comic relief, with the tallest of the three getting involved in a comic subplot between the local maid and a black woman with exaggeratedly padded T&A that arrives unexpectedly with a suitcase about twenty minutes in.

With time to spare, the pauper is accepted by the once reluctant father, grasping the glimpse of true love in his daughter’s eyes.  This leaves ample time to the bizarre love triangle formed between the farmhand, the maid and the fake-assed visitor whose direct connection to the farm I never accurately guessed.  For simplicity’s sake, they’ll just be Maid and Visitor henceforth.  What matters is that Visitor doesn’t much care for getting the shaft, figuratively speaking, and she’s about to play some dirty pool.

Music blares from behind the faux shutters over the faux windows from the second story of the faux farmhouse, and Farmhand’s giddily expressive face makes it more than clear what his feelings about the attentions of his dance partners means to him.  Weaving in and out between the two, Maid — the more quiet and forlorn of the women, leaving the comic relief to Visitor, whose ass is, of course, faux — is alternately overjoyed and downtrodden depending on his attentions.  Visitor opts for a more fierce route, clutching him tightly and shooting beams of furious hate at him upon each departure.  Eventually, she opts for the “jealousy as a weapon” route and brings in a new character to enact her revenge upon her less-than-focused suitor.

Me.

It’s got to be a standard part of the show, and the crowd clearly approves of her light-skinned, lanky choice.  Farmhand is less enthusiastic.

She speaks to me in Spanish and quickly grasps my inability to quickly grasp anything she might say, and shifts instead to body motions, flapping her arms.  I get it!

“It’s the chicken dance– ehh, pollo bailar, si?”

Her eyes inform me that my wording was painfully incorrect, but her smile’s content with my understanding of things, and we flap with wild abandon as Farmhand looks on.  Maid’s taken a liking to me now as well, and Farmhand walks off in shame as I enjoy the affections of his ladyfriends.  They’re a bit older than I typically go for, but I seem to be far better at this style of dance than salsa, based on my few embarrassing attempts.  The crowd’s uproarious applause feeds my sense of showmanship, and even if they’re laughing more at than with, I can take it: I used to wear a Captain Morgan suit through bars for a living, after all.

My quick dismissal of Farmhand appears to have been premature.  He’s back, and packing heat this time, which is 19th century Ecuadorian terms means he’s brandishing a machete at me in a way I can only describe as “comically threatening.”  Visitor hugs me in as tightly as she can, the sunglasses riding on my top shirt button devestated by her embrace.  He swings at me, but it must be fairly well choreographed as she momentarily takes the lead in our close dance and spins me out of the way before he can make contact.

Dialogue returns to the show as they begin to scream at one another and I take it as a cue to sneak back to my seat, as strangers pat me on the shoulder as a show of appreciation for my acting chops.  Sadly, the show had developed a new character and couldn’t let him just vanish without a proper exit.  Thus, I am called back to the fray.

Farmhand has a friend with a lesser role in the play, and he approaches me with his hat and machete, not to attack but as a means of fighting back.  He’s rambling in Spanish and who knows what the hell he’s saying, but with a hat and a machete, I can make my owned damned plot twist.  Fully in character — a confused gringo with complete encouragement from all to succumb to maximum obnoxiousness — I jump from my seat with machete held high.  Farmhand, unarmed and attempting woo his way back into both previously scorned hearts, looks over at me and I run towards him, sparks flying from my machete as I drag it along the concrete (a maneuver I’d learned early from watching him), and I chase him across the grounds and through the gates of the performance area.

The crowd goes wild.

The Magical Gringo as a Singer

Down a makeshift alley formed by rows of corn, pass a small petting zoo and a lone donkey, a folk act’s set up shop in a small wooden hut.  We’re early enough to get one of the spots inside the shack, which is beneficial to my less-than-magical gringo complexion.  The prior playhouse had a crowd of well over a hundred, but the intimate nature of this performance limits the audience to around forty or so, and many of those are crammed outside with the pigs and geese.

From the laughter, the music is clearly comedic in nature, and often sing-a-long as well.  A new song begins and builds to a loud, repetitive chorus of “Kee Kiri Kee.”

“Is that Spanish?” I ask Nancy.

“No.  Rooster.”

Apparently “Kee Kiri Kee” is Ecuador’s take on “cock-a-doodle-doo.”  I can’t say I agree, but as far as choruses to Spanish songs go, it’s fairly easy to get into.

KEE KIRI KEE!

