¡Viva Guapulo!

¡Viva Guapulo!
September 10, 2011



The first thing I noticed was people pushing me. Excited and nervous, the crowd oscillated, jostling each other, unsure if it was better to be on the edge or not. The vaca loca approached, leaving a wake of people screaming from excitement, fear, or both. This wooden creature was about the size of a small table, painted black and white to resemble a cow. It was on a small platform with protruding handles --carried by four men the way one often images emperors and kings to be carried: hoisted laboriously above the crowd. What made this vaca (cow) loca (crazy) were the fuegos artificiales: the fireworks. This wooden statue moved through the crowd emitting fireworks, followed by a tail of white hot sparks dancing maliciously. The vaca moved quickly through the crowd, as people scattered in its wake.

I felt the crowd shift as the vaca moved in my direction. A rush of adrenaline pumped through me as I protected my eyes with one hand and clutched my small purple purse to my chest with the other. I pushed persistently like everyone else, attempting to move safely out of reach of the vaca’s flaming tail.

A few people in our group screamed with a tantalizing mixture of giddy excitement and fear. Andrés shook his head, amused. Juanito, an eccentric character and self proclaimed proponent of “long hair, don’t care,” looked at the group. “Chicos, calm down.”

Kaitlyn gave him a skeptical look. “You know someone’s hair caught on fire last year,” she replied, justifying the mad rush out of the vaca’s reach.

As my heartbeat slowed, I noticed the music, which had briefly been drowned out by the commotion in the crowd. A very energetic singer lead a band of about 20 dark haired, Ecuadorian men with trumpets, guitars, drums, and other instruments. They wore matching white pants and flowing black shirts with golden sparkles that caught the light as the musicians moved to the beat. The three men at the front of the stage were there to dance, leading the band in choreographed movements, encouraging the crowd to join in. The people filling the square were more than happy to comply. It felt like the entire town of Guapulo was there, swaying their hips and moving in the rhythmic steps of salsa, bachata, and other Latin dances.

When the fervent energy of the crowd began to fade, the band leader held the microphone close to his lips, threw back his head, and with a deep booming voice yelled: “¡VI- -VA GUA – A – AP – U – LO!” Inspired by the festivities and a love for their proud little town, the crowd cried “¡VIVA!” raising fists for extra emphasis. Scattered amongst the crowd, the extranjeros joined in, swept up by the moment, happy to be immersed in Las Fiestas de Guapulo, yearly festivals in honor of Guapulo’s patron saint.

As the dancing continued, I pulled out my camera, trying to capture some of the lively insanity and the beautiful, uniquely Latin American chaos occurring around me.

“Tori,” Caroline moved close to me so I could hear her over the noise. “Take lots of pictures. I forgot my camera, so I am going to steal your pictures.” I nodded, happy to comply. “Ohh, and make sure you get pictures of that when it explodes!”

She pointed to the large wooden structure looming over the crowd, several stories high. This tower had been carefully decorated and constructed, a center piece to the festivities toped with a heart. I was intrigued by the tower but also weary, sure after the vaca loca that this giant wooden structure would erupt in fuegos artificiales.



The dancing continued, the tightly packed throng of people pulsated, and I slowly made my way through the crowd, trying to move safely away from the giant wooden structure.

Suddenly, the wooden tower began erupting, sprouting fireworks out of the top and an opening at the bottom, where a group of men pushed the tower in a circle. As the tower rotated, it released hot white sparks in a stream much bigger and more powerful than the tail of the vaca loca. People ran into one another with nervous excitement. I pushed against the chaos until someone bumped violently into my right shoulder, moving in the opposite direction. My small purple purse that I had been guarding so carefully all night fell behind me. Before I could reach for it, a powerful hand grabbed my left arm, holding it below my shoulder. My heart started racing. Out of the corned of my eye I saw an imposing figure behind me. As he held my arm tightly, an accomplice unzipped my bag.

My skin crawled. I knew exactly what was happening. These men were robbing me and amidst the chaotic crowd, the music, the fireworks, no one else noticed. My heart beat rapidly. I tried to calm it, tried not to move. I did not want to these men to think I was protesting. In orientations for every international program I have done, I have been taught to let people rob you. It is not worth the risk of fighting it – that is how you get hurt.

The crowd swelled like a giant wave, pushing me sideways. The grip on my arm slackened. I looked up. For a brief moment, I looked into the dark eyes of a man in a red warm up jacket with white stripes. We both knew that he had stolen my cell phone, and we both knew I was not going to do anything about it. If he wanted it that badly, he could have it.

“¡SHIT!” I swore violently, frustrated at what had just happened. The odds were against me. In my year of crazy international travel, I was bound to get robbed or pick pocketed at some point. But just because I was expecting to be robbed, didn’t mean I was happy about it.

I looked at the ground, hoping unrealistically that my phone would be there, that is had fallen out of my purse – all the while knowing that it has been taken in a carefully orchestrated, well practiced plan.

I was frustrated. More than anything I felt blonde, very aware how much I stood out, how easy it was to identify me as a foreigner. I moved away from the wooden tower, away from the crowd, away from the fireworks, disenchanted.

From the edge of the square, I watched the tower rotating. People in elaborate costumes jumped among the crowd. The tower blazed brilliantly, a heart lit up against the inky night sky. It really was beautiful. This was a moment of joy, of celebration, of community, and I was here, dropped into what felt like another world. I sighed, releasing my tension and frustration.

I heard the energetic music and people’s laughter. As the flaming tower finally began to die down, our group gathered, slightly breathless, unable to believe what we had just been a part of.

“¡Ahhh, that was incredible!” Caroline said, smiling broadly. She and the rest of our group glowed with happy excitement. “But there is no way anything like that would ever be allowed in the US.”

I laughed. That was certainly true.