Buying: Everyday for work, I walk from my house on one side of Otavalo to a town on the other side of the city. It's about 3 miles and has significant portions that are steeply inclined. It's not that I necessarily have to or want to walk this every morning, but there hasn't really been a choice. There is a bus that runs the route every 30 minutes. The problem is that in my 30+ times of walking, the bus has never come on-time, or late at a predictable time for that matter (actually, a couple of times, it didn't come at all). It is always a guessing game, typically with no winner. There is one exception.
Last week, Lauren (friend/co-worker), and a couple of volunteers were walking up the hill from town. They suggested that we wait for the bus. I explained that this was a bad idea, and due to it's high degree of variability, it was possible we would be waiting all afternoon. Lauren insisted that the bus came every 30 minutes, as she had been told. This went back and forth until she said, "Want to bet on it?" I agreed, asking the terms. We agreed that if the bus was less than 9 minutes late, she wins. If more, I win. Next we had to decide what to bet. "A beer?" she suggested. "How about a cuy (guinea pig)?" I said in reply, half joking. "Done." We shook on it. That wasn't the end of it, because now we needed to know the cuy specifics. We agreed that a live cuy would be more fun than a dead one, and that the winner could decide the size and coloration.
As my watch approached 7 past, I started to feel smug. Just as I was thinking about what color cuy I'd want, the distant rumble of a diesel engine could be heard chugging up the hill. I had lost. Being only 7 minutes late, this bus driver had just lost me a guinea pig. As we boarded the bus, with Lauren laughing and gloating, I threw the driver a dirty look although I don't think he noticed nor cared. Later that night, Lauren explained that she would like a light brown cuy with small white spots, preferably medium-build. I mumbled that I would do what I could. When I got home, I asked my host-Mom if she was going to her parents cuy farm any time soon. She said "Yes, I'm going tomorrow." Perfect. I explained the bet, the request, and gave her some money. My family didn't quite get why it was amusing to wager a cuy, but oh well.
Slaughter: Don't worry. This story is less dramatic than you might be expecting. Occasionally when we visited towns to set-up clinic for the day, the community would cook us lunch as a thank-you. In the village of Larcacunga, the meal came as little surprise but with much anxiety. Soon after we arrived, two women walked into the "kicthen" (meaning the room at the school we weren't using to see patients) with two live chickens. Those of us who had been here a while knew their fate. The volunteers were a little more curious. We explained as delicately as possible that they were to become our lunch, more than likely in a soup. After having missed the past two chicken preparations at my house, I wasn't going to pass this one by. I entered the room and asked if I could watch them "prepare" our meal. "Of course," they chimed in unison as an elderly woman wielded a knife. The process was much less eventful than I had envisioned. Simply put, they just cut the throat and that was that.
Selling: Best for last. That's how it always goes. By this point, everyone reading this should be familiar with Nik, the hotel owner I have befriended. A few weeks ago, he and I were chatting over lunch and he mentioned that he was looking to sell one of his llamas in the near future. I couldn't tell if he was joking, but he ensured me that he was serious, and that due to a recent birth, he now had one more llama than he would like. Half-jokingly I offered to sell the llama at the animal market on his behalf. He replied "The last time we only got $60. see if you can do better. Choose your Saturday." Alright, now this was going to be fun! I took my new endeavor very seriously and decided that I had to become more familiar with llamas if I were to effectively sell one. I tried to befriend one at another hotel.
The Saturday of reckoning finally came. I had organized to have a truck meet at the hotel for llama transportation. A good number of volunteers had asked to come along, so we had a gang of gringoes ready to head down to Otavalo's least tourist venue, and to engage in commerce no less! There was one small, teeny problem. I had been told to sell the young male. How on Earth was I supposed to distinguish one furry llama from another. I started by trying to get close enough to identify the males (you can guess what my scientific process was...), but had no luck and felt somewhat dirty. I finally tracked down an employee who quickly identified the boy among the group.
We grabbed the rope and began to drag him towards the waiting truck. It took three full-grown men 20 minutes but we eventually jammed him in the back of the flatbed.
The drive down the road was fun. You can just imagine the looks from the locals as a truckload of white people and a llama cruised by. We got to market and disembarked. Unfortunately for us, this big guy was less enthused about finding a buyer than I was. We would get about 3 feet towards the market, and then he would sit down and we would spend the next 10 minutes dragging him another 3 feet. After approximately 12 feet and 20 minutes, a group of Ecuadorians ran up and asked if I was selling this llama.