The guitarist stops abruptly and one of the singers retrieves a plastic flower for an elderly woman he claims was the most spirited rooster in the crowd.

KEE KIRI KEE!

The song continues with louder screams from the audience and the new winner, a younger woman, gets something that looks a bit like incense.  It’s too loud to ask the girls what’s going on, but whatever the singer coyly says to her while passing off the prize earns laughter from the crowd and a slightly embarrassed smile from the winner.

KEE KIRI KEE!!!

My talents finally noticed, the band sets their attention on me.  it was the final verse and apparently a special gift is waiting for me.  Already people are laughing through the longer-than-usual introduction while my surprise is held aloft before all, encased in a cheap, brown paper bag.

Lots of laughter now.  With the showmanship of a magician, the contents of the bag are displayed, slowly at first and then in a grand, sweeping gesture.  It’s two dried corn cobs, kernals removed.

What a shitty prize.

An old man sitting next to me makes a circle with the thumb and index finger of one hand, then repeatedly sticks the index finger from his other hand into the makeshift hole.  His grin is politely mischievous, but with the combination of the generally perverse gesture he comes across as downright creepy.  I nod my head and laugh at whatever he’s saying to me (”Oh?  Si.. si”) and wait for the first pause in his speech to look in the other direction toward the girls and bi-lingual sanity.

Nancy explains while everyone else is still cracking up.

“They’re saying that in the old days, villagers would use the corn cobs to clean themselves after going to the bathroom, so you are to take those with you next time you have to go.”

“Oh.  OHHHHH!”

What a shitty prize.

The Magical Gringo as a Body of Desire

It doesn’t seem to be a special birthday year for Manuel, but even at first glance, the party well exceeds any expectation I might’ve had for it.  Nancy’s friend Carolina was a leopard girl or some other sexily anthropomorphic cat at the Halloween party two night’s prior, and we’re all dropping in to celebrate the anniversary of her brother’s birth.  My initial trepidation of standing out as the white fish in a small sea are dashed when I get a look at just how expansive this sea is.

The Larreas (Carolina, Manuel and family) live in a cul-de-sac which has been effectively closed to handle the massive event.  A stage has been erected at the far end of the circle, with rows of seats cascading out for the sea of celebrants, likely numbered around 200.  Families are already quite large here, and when you’re closing down a neighborhood for a party, it makes sense to invite the whole neighborhood, just so everyone’s chill with what would otherwise be an inconvenience.  Despite the food, music and barrage of non-stop entertainment on stage, most of the crowd seems a bit sedentary — not unhappy, certainly, but quiet and only rarely venturing forth from their seats.

We walk through the crowd, stopping only once for some free iced cream before finding a spot near the front to watch the current spectacle.  Seven women — Carolina amongst them to the far left — stand in a horizonatal line upon the stage while a clown taunts them from below.  His style and make-up are different from those of his American counterparts, but there can be no doubt of his clownish nature.  The large red shoes are universal clown apparel, but his red nose is far more long than globular, and after making apparently witty or sarcastic remarks, he was able to make it jerk upwards in a succession of three to four quick bursts that made it come across as awkwardly phallic.

The clown’s said something just now that’s set the crowd off — “corpo”?  “cuerpo”? — and I settle in for another incomprehensible show that I hope includes more slapstick and less chatter, as I’m already completely confused by the act.  For instance, why is Nancy pointing at me?  And why’s the clown walking over?  What the hell’s a “cuerpo”?

“What the hell’s a cuerpo?”

He’s getting closer.  Nancy’s too excited.

“It’s ‘cuerpo del deseo‘! The Body of Desire!  It’s you!  You are the Body of Desire!”

“I’m wh–?”

This clown’s in my face now, his penile nose bouncing furiously above me as he takes my arm with one bizarrely gloved clown hand and lifts his other into the air officially pronouncing me the “body of desire.”

Ok.

Music from Rocky is now blaring and the clown motions for me to run with him in slow motion, which I am capable of doing.  Good start.  I can do this.  I am el cuerpo del deseo.

So far the crowd is content with the choice.  They’re laughing at me, at least.  We stop in front of the stage and he crosses my arms for me and poses me in the shape you’d expect of a, well, body of desire.  I stare at the ladies on stage, mustering up as much desire as I can for each of them.  They appear to be sorted by age, with Carolina at one end and the oldest women — likely the grandmother — on the other end.  I’m assuming sisters, mothers and aunts in between, but a body of desire need not concern himself with such things.

