A bailar, entre otros

Wrapping up a very culture-filled weekend in Cuenca.

Friday began with a torrential downpour--the likes of which are very very rare here. I was at the market with my Spanish teacher, Marta, to visit the curenderas. These women are like shamans; twice a week, they set up shop at the Plaza Rotary with piles of herbs and a few dozen eggs (don´t worry, I´ll get to that.) Previously, they didn´t have a designated stall in the Plaza, but recently, they acheived a bit of a coup in the form of a moveable tarp to cover their wares.

So, alas, rain did not excuse me from the Traditional Semi-Shamanic Experience. Marta dragged my gringa ass to her preferred curandera, a mischievious looking old woman who was in the process of rubbing down the most adorable tiny baby with herbs. The mom, a very modern younger woman with tight jeans and a cell phone, explained to us that her daughter seemed to scare too easily and she was afraid that the little one had attracted the evil eye. I felt a bit weird about standing as close as Marta indicated we should (to escape the rain outside the tarp), but nobody seemed to care that we were watching. The curandera finished up with the herbs, rubbed an egg gently all over the baby, broke it open, scrutinized the innards, and pronounced the session a tremendous success. She concluded by cautioning us all to stand back a bit, then sipped something from a plastic bottle and spit gently on the child´s head before dabbing ashes on the little girl´s forehead and belly.

Next! Marta presented me to the curandera for your garden-variety ¨limpienza¨ or aura-cleansing, which basically involved the same process with more force and a larger bundle of herbs. The curandera smacked me, hard, up and down the arms and back with the bundle, chanting something in Quechua which I darkly imagined may have had some reference to payback for hundreds of years of oppression. Finished up with the same egg, spit, n´ ashes routine, then cautioned me that a good deal of ¨mal energía¨ remained. I guess I´ve had longer than the baby to accumulate stuff.

Total cost? Two dollars. Followed by a buck-fifty worth of hot chocolate and sweet corn pancakes in the market while we waited for the storm to settle. No luck, alas, and we weren´t able to hail a cab either. The universal rule of taxis seems to be an inverse relationship between need and availability; my Norwegian friend notes that her travelling companion tends to gesture wildly when talking, which often means cabs stop for them in the middle of the road when he gets too excited as they walk down the street. But that afternoon, nothing stopped for us, despite dozens of passing taxis and some almost bird-like flapping on our part.

The rain continued throughout the evening, which was really unfortunate for the dance exhibition at Plaza Santo Domingo. Dance troupes from all over the country came, invited by the provincial government and watched by locals and tourists alike. No tarp, no problem, despite the tendency of people to crowd around so closely that umbrellas simply couldn´t be used. I´ve noticed a lovely tendency of the Cuenca citizenry to, almost inevitably, gesture me towards the front of the crowd so I can see better whenever I am travelling solo; the thought seems to be that the nice little gringa won´t take up much space. I can´t decide if I should be pleased or offended to note that the same rule applies to small children, who are often coaxed by friendly strangers to stand in the front of the group. At any rate, got a very nice view of some really exquisite dancing before the rain overcame me and I called it a night.

Saturday, a different dance experience, as I hit the bars with a cluster of Norwegians and a Canadian guy who was studying to be a doctor. We started out at a ridiculous but adorable Arabian Nights themed cafe, where one could smoke twenty flavors of hookah and order surprisingly good Middle Eastern Cuisine. Then, thanks to the local knowledge of the Norwegian´s recently acquired Cuencan girlfriend, we went to what I think must be the Most Happening Discoteque of Azuay: hidden behind an unassuming courtyard in the same street I walk down for Spanish lessons, a two-story nightclub with go-go platform and smoke machine. Not so much with the subjunctive Ud. here; the place was crawling with locals trawling for a chance to dance way too close with strangers, and Monica and I were accosted almost immediately. Made the mistake of dancing with the guy who had seemed like he was trying to preserve my virtue from the other guy, then fended off a third guy whose dogged persistent attempts reminded me hilariously of the little kids who sell roses at restaurants--they sneak in, you tell them you don´t like roses, the owner kicks them out, and the circle repeats six times. Finally, Monica and I helped the poor sweet Canadian boy acheive what must have been a life-long dream, as making him appear to have two girlfriends made us much less accessible.

(Don´t worry, Mom, I am more than capable of convincing any number of boys that no means no in multiple languages, and machísmo notwithstanding, even the drunkest Ecuadorian man has enough fear of Mother Mary to back off when asked.)

So, ludicrous night of hookah and debauchery: acheived. Thank God--giving things like that a whirl helps me, at times, reconnect with what I do like by understanding what I don´t. Less flash, more connection--a chance to get to know the boy before we hit the dance floor. We´ll see where life takes me, I guess, but knowing what you want doesn´t seem like a bad thing.