Three years ago I was thrust into an initiation, of sorts, in order to be accepted as a member of my surrogate Ecuadorian family. My inebriated host uncle cracked open a roasted guinea pig skull like a pistachio nut, dug his six inch buoy knife into the tiny cerebral cavern, and served me the little animal´s gray matter from the swaying end of his serrated knife.

Inter-culture communication is not only limited to breaching the language barrier. Customs and rituals must also be tried and completed to be included in a foreign (different) culture. The culture of fraternities and sororities usually requires some form of hazing, ranging from petty theft to self-mutilation. Gang members require initiates to complete much more carnal acts to gain admission into gang culture. Even a college´s admissions office has initiation requirements, a certain GPA, various extracurricular activites, and a sense of social responsibilty, all chronicled and proved by your past record.

My inititiation into the Ecuadorian family culture did not require a high pain tolerance, nor was it a secret only to be told amongst other initiates. Instead, mine was an initiation of open-mindedness and the literal interpretation of "intestinal fortitude."

In the US we are, on the whole, very fond of our pets. We have gourmet cat food that looks better than what I usually eat. We have tailor made sweaters for dogs with matching booties, and entire police units are assigned to securing the safety of animals. Here in Ecuador, dogs are considered man´s best friend only for their ability to tear to shreds would-be burgulars, or for that matter, foreign students riding peaceably down the street on their bikes on their way to class (thank God for my rabies shot). Cats, dogs, pigs, and goats are constant companions to road sides and doorways, and are left to their own devices when it comes to reproducing and scrounging for food. I have yet to see a female dog whose heavy flacid teats were not swaying in step with her stride as she ambled down some street, alley, or park in search of scraps, or a helpless foreign student riding his bike peacably down the street on his way to classes. It quickly becomes evident that "pets" in South America are either anti-theft devices, or simply placeholders on empty fields, busy streets, and empty doorways.

With this information I invite the reader to remember their last visit to a pet store. Would you consider shopping there for groceries instead of a cute and cuddly pet for little Susie? I also invite the reader to envision one of the cutest rodents among their species, the guinea pig. Word association with "guinea pig" in the US might produce: pet, cute, fuzzy, cuddly, or sweet. In South America only one of those word associations would be found: sweet. In addition to sweet you would find: tasty, yummy, filling, and great with potatoes. Guinea pigs are a cultural culinary delicacy in Ecuador and Peru. Raised in little herds, guinea pigs run around carbon-blackened cooking rooms, or in dirt mazes bordered and covered by corregated steel sheds. The fuzzly little "pets" run from corner to corner of the room, quickly grinding greens between their tiny teeth, with a twitchy look in their eyes that causes their heads to dart from side to side as they gorge themselves. A guinea pig wrangler is well acustomed to the everpresent squeeks of the tiny mammal. These same sonic squeeks, described as "cuy, cuy" in South America also serve to give the rodent its name, "Cuy." It´s the US equivelant of calling dogs, "Barks," or roosters, "Cock-A-Doodle-Doo´s."

Assimilating into a culture is more difficult for some people than it is for others. For example, if you were required to thread a skinned, gutted, and marinated guinea pig through a stick the width of a yam and the length of Michael Jordan´s shoes, breaking the jaw as it goes out the mouth by way of the anus, and you were a staunch member of the ASPCA, then you may have to find other means of "fitting in." Luckily, to soften the blow of cracking bones and a stick spewing hairless rodent the size of a kitten, there is always the local fire water. In the case of Ecuador a sugar cane alcohol, Zhumir, served this purpose well.

