A thin film of scum clung
to my eyes like a layer of Vaseline.
I rose from my bed and began feeling
around the room for my sneakers. "They
couldn't have gone far," I mused
to myself, trying to remember if I had
even worn them home from the discoteca
the night before.
It was late afternoon, judging from the level of noise that was rising up from
the street below the bedroom window. The annoying pierce of the Peruvian sun
on my face increased my desire to get out of bed and drift on down to the corner
store for a bottle of water.
I found my shoes by smell, slipped them over dirt-stiffened socks and limped
toward my snoring companions. "Rob, Dan — breakfast," I announced.
The boys bounced upright, dumped out of bed and began sifting through an assortment
of dirty clothes on the floor. They made their selections, and then greeted me
with blank, bloodshot stares. I flashed to the night before. We had attacked
the nightclub in the mountain town of Huaraz with "Saturday Night Fever" vengeance.
A week earlier we had decided to drag 300 pounds of climbing gear into the nearby
Cordillera Blanca mountain range in an effort to climb a strikingly steep 17,000-foot-high
wall of granite called La Esphinge. But apparently, "The Sphinx" had
other plans for us. Rob suffered a 30-foot backward somersault fall, landed on
a ledge, and nearly broke both his ass and the rest of his body. Dan narrowly
missed being decapitated when someone attached a heavily weighted rope above
him to an aging piton; if the piton had snapped, so too would have Dan's neck.
And I had lived through the unnerving experience of leaping for my life as a
boulder the size of a compact car exploded near my boots, sending shrapnel across
my legs and deep into my psyche.
After a few days of scant upward movements, we abandoned the climb.
"TADEO!!!" An intense noise from the depths of our hosteria came bellowing
up through the floorboards.
"Flor is calling you, bro," Dan muttered, as if I hadn't heard the
tongue-rattling roar from our hostess and unplanned-for overseas mom Senora Flor
Gonzales: owner of and life-blood to La Cabana guesthouse we had been frequenting
over the past six weeks.
"TADEO!" she repeated, after a considerable pause.
"Un minuto por favor, senora!" I called back down to Flor. I took a
moment to square myself away and get a grip on the world of uprightness. I reviewed
my soiled clothes, my swollen hands and chipped knuckles. The climb had been
hard on me, sure, but the discoteca had left me in squalor.
I descended the staircase, which connected our upstairs bedroom with the downstairs
common area. This is where members of the Gonzales family congregate to watch
TV and argue. As I approached, I could hear a fit of verbal clatter spilling
from the windows.
I crept into the dimly lit room. Don Felix, Flor's husband — who takes
up most of the room with his girth—was in his cousin's face, and the men
were frothing at the mouth. The 99-year-old grandma sat off in a corner chewing
coca leaves and scolding someone who wasn't there. A bluish glow from the TV
illuminated the faces of the young ones as they watched their daily cartoons.
"Buenos dias," I sputtered. All heads turned toward me. At first, no
one seemed to recognize who I was. We had returned from the Sphinx late the night
before and hadn't seen these people in a week.
Senora Flor suddenly recognized me and looked as if she was going to faint. A
chubby hand was wrapped tragically around her forehead.
"Ay dios mio!" she began. "Tadeo... que paso?"
I must have looked more disheveled than I thought. I sat down at the table and
proceeded to explain all that we had been through over the past several days.
I spoke of the fall that nearly killed Rob. The room echoed with great gasps
of dismay. I spoke of the rock fall that nearly killed me. Flor scolded our efforts
and asked what our mothers would think of all this.
"Well, at least you have come back safe, Tadeo," said Flor in her strictest
Spanish. Don Felix and his cousin scowled in her defense. I diffused the room
by explaining that it was a dangerous climb, sure, but that it would be my last
on this trip to Peru.
"Well for that, we should celebrate... I think guinea pig," Flor exclaimed.
"Excuse me?" I asked, thinking I had fouled up on my translation.
"Guinea pig," she repeated.
"Guinea pig," I concluded, showing that I did in fact understand the
word.
"Yes... guinea pig," the entire room echoed.
I began forcing out deep chuckles to mask the fact that I had no idea what she
was talking about. The cranks and valves of my mind slowly began to churn. I
looked over to Don Felix just in time to catch him swipe a massive tongue across
his lips, slap his big belly like a Japanese temple gong and flick his eyebrows
up and down in a most tantalizing manner.
