Mountains, Moonshine and Rodeo Clowns

It’s 10 a.m., and the jug of Puro is being passed around as if it’s fresh-brewed coffee. Ernesto warned me to be careful of his Uncle’s moonshine, but how could I say no to my hosts for the weekend?

We’ve traveled two hours on winding mountain roads from Cuenca, Ecuador to the agricultural region called Giron to celebrate the Feast of the Bulls with Ernesto’s family.

The heart of the Festival is the bullring, and I’ve found myself behind the entry gate. I’m standing with the cowboys who are about to compete. They’re nervous. Sal, the most gregarious of the bunch, hands me a shot glass full of Puro. We down the shots and I wish him luck. He slaps me on the back and shouts: If we observe all the rituals today as they’ve been followed for the last 50 years, rain will pour down on Giron all spring!

Horrific cries come from the ring. The rodeo clowns have slit a bull’s throat. They fill a tin cup with blood from its throat and pass it through the crowd. Once again, drinking is not optional. An intoxicated elderly matriarch nods encouragingly. She all but tips the cup as it hits my lips.

The rodeo clowns strip a gossamer-thin membrane from the skin of a bull and wrap it around a beautiful woman like a shawl. Next, they pull the intestines from the bull and wrap them, still warm, around her husband’s neck.

Music starts to play from a nearby rooftop. The couple of honor dance a duet, slowly circling each other. The tempo picks up and suddenly the entire village is dancing.

Willed by my fourth (or fifth) cup of Puro, I grab a woman in a red dress and we groove to the salsa beats.

As a crowd forms around the dance floor to watch a show, I make eye contact with my dance partner. She winks at me. It’s Sal in drag.

We are the show.

Mid-twirl, Sal grabs me and kisses me on the cheek, delighting the crowd. Slightly drunk, the tang of blood still in my mouth, I blush from my first cowboy kiss.

If the rains don’t come to Giron this spring, it will not be my fault.