Done instructing the girls, the clown backs off and loud music from a genre that can only be described as “70’s porn” begins to play as Carolina makes her way down the stage sultrily.  She approaches slowly, eye contact never waivering.  There’s always the possibility that I play this too well and just come off as creepy, but I opt to take the chance so as to not sully the name of el cuerpo with platonic desire and glance back with as much lust as I can muster; Carolina’s pretty cute, so it’s not tough.

One by one, the women follow, each circling me slowly, closely, with music from Neon Nights blasts in the background, until finally the last one carefully makes her way off the stage toward me.

“Come to El Cuerpo, Granny,” I mouth, with my best bedroom eyes.  I grace her with a kiss on the hand as she approaches, but from that point on, her performance is just as solid as that of her progeny.

Rocky music blasting once more, I slow-motion run, sated, from the central performance area, a body of desire no more.

The Magical Gringo as a Dancer

There’s an old saying that you have to learn to walk before you can learn to dance.  Or maybe it’s learn to crawl before you walk?  Possibly running is involved.  Whatever.

The point is, there are times where I still trip over myself while simply walking, so it didn’t surprise me much when my one attempt at taking dance lessons in the States was met with discomfort, embarrassment and shame.  About the only useful thing that did come out of the class was knowledge that the man always leads.  You can botch just about everything else up, and you’re surely not likely to win any dance competitions, but if you can at least control the flow of the dance with some kind of confidence, it’ll at least be fun.  Not necessarily graceful, technical or pretty, but fun.

With this knowledge, I jumped up with Nancy almost directly after the band began to play and spent the next hour having fun.  It wasn’t graceful, technical or pretty (well, we were kind of pretty at times), but it was fun.  She showed me some moves and I promptly forgot them as we intermittently spun one another through the crowd with uncoordinated aplomb.

The line for food is long, but I’m too sweaty to keep up the Saturday Night Fever, and too hungry to impatiently avoid the line.  The kitchen is small, and a single woman — Manuel’s mother? — serves everyone from the stove in far corner.  People press in, tightly, setting off a chain reaction where politeness is set aside in the name of accessing the fresh ham and corn mash wrapped and steamed in banana leaves (a local treat I have not yet grown tired of).

‘Anyone wanna grab a plate for the cuerpo?  El Cuerpo del Deseo?  No?  Just checking.”

At least one lady smiled at that.  I think.

Food eventually in hand, I walk through the crowd and Nancy’s giving a speech from the stage to a silent crowd.  Her friend spots me and dashes up, taking the food.

“Go up there!!  You guys won the dance competition!  You have to go up!”

“What?  Competition?  Who the hell were they watching?”

Nancy smiles as I run up.  I get there just in time to be presented with some exotic shampoo in an interestingly shaped bottle that hints toward its pricey nature.

“You have to say something!”  I’m standing in front of a silent crowd now with a bottle of shampoo in one hand and a microphone in the other.

(San Dimas High School football RULES! )

“Um.” I hold aloft the shampoo, filled with uncertainty.  “I’m.. I’m definitely going to use this.” I nod my head a few times to give the statement more weight.

“Noooo — In Spanish,” she smiles.

“Oh.”

(San Dimas High School football RULES! )

“Um.  Feliz Na– Cumpleanos a Manuel!  y…” Mild cheers.  Getting there, getting there…

(San Dimas High School football RULES! )

A banner running over most of the crowd proclaims “Viva el Santo.”  Wait.  Long live the saint?  Man, they love this guy.

“y VIVA EL SANTO!!!!” My arms in the air, my proclamation as grand as possible, this better be good, because I only have one last line, and I’m not sure it’d work here.

(San Dimas High School football RULES! )

The crowd goes wild.

The Magical Gringo at rest

Falling from one public display that most individuals would be lucky to have happen once a year into the next at an almost hourly rate, I’m almost relieved when the magic stops and I can return to the fringe to watch the party go on.  We stay for nearly five hours, eating, talking, dancing, watching.  Carolina’s family seems made up entirely of musicians, and they (and others) take to the stage so that there’s never a shortage of background music.  Children smash a pinata, but people of all ages dive in as its insides splatter across the ground.  And with good reason — in addition to candies, there are ones, fives, tens, twenties and hundreds in there.

Getting back to the hostel, my fever’s in full swing again, but I can’t really gripe.  It granted me a reprieve through one of the more surreal days of my life, so a little late night misery’s more than acceptable.  Sleep takes me almost immediately; fun as they are, days like this can be terribly draining on a cuerpo.