"Oh crap," I muttered in English, as I realized guinea pig was something
they planned to eat.
There was a four-second time delay as the phrase was absorbed. A sudden connection
between the universal expletive and the disgusted look on my face converged.
And the room immediately erupted into a spasm of wild laughter.
Don Felix nearly fell out of his chair, damaging the cement floor. The little
ones cupped their hands over their mouths and gawked at me with eyes watery from
hysteria. Senora Flor flapped her arms and shook her head with such force that
she launched her thick-rimmed glasses into the next room.
I shifted a nervous grin on my lips and took a few steps back to give them some
space. After the laughter had settled, I was directed to collect the boys. We
were scooted out the door and sent away with the Senora as she made a mad dash
down the dusty streets of Huaraz to the market. Fragments of sentences could
be heard as she marched ahead. Something about "the fat ones" and "before
they close." Prior to Peru, I had no idea that guinea pig was such a valued
commodity or that such effort was needed to purchase one.
The open-air market was alive with clatter and pushcarts. Stacks of fruit and
vegetables marked the territory of the respective peddlers. Crumpled old women
stood around bundles of dried coca plants, chewing great gobs of the green leaf.
Butchers held up naked chickens in our faces as we passed. Goat herders tried
to keep their merchandise from breaking free. Assorted cow parts hung from rusty
hooks over open-pit fires.
A wave of nausea and homesickness rippled through me as I ambled along on the
heels of Senora Flor. She worked the crowd like a pro, slapping the chickens
from our paths and elbowing the elderly women as they dangled coca leaves in
our face.
We shuffled along on our way, closing in on the far edge of the market. Flor
scanned the streets and spotted a skinny woman parked up against a brick wall
with one leg propped on a large steel cage. Inside the cage, dozens of beady
little eyes stared out at passing feet.
"Ah, ha!" announced Flor. It was just what she had been looking for.
Rising from the cage was the most horrid drone of helpless guinea pig grunts.
I suddenly remembered kindergarten class and how we had raised them as a way
to learn responsibility. But here, in this land of searing contrasts, the guinea
pig was raised for another purpose entirely.
The selection process that ensued was as long and drawn out as a cricket match.
Flor and the guinea pig woman went back and forth for what seemed like hours,
bargaining over the price, squeezing and poking at the animals, picking them
up by the scruffs of their necks to increase the potency of the negotiations.
After a ferocious battle, a selection of three finalists was made. Neither woman
seemed to have gotten what they wanted, but an agreement had been reached. Flor
promptly looked at us for some cash.
I handed over a wad of Peruvian soles and Flor dictated which ones to give. The
ladies nodded to each other. The guinea pig woman stuffed them into a small burlap
bag and whisked them away, explaining that she would take care of them.
Flor watched her go, pocketed the change and then explained that the three of
us gringos needed to remain right there until she returned with some garnishes.
And with that, the Senora disappeared into the crowd.
Twenty minutes later, the guinea pig woman appeared from a chicken kiosk across
the street with both hands clamped around something fleshy and blue. As she approached,
I could see tiny claws dangling between her fingers.
She walked directly up to Dan, muttered some Spanish, and waited patiently for
him to stick out his hands. She then deposited the three severely dead, fur-stripped
critters into Dan's bare hands. Guinea pig guts glazed her apron. She flashed
us a half-smile, glanced down at her day's work and then turned back for the
chicken kiosk.
"TADEO!" I nearly jumped from my own fuzzy skin.
The Senora appeared from the crowd of brown faces. She was clutching a bag of
giant red onions, corn the size of fire extinguishers and plump white potatoes.
She walked up to Rob, dumped off her load, grabbed the largest of the guinea
pigs and cradled it high in her hands with pride.
"Fat, no?" she exclaimed.
We all nodded in agreement that it was indeed fat, and then crept in for a closer
look. A deep gash had replaced its cuddly little belly. "Heads are still
on!" observed Rob.
I could feel day-old beer froth pushing up against my epiglottis. I needed coffee
and a real breakfast, and to get well away from the guinea pig scene for a bit.
We resolved to eat at the Chinese place.
We saddled up Flor with the goods, explained that we would go back to the hosteria
in a couple of hours and then ducked off into the crowd. We sipped coffee and
ate our usual dish of bread and eggs with that certain Peruvian-Chinese flair.
