Here is the tale of the cuy (guinea pig) roasting process that I took part in last weekend. The killing and cleaning of the cuy happened Saturday night, followed by a 1.5 hour roast the following morning. 5 cuy feed an extended family; aunts, uncles, and cousins showed up for a big feast Sunday afternoon.

[Reader discretion advised – story and photos go into detail.]

The story begins on Saturday evening with the 5 happy, munching cuy in our cuy shed, guarded by our dog Pelusa (translation: Fluff).

Which were then collected into a sack, and proceeded to be very frightened.

My host mom, Alexandra, killed all five cuy by snapping their necks with her bare hands. I told her she was strong, that I could never be able to do that – she laughed and said she was from el campo (the farm).

She then took out one eyeball and let the cuy’s blood drain into a pan.

There was one old cuy that Alexandra had to kneel on to break its neck, and its muscles didn’t stop moving for a while afterward. I cried.

To pelar los cuyes (remove the fur), she dunked them in the boiling water and then used her hands to pull the fur off. “The heads are the hardest part,” she said.

Once all the cuy were de-furred, they were de-insided; heart, lungs, kidneys and testicles stayed, the gall bladder went to the dogs, and the intestines, stomach, etc. were discarded later (to the pigs?). Some of the cuy had not dropped their last turd in life; Alexandra had to push them out. [Sorry reader, I told you I was going to go into detail.]

My host father was playing with the food…

Here are the cuy ready to be stuffed with some herbal seasoning…

Stuffed and left overnight for roasting on Sunday morning.

Sunday morning (after a couple hours of transporting huge sacks of compost on our backs across the backfield (like backyard but it’s cropland…) to make our lettuce cropland more fertile, Alexandra and I brought out the cuy roaster and fired it up with a big blow torch and some coal. She “violated the cuy,” as my host father referred to it, securing them onto the roasting skewers.

 

And thus began the LONG roasting process; we spun the cuy for about an hour and a half.

We seasoned them with some sort of orange sauce (I love the home-made seasoning brush here).

Extended family members started arriving, and host cousins helped to roast.

The finished, crispy cuy were cut into portions and accompanied by papas (potatoes), arroz (rice), choclo (a breed of corn), salsa de maní (peanut sauce) and ají (delicious spicy pepper).

And my abuelita started munching…

I had hardly eaten anything for 24 hours, and decided that if I was going to eat cuy, I was going to eat cuy. So I opted for la mitad (the middle slice of the cuy), and ate it – heart and all – con ganas (with enthusiasm/speed). For the next three days I was hardly able to eat anything, with a severe dolor de estómago (pain in my stomach).

Although the meat here is about as local and grass-fed as you could get, I’ve decided that for the time being, at least, I really can’t stomach the idea of eating animals. So after a lifetime of omnivority, I’ve declared myself a vegetarian while living in Ecuador, where almost every meal includes some form of meat (good one, Georgia). At least my host family is understanding and on board.

Over the long weekend my family decided to take a last minute road-trip to Quito (8+ hours); having just moved my things into a different (non-slug-invaded) room in the house (and feeling like I’d just made the trek down from Quito not too long ago), I decided to stick behind, move myself in, and care for the house.
 
After a Friday of scrubbing, sweeping, mopping, and washing the space, Saturday morning I decided to take the bus into Cuenca to shop in the markets for a few things that would make my room feel a little more “Me.”
 
Bumping into the same vendor I had purchased a cozy sweater from the week before, I got a great deal on a big blanket to use as a new bedspread.

I stumbled into a fabric store and purchased a few meters of some cool prints (American Cotton) to replace the existing dull gold curtains, and spent too long deciding on just the perfect assortment of woven baskets to arrange various things.

After picking up a few packets of incense to bring a final touch of peacefulness and luxury to my little white-walled haven, I resolved the only things left to find were two buckets to wash my laundry in, one tapestry for the remaining blank wall, and an empty Coke or Sprite bottle to use as a vase for fresh flowers to adorn my desk.
 
So, today I walked into the center of Cañar (~1.4 miles, 25 minutes along a hilly dirt/paved road at a good pace) to seek out the buckets and bottle of soda.
 
Walking around town since I’ve begun living here, traveling to and from work and such, has been a somewhat frustrating reminder that I do not immediately fit in. Greeting people along the road, or even just when meeting eyes, I’ll often receive blank stares (mostly from children), shouts in English and giggles from students about my age, and occasional whistles.
 
This afternoon, particularly, I became more frustrated than usual at the staring and honking from cars rolling by and the fact that I just generally stick out. Reflecting during the last minutes of my walk in, I realized that my unavoidable distinction from others was a test of my self-consciousness, which in my naïvety I thought I had mastered, that I could overcome.
 
After learning that store-keepers would not let me purchase a soda in a glass bottle and leave the store with it; I think for the compensation they can receive from returning the glass bottle. So, admiring my Sprite on the way out of the store – a nice green glass that would look beautiful sitting on my windowsill – I got stopped on the way out, and the store owner transferred the soda to a plastic bag with a straw… so much for that plan. I didn’t attempt to tell her that I didn’t want the soda, but the bottle to hold my flowers.
 
Though a little dismayed about the bottle situation, I did manage to find some nice buckets.

And so I began my walk home with the clunky buckets, which reminded me of walking with the women in Malawi and Senegal – carrying water, gravel, and sand to and fro. And so I swung the buckets atop my head, freeing my body to walk at a steadier pace, and marched on home with a little more comfort and humor in my step.
 
For, with or without buckets stacked on my head, I embraced that I stand out here without even trying to, which is something I can’t say I’ve experienced before. I know I’ll remember this experience at future times when I might be the one inclined to stare at someone who “doesn’t belong,” and instead reach out with a smile, a greeting, or a conversation. Because right now I know all I want is for someone on the street to simply have the courage to do the same.