Later we checked out a pig farm that grows mammoth pigs from imported genetics. Some of these pigs were around 6 feet long and 2.5 or more feet high. In the stagnant air of their multitudinous waste products, we engaged in such entertaining events as burying hypodermic needles in hindquarters and castrating shrieking piglets. Some among us had no reservation about cutting open a piglet, popping its testicles out and throwing them on the ground. When given the opportunity, they did just that.

      Then we visited a place that built small but ingenious fisheries in a tight ravine. We tried to catch fish in order to learn how to determine their sexes, but they largely outsmarted the group of profusely sweating college grads. Determining the sexes also flopped as the fish we DID catch were too small to see anything.

      Then we relocated to Santo Domingo to eat at a Chinese restaurant. There were no Chinamen there, naturally, but the Latinos running the joint did a decent job of ripping off all the necessary recipes. We gringos that live along the highway known as “Via Puerto Limon” were dropped off at the beginning of said highway and from there took a pickup truck to our respective villas. I was falling asleep on my feet. I was drained and incapable of thought. When I arrived at my house, I found EcuaMom involved in an intense discussion with 2 male neighbors. All 3 seemed a little irate. I stood there among them for awhile because I needed to know if we had enough water for my shower or should I go to the river. They never even looked at me. Then I shuffled over to Micha's house to find out what the deal was with the Peace Corps medics I had heard were visiting each town today. At Michas place, I found Spanish “class” in session. I didn't know anything about any “class” today. Anyway it was the very last thing on Earth I wanted to do at that moment. I felt bad for putting the “teacher” in such a predicament, but I was incapable of trying or even pretending as though learning Spanish wasn't the worst thing ever.

      When that finally ended, I shuffled my flip flops back home. This time I found my porch full of women sewing. Their reaction to me was odd and I was in no mood to negotiate with mysterious behavior. Almost all of them ignored me except for 2 which regarded me with horror. I stood there preparing to greet everyone, as everyone here is all about greeting everyone else here. I asked what was going on and EcuaMom hastily replied that they were working. I could see that they were working. My point had been "why?"
I have never seen:
A.) EcuaMom associating with groups of women in any social situation,
B.) Ecuadorian women working feverishly for ANY reason, or
C.) any Ecuadorian too absorbed in work to look around every 5 seconds for someone to greet.

      Calazacon. 2 very interesting speakers today. A woman with a booger hanging out of her nose talked about the various pros and cons of getting involved with Ecuadorians. The other woman was supposed to speak on the social, political and economic history of Ecuador, but got on a roll and spouted several commentaries about corporate responsibility, US foreign policy and international lending institutions that I'm sure the Peace Corps would have liked her to have watered down. The Peace Corps tries to dodge topics of a politically volatile nature. Anyway, this speaker was great and no doubt has much more to say. She's lived in Ecuador 20 years. I got her email address and will pay her a visit if my future site is anywhere near her coffee plantation.

      Today's episode differs only in that we met a Brit in an internet place who was very happy to have found a few fellow English speakers. We're not sure, but she either teaches English or is a missionary or both. We exchanged e-mails with the intention of hanging out sometime. We Peace Corps gringos then blew town in the back of a pickup truck containing a strange mini deer that someone had captured.

      In San Miguel, Grace and I met up with Micah and went to a surprise birthday party for Micah's EcuaBrother. It was quite an event, but soon enough degenerated into trotting in place to bad music playing way too loud for their speakers. I was able to pretend I wasn't bored stiff for approximately 3 minutes. The birthday boy's wife eventually dragged me out to trot in place with her for a while. Since eye contact would have been taboo, I looked beyond her to all the other idiots trotting in place. I trotted and stared. We all trotted. Yes, the trotting knew no bounds whatsoever. It was one of the most idiotic activities I have ever suffered through. If grown adults trotting in place like complete jack asses can pass as “culture”, then I demand the right to be sophomoric about bodily functions no matter what the setting.