We knew that when we got back to Flor's we'd be expected to partake in the guinea
pig feast. My personal plan was to load up on huevos con pan. That way I could
politely excuse myself if need be on the premise of having already eaten.
We returned to the guest house a couple of hours later, just as the sun was dipping
below the distant frame of Huascaran, Peru's highest peak. As I entered the common
room, it felt as if I'd just stepped off an airplane in Havana. The level of
humidity was staggering.
We could hear Flor in the kitchen, fidgeting with some dishware.
"Hola, Senora!" I called out.
"Ay, Tadeo!" she responded.
She appeared from the kitchen with a plate of bread and several empty ceramic
plates. I let out a great sigh of relief. There was no sign of the guinea pigs.
Dan and Rob were both raised in Texas. They know their meat. They love their
meat. I, on the other hand, hail from Hawaii. My idea of exotic culinary rituals
is eating potentially wormy fruit that has just fallen off a tree. Or perhaps
the occasional piece of raw fish, so fresh it may twitch when you bite into it.
Dan and Rob seemed quite excited to experiment with this Peruvian delicacy. I,
on the other hand, was scared appetiteless.
When the time had come for the unveiling of the sacrificed pets (in our honor,
no less), Senora Flor yelled out a brain-swelling, "READY!"
At once, several doors in the room opened up and out popped the entire Gonzales
family. Each took their seats at the large family table and then resumed their
arguments from earlier that day. Hand gestures took to the air as Dan, Rob and
I maneuvered into our seats. Flor appeared with a massive, steaming pot. A distinct
odor followed after it. Don Felix began the whole belly-pat, eyebrow thing again.
Senora Flor presented us with a thick red stew of potatoes, onions, corn, tomatoes
and whole guinea pig carcasses. To my surprise, however, it looked almost desirable.
At first, no one was willing to make the first move. Dan quickly scanned our
timid faces, and then attacked the contents of the pot with his fork. He lifted
an entire steaming guinea pig out and placed it gingerly on his plate. The younger
kids sat nearby, their cheeks cherub-soft and eyes ablaze with the thought of
a treat. Dan carefully made the first incision with his butter knife. He stroked
the implement back and forth across its back leg, but to no avail.
Flor passed him a long, slender knife with an edge that glimmered with sharpness.
Dan repeated the incision and this time the cute little leg came sloughing off
and fell onto his plate. The youngest sister immediately snatched it up.
"Ay! Carlita!" shouted Flor, "Gringos first!" The guinea
pig leg was promptly placed directly on my plate.
"No... no, I already ate," I pleaded.
I looked down at the tiny bit of meat in the middle of the plate below me. I
hesitantly reached for a fork, extracted a piece of the guinea pig's leg muscle
and popped it into my mouth. After ten minutes of vigorous chewing, I began to
wonder if Flor had mistakenly served us steamed football. The meat inside my
mouth was as tough as hide. It was distinctly flavorless and had coated my mouth
with a thick gamey residue, like automotive oil. Dan and Rob, on the other hand,
were devouring it with savage gulps. They would lick their fingers, nod to the
crowd of pleased onlookers and then jump in for more.
Flor and Felix were shoveling the stew into their mouths like furnace fuel. The
little ones were picking through a pile of tiny rib bones. The 99-year-old grandma
was even managing to gum some down. But for me, the room was beginning to spin.
I could feel the bizarre oil building up on my tongue. I began separating the
guinea pig from the cooked vegetables, thinking that no one would tell the difference
if I didn't eat the meat. I tasted a potato, but found that it, too, had had
been tainted with the guinea pig lubricant. In fact, all the vegetables had been
infused with this horrid grease.
Politeness and cultural sensitivity were the only things that kept me going.
Each time a helping had been forced down, another spoonful would be added to
my plate. Everyone seemed happy and content. I had no out: no place to spit the
pieces, no dog to slip chunks to. My head was whirling.
Senora Flor fished around the pot for a while and produced a small clump of something
that dangerously resembled a guinea pig skull. Flor placed the head on her plate,
held it in place with a fork and gave it a firm smack with the backside of the
ladle. She raised the fractured morsel to her mouth and began extracting its
brains with a wonderful sucking sound. I looked to Don Felix, who was once again
grating my nerves with his belly-pat, eyebrow thing. Senora Flor continued on
until all the matter had been slurped out and deposited into the depths of her
gut. A huge smile followed, revealing guinea pig brains had taken up residency
in her teeth.
And it was then that my entire world went black. |
