Quiseras

Cold misty morning. Whether has changed. Windy like a gale out at sea.

Sideways rain through the mist hiking to the trucks.

Bumping along leaving behind our isolated perch to explore. Day trip to the local village, Quiseras.

Fiesta Sunday.

So many chompas in bright colors. Bowler hats, rubber mud boots, and polished Indian faces.

Inaugeration day of phone and internet building in this remote village deep in the Andes. So incredible and strange it makes me laugh.

A speech by a suit and tie guy from Azogues to mute expressions as the band plays.

They keep giving me shots! sugarcane liquor warm from a kettle--salud, otro vez.

Invitations inside for ribbon cutting and more shots--I'm asked to sit down and pose by a new computer as they film for something. This is getting too wierd.

How do I feel about this? Do I have a right to an opinion even....Freedom of information, but what will it do to the culture and tradition here, especially the youth?

New opportunities or erosion of culture. Outmigration...

A volleyball game goes on in the dirt squar nearby. Loud speakers blasting kumbia. Huddled brightly dressed Canari girls and the aroma of frying food.

Salchipapas, papi pollo, and roast cuy for lunch!

Ugghhh, they give me more shots.

Sunday mass now in the country church atop the hill. A rush of children, devout campesino farmers, and stoic Canari woman.

Mischevious trickster old bachelors I meet with Ryan. Comical and hilarious shooting off homemade bottle rockets during mass. Laughing and drunk off aguardiente.

Finally late afternoon and shots wearing off. The country bullfights begin.

A ring of fresh split pine beams and soon people lined up expectantly on all sides.

A mob of local teenagers and machismo youth. Cocky and comical trying to hide their fear under the matadors cape.

Look over to see colorfully dressed Canari woman with videocameras filming--juxtapose the traditional indigina w/ modern technology. Assumptions turned on their heads.

Open semi trailer filled with jostling bulls.

One at a time they come rushing out full of bravado. Some gallop around head on scattering the young matadors like buckshot.

Some are big and brawny, pawing and goring the fence. Others are nervous and unsure unwilling to be goaded. Eyes wide with fear.

A big brown one with horns like pitch forks rips apart the fence and gives one matador a savage goring of his rump. Jumping up on the fence too slow. Pained but proud he plays the crowd over again with machismo.

Eventually the crowd peeters out and disperses and the kumbia kicks up a notch downhill and other festivities begin.

Almost dark. I get the students to help me maneuver the truck out past darting children, stray dogs, and a jumble of campo trucks lining the road.

Back to our high remote sanctuary. All the more appreciated after a day in town. Just catching the mists outline the peaks before the sun sinks and the frogs begin to chorus.