I made sure that my last weekend in Otavalo was jammed-packed full of activities. As we approach the summer festival, Inti Raymi (it lasts for 3 months, where most of the people do not work and drink every day), there are parties to inaugurate the party season. I had been invited to one in a nearby town called San Rafael. It is one of the biggest and first of the season and thus draws a huge crowd and has a reputation for drunken debauchery. What more could I want with one week to go! I invited my family, Paul and Kristen, Lauren and her family, and anyone else I could think of.
Just as I was getting ready to go, six of Segundo’s friends showed up already drunk with a case of beer. They were all dawning Red Cross jackets, vests, and hats. I inquired and was provided with the obvious answer that they were the local Red Cross contingent, and were preparing to go to San Rafael as well. Within what seemed like a few minutes, they had finished the case and had started to dance. One guy named Humberto announced that he wanted to go and was going to drive. At that point, I jumped in and explained that I would be happy to drive him anywhere, having had nothing to drink. The guys all liked that idea and then apologized for the SUV they had outside. I didn’t understand so went outside to look. They had driven the Red Cross truck to the house. The apology, they continued, was for not having brought the ambulance. As if I had asked for an explanation, two of the guys mumbled something about it being irresponsible to drive an ambulance drunk. “Why would that be a problem?” I replied sarcastically (a form of humor they do not comprehend here which makes it that much funnier). As he obliviously commenced his explanation, I cut him off. “Listen, don’t worry about it guys. I guess I don’t mind if we have to go in the truck.”
That was enough for them, so after some public urination on our front door step by three of the guys, we piled in and were on our way. As most of you know, there are few things more obnoxious than driving sober with a car full of drunks. At literally every crossroad and driveway along the way, someone would yell from the peanut gallery, “Turn here! That’s it.” I knew generally where I was taking them so I was able to ignore them for the most part.
As we approached, there was a line of cars stopped and several policemen turning everyone away. “This is the parade route. You can’t come through here,” I heard one cop yell from up ahead. Noise erupted once again from the peanut gallery, this time with yells of “Where’s our siren?”, “Drive through the roadblock!”, and “Where the hell are we?” (that guy was a little more drunk than the others…). I thought to myself, “there’s something to what these guys are saying,” so I kicked the truck into gear and drove into the oncoming lane holding my horn down. Cars swerved out of the way to avoid me. Some of the guys started to scream like women. And how did the policeman react: he waved me right through. It’s amazing what a sticker on the side of a car can do.
I saw a line of parked police cars and figured that might be a good place to let these guys out. As I was getting out of the truck, one of them turned to me and offered me a Red Cross jacket. “Sure,” I thought, “good for a picture.” Then he handed me his first-aid kit, flashlight, and backpack full of equipment. Before I could ask what he was doing or why I now had everything a Red Cross paramedic should have in my possession, he began a rambling and slurred description of where I needed to go, what I would do if I ran across someone in need of medical attention, and where the nearest hospital was if I had to transport a patient. “Are you joking?” I rebutted. “You guys are supposed to be on duty, and now you want me to take over?” “You got it cousin!” he replied enthusiastically. To be fair, at this point, I was having trouble digesting it all, but was definitely intrigued about the possibility of being a fake Red Cross member at a festival with thousands of people. Sure it’s a little daunting, but that’s what made me agree to do it. “What if one of the cop’s asks what I’m doing?” I asked. “Don’t worry,” he laughed, “they all think Red Cross staff are doctors and doctors are like gods here.” That was all I needed to hear, and I was on my way.
I spent the next two hours doing rounds of the parade and fair grounds, getting interesting looks from everyone, curious about the gringo doc strolling the streets of San Rafael. Both fortunately and unfortunately, the night was uneventful. Everyone was in great spirits and I didn’t run across even a minor flesh wound to bandage up. Oh well.
As the main activities and parade rapped up, I could hear my stomach rumbling over the sounds of screaming revelers and thumping music. I decided to go in search of some food. As I meandered, I noticed a contingent of policemen clustered near the entrance of a local house. Curiosity (and my undeserved position of authority) got the best of me and I went over to investigate. I asked one of the cops what the commotion was all about. He exclaimed, “Oh, you’re working! This is the mayor’s house and all of the police and red cross are supposed to eat here on her invitation. Come on in!” as he hustled me into a backroom full of pig meat, corn, and fermented corn alcohol. I introduced myself to the group and settled into a seat, slowly munching away on my pig skin.
(the mayor and I)
Now being full and appropriately lethargic, I found the guys (still snoozing in a corner), piled them back into the truck and called it a night. A night indeed…
Love
Kent
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