They dont say ¨cheese¨ during pictues... they say ¨whiskey¨

June 29^th, Tuesday

The class work is interesting to me and my fellow volunteers; however I am sure you wouldn’t find it all that interesting. There, I talked a little bit about what we do during the day.

As sun the crested the edge of the earth (my attempt at being poetic)… I was informed that we had to go to the bull riding event. Laundry was put on hold.

Walter (my host brother, 21), Ping (no he’s not asian, 16), Orlando (age unknown, presumably older than the author) and myself (age 23, but still laughs at farts) walked around the bleachers looking for a ‘safe’ ladder to climb up to view the event. The “safe” ladder we found still made me feel uneasy climbing. The old planks of wood that were lashed together with safety wire that served as our platform also made me feel a bit worrisome. Oh well, you only die once I suppose.

Once atop the outer rim of the square arena, I didn’t see what I expected to see. A bunch of guys (30 or so) of all ages just hanging out like they were at a park, some had bull fighting capes others had lassos and others were sharing beers. The loud speaker kicked on and the familiar voice of Garth Brooks was echoing in the arena. This made me laugh out loud and Walter required an explanation. I had a much easier time explaining the next song “tequila makes her clothes fall off” because I could mime it (the few army guys next to us found this hilarious).

Showtime! I decided not to ask what is going to happen and to just be surprised by whatever was about to happen. A rider, accompanied by a very pissed off bull came barreling out of the gate into the mass of people! The rider was holding for dear life on to a strap around the bull’s stomach while the bull tried to kick him off, as well as gore the fans in the arena. Good thing about these bulls is they are not as big as back in the States (steroids are expensive) and they are not as fast. The men armed only with capes and a drunken sense of matador-ism tried their hand at the dangerous game.

Unlike back in the good old US of A where you only have to stay on for 8 seconds, here you hold on for as long as possible! Once the rider either jumped off or was kicked off, it was amateur lasso hour. The men would try to rope the bull and drag it off the arena so the next rider could have a turn on their bull. There were a couple of close calls where the bulls came close to people, at least enough so to elevate the heart beat of the crowd.

The newly crowned Senorita Cayambe was introduced and stood up about three feet from where we standing. Apparently she has good taste in ladders as well; it also explained the military presence.

For the next event 6 barrels were rolled out and two columns of three were set up. What the hell is going to happen now? Two riders on horseback came out, lined up and started circling their respective sets of barrels (Wikipedia it, my explanation sucks). This was mildly entertaining. Before the next race, a fight broke out in one the corners of the arena. Which in turn, caused everyone to flock to it like flies to light. This annoyed one of the riders who apparently had some place to be after his race. So he rode his horse right into the heart of the crowd like a sheriff in the old west with a complete disregard of human life. The crowd quickly and wisely dispersed and the race happened without another hitch.

Then the bull riders were back on. One bull in particular stood out. He was big and mean looking. I turned my head for just a second, and when I looked back he had a guy between his horns off the ground. The guy hung on to horns like handle bars for about 10 seconds before he somehow wrangled his way out of the situation unharmed to cheers from the crowd. Phew!

Unfortunately or fortunately, no one was seriously hurt, depending on personal level of sickness.

June 30^th, potential laundry day, take 6.

Class. Ate Chinese food for lunch.

Came home and found Jose and Walter building a new chicken coop. Procrastination being my middle name, I lent a hand and we just about finished up by dark. Now it was time to wash my clothes.

I never, ever, as long as I live want to hear anyone who owns a washing machine bitch about doing laundry. I will take a flight home just to smack you. It took me two hours, 120 minutes or 7200 seconds to hand wash my clothes (not even all of them).

Step one; soak dirty clothes in a painters bucket (without paint) and detergent. Now take each item out, place it on the cement block. Scrub it with some kind of soap (?) and rinse and repeat until the water squeezed from it was crystal clear. Then ring it out and toss into another bucket that needs to go up two flights of creaky wooden steps to the roof to be put on clothes lines.

This washing room is right in the middle of a stairwell that leads to several apartments. So this gringo man (double wammy) washing clothes was a source of a good laugh for some of the residents. The general consensus was that I need to either pay an equatorian woman to do it or marry one. I can’t afford either of the options on the Peace Corps. budget. So I am shit out of luck in the laundry department. I hope I get placed in a nudist colony.

My stomach started hurting right before I ate dinner with the family. I told them where I ate for lunch, and I got the reaction no wants when you tell them were you just ate. Apparently the restaurant is “muy mal, muy mal” translation, “you’re fucked if you just ate there.” I only ate rice for dinner…

July 1^st,

This month started off with a BANG! Chinese food. Never again will I trust you.

4:30pm, just as class was about to end and I was to head home, rain. Good thing my clothes were not drying on the roof, wait, shit. I will smell for yet another day, sorry Cayambe.