      I went back to San Miguel and rode with EcuaMom to her mother in law's farm near Talwaza to score bamboo for the chicken coop I will soon be building. True to her social status, she flagged down a local and gave him 50 cents to cut up all the bamboo for us while she swung in a hammock and I poked around the property. When everything was ready, she told me to bundle up the bamboo so she could send her son for it later. While I fumbled with the bamboo, she and the local laughed about what a hopeless idiot I am. They intended no disrespect, they just think that when you speak their language, as do Ecuadorian retards but rarely know what's going on, because like Ecuadorian retards you understand little of what is said to you. You are walking, talking and quacking like a retard. And a retard that should know better is called "a hopeless idiot." Thus, the million-dollar gringo that gets on wrong busses and fumbles with giant, halved-slices of bamboo that he is trying to bundle with a stiff wire, is a sight worthy of a little laughter, and so it was.

      I bussed back to San Miguel just long enough to grab the fare to Santo Domingo. In Santo Domingo I bought nails and worked a little on this website. I returned home, ate a curious meal that I refuse to ponder, and then retired to my room, content to listen to news on my new short-wave radio. But soon, through the horrible reception, I heard my name being called. I opened the door to EcuaMom who urgently told me to get my shoes and come- we were going to the farm.

      Out in the street, a 30-foot straight-bed truck was idling. I climbed in, followed by an older woman wearing a tattered nightgown with baseball hat and a fat neighbor kid. They seemed to have climbed aboard out of curiosity. The truck took off down the highway at a fairly brisk pace. I still had no idea what we were doing. We all piled out at a cocoa plantation and a flashlight revealed we had been riding with hundreds of young cocoa plants.

      We offloaded them amid much levity with the help of several plantation workers. A bottle of cane liquor began circulating. Soon, everyone was almost ceaselessly roaring with laughter. Every other word was “puta.” They could not get enough mileage out of it. The cane liquor was brandished in my face with “Meester! Trago!” Overprotective EcuaMom watched in horror as I took a symbolic belt, as if I were a toddler playing with a firearm (recall my retard status). I continued working but the bottle soon returned with “Meester! El Ultimo!" (meaning there was one swig left in the bottle). I heedlessly threw back my head and found that “el ultimo” was enough for three rounds. Suddenly, offloading the plants in the dark became very difficult.

      A new bottle was retrieved from the truck and the frequency of rounds was stepped up. Luckily, we emptied the truck before that bottle had a chance to make it too far around and the festivities then relocated to my front porch. I pretended to set out in search of a lawn chair with which to join everyone on the porch, but instead closed my bedroom door and returned to my radio.

      Once again I was called away from my radio when the borrachos on the porch found a lawn chair for me, which they placed amid themselves on the front porch. EcuaDad was drunk enough that for once I could understand his Spanish. However, the longer I stayed on the porch, the less able I was to understand ANYONE'S Spanish. EcuaDad harassed me about all the skirts I should be chasing. Overprotective EcuaMom did an unflattering but hilariously accurate impression of him and called him a "borracho." We were completely wrecked. I thought EcuaDad was going to die. His eyes were open but he was completely unresponsive and a string of saliva hung from his mouth down to his shirt.

      A taxi then rolled up and 2 of the local Peace Corps gringos stumbled out and theatrically staggered home. Borrachos all. I stood at the edge of the porch and yelled nonsense at them. The very instant the 3rd or 4th bottle of cane liquor (Cristal) was emptied, the truck drivers left.

      We bussed to Talwaza first to pick up Jason. On the bus ride to Talwaza, the money collector who roams the bus collecting the fares attempted to short us our 20 cents change. I was feeling, as they say here, “bravo”, or what you or I might call “in bad need of anger management” and so, after first politely requesting my due change, I followed him back to mid bus and made it clear to him and everyone near that pocketing my 20 cents was about to become the worst mistake he had ever made. Why go to all that bother for 20 cents? Because he thought I wouldn't . And because I'm a human being and not some chump that deserves to get rolled by every 2-bit Ecuadorian maggot with the nerve to run a hustle.

      I reclaimed the 20 cents. In Talwaza, Jason's EcuaFamily proved themselves to be the nicest people on Earth. They got us to consent to eating “a tiny bit” of food and then brought us a full blown meal that would not be an easy thing for them to afford. It is common to pay people for meals here, but they would accept nothing. Then the 3 gringos bussed to Puerto Limon. Nothing at all happened there. Nothing. So we bussed back and each returned to their respective houses in their respective towns.

      The people who had been drinking on my porch when I had originally left for Talwaza (my EcuaBrother and EcuaBrother-in-law) were still there drinking. They had been joined by yet another EcuaBrother, who we'll call "EcuaBro2." I sat with them on the porch for a while because they esteem me highly and are always amused by my company.

      It wasn't long before they all rose and shook my hand. They were leaving and I was raring to get back to my studying. EcuaBrother-in-law, who was very drunk, said that I should come with them. I asked “where and for how long” and his answer was “downtown and for a half hour”. As I needed something from downtown (Santo Domingo) anyway, I consented to go. EcuaBro2 had not been drinking, so he drove. I noticed on the way downtown that EcuaBro2 was very well-put-together. He was mild-mannered but looked like a conquistador. He seemed very aware of his image and was not at all like the average Ecuadorian. EcuaBro2 asked which part of the city I was headed to, which surprised me because I was only riding along because EcuaBrother-in-law had invited me. EcuaBro2 had apparently never been informed as to what I was doing. EcuaBrother-in-law answered for me, but I could not understand whatever he said. We were not yet very near to downtown when drunken EcuaBrother-in-law motioned several times that I should keep my mouth shut. I nodded my assent, but had no idea what the borracho was talking about. He said “women”, coincidentally as we were passing a few women on the road, so I continued suspecting nothing. When we made a U-turn down an alley and I read a sign that said “Minors Prohibited,” it suddenly dawned on me that they were headed to a whorehouse. I nearly hit the ceiling. Brothels are a fairly common component of life in Ecuador. You will note that EcuaBro2 was driving his sister's husband to the whorehouse. Yeah, it's that common. Wives often aren't even terribly upset that their husbands go to whorehouses.

      I snatched the money out of my regular pocket, hid it in a velcroed pocket, and began thinking of how to get myself out of there without adding to the problem by expressing outrage or insulting my compañeros' choice of pastimes.

      We pulled through a gate into a lot where there were about 150 men loitering. Surrounding that lot was a horseshoe-shaped building. All along the horseshoe shaped building there were doors. Some doors were closed; other doors were open with an obscenely dressed girl standing in each doorway. The 3 of us got out of the car and headed to an area of picnic tables where drinks were being served. Music was blasting so loud it made verbal communication almost completely impossible. Drunken EcuaBrother-in-law drank still more beers and introduced us to other guys milling around that may or may not have actually been his friends. EcuaBro2 seemed euphoric and smiled continuously. After socializing to his satisfaction, EcuaBrother-in-law motioned for us all to get up. He was now running the show. None of us attempted to speak, as it was impossible to hear, and thus communication was hampered ridiculously. He seized hold of me in what was intended to be a gesture of sublime camaraderie and began us strolling around the courtyard. He pulled me up to prostitute after prostitute, sometimes having me shake their hands, sometimes trying gently to push me into their rooms. I resisted, repeatedly saying, “uh… no, that's ok.” My limited Spanish and the noise level rendered diplomacy fairly ineffective. I was hoping they would just tire of my “pickiness” and just go about their own business so I didn't have to say, “I said 'NO' damnit! Are you two depraved losers out of your minds? Get me out of here.” But no, my EcuaSiblings were determined to be gracious hosts. EcuaBrother-in-law made a few crude gestures which he must have thought would clear up some confusion and thus pacify my reluctance. It didn't, but EcuaBrother-in-law's patience was not to be undone. We visited every prostitute in the place before EcuaBro2 finally realized I wasn't just picky, I was opposed to the entire activity. His stupid smile changed suddenly to what I am assuming was humiliation. He moved briskly towards his car and demanded we leave. EcuaBrother-in-law did not want to leave and so wandered off into the picnic table area after briefly bickering with EcuaBro2. I stood with EcuaBro2 by the car feeling terrible that I had not only ruined their plans, but had completely mortified one of the few respectable people in Ecuador. Furthermore, I had started the two quarreling with each other. And these were not strangers; these were guys I would have to see again and again throughout the next 2 months. It was time for damage control. I attempted to make nonchalant conversation with EcuaBro2, but he did not want to talk to me. I tried to tell him he should stay and I could grab the bus. I don't know if he couldn't understand me or was just opting for unresponsiveness. EcuaBrother-in-law would not come back to the car, so we acted as though we were about to drive off to get his attention. Incensed, he climbed into the back seat. We took him first to his house and then tried to drop him off back at the brothel on our way to San Miguel. EcuaBrother-in-law was much aggrieved by everything that had happened and told the now furious EcuaBro2 to just forget it and take the gringo back to San Miguel.