My second week in Ecuador marked my first initiation test, roasting and eating said guinea pig. Late one afternoon my host mother Edith surprised me by bringing home four whole guinea pigs, speckled in various herbs, skinned naked, and gutted whole. A large hole stood in place of vital organs. The guinea pigs' teeth protruded from its skull, and its nails, no longer hidden by its fur, stood starched stiff from the ends of its paws. The skin gave off a mid-west-tourist-on-the-beach pinkish-red shine. It looked as if it had been frozen in place as it tried to run away, and its pelt sheared and sold to make Barbie's Artic Expedition Wardrobe, complete with fur lined jackets and shoes. I had heard guinea pig was a delicacy in Ecuador, and before I saw the animal in its pre-cooked and after death state, I was excited to try it. Now I had my second thoughts. My host mother, having taken one out of the grocery bag to show me, slid it back in and put the litter of guinea pigs into the refrigerator to keep cool until the roast that night. As she did this she informed me that some of their extended family would be coming over to participate. I wondered if they were just coming to place bets on whether the newest gringo in their family would accept the "challenge." Not wanting to disappoint anyone with bets on me that I would cook and eat an entire guinea pig, I stuck to my previous goal of giving it a try, although curiosity took the place of excitement to do so.

Uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents started arrving just after the sun went down and the first bottle of Zhumir was opened. My host father, Cashuma, led me to the sack of cuy and gave me the honor of choosing the first one. I picked the smallest one from the bag. The bag had begun to have a mucusy innner lining that lubricated its sides and helped the cuy slide out of its confines. My host father chose the next one, my host brother the one after that, and one of my host uncles was left with the fourth. We all picked up our sanded down sticks that tapered to dull points, and held the guinea pig in one hand and the stick in the other. I watched as my host father held the cuy by its center and pointed its head toward the ceiling as he forced the stick into the rear of the slippery cuy, like a novice proctologist giving his first real enema. He turned the stick in a slow circle as it threaded itself through the anus and into the stomach. The open stomach window allowed an unobstructed view of the stick lurching its way through the interior and toward the gaping mouth. When Cashuma had forced the stick into the mouth's cavity it was impeded by the small toothy opening. Undetered, he set the end of the cuy-impaling stick on a nearby counter so the cuy looked as if it were a rocket awaiting launch orders, and grasped the cuy by the top and bottom of its mouth. With a sharp crack and a snake like widening of a dislocated jaw, Cashuma slid the cuy the rest of the way down the stick until its dull end stuck out a good three inches from the broken mouth. I followed suit. To say it was an easy thing would be more than an exaggeration. As I tried to thread the stick through the cuy, I realized kabobing a guinea pig was much harder than it was gross. I stopped feeling sorry for the rodent and was instead determined to impale the rat. As I struggled, I wondered why the stick had to be so wide anyway, was it an additional challenge, or just adding insult to injury to the little animal? I reached the mouth with much effort as the cuy baste almost caused the animal to slip from my hold twice, and cracked the jaw with timidity while finishing the job. With that accomplishment my timidity was replaced by a blase attitude as I produced and directed an impromtu puppet show with my marionette puppet. The family clapped, laughed, and slapped my back as I took a macabre step toward inclusion in the family culture.

We roasted the cuy over wood coals until their pink skins cracked a golden brown. Those around us drank and joked as the sweetening smell of guinea pig surrounded us. Occasionally an uncle or aunt would come up to us roasters and snap off a foot or ear of the roasting animals and throw them into their mouths like kernals of popcorn.

An hour later the cuy were cooked and we feasted on potatoes, vegetables, mote (a version of boiled corn kernels), boiled eggs, and a spicey sauce called ahí. The cuy was quartered and each person recieved a portion, one cuy surprisingly feeding four people. The skin peeled off like celophane and tasted like greasy, sweet chicken. The meat itself, like a turkey, was either light or dark. The meat pulled easily from the bones and melted on the roof of your mouth as your tounge pressed against it. I found my favorite part to be the jaw muscle. Not having an incredibly exciting life by human standards, cuy spend most of thier time eating, making their jaw muscles lean and sweet, much like a rabbit's haunches, or what I´d expect the Road Runner to taste like, would Wile E. Coyote ever have caught him.

Many hours of talk, and empty bottles of Zhumir later, my host uncle came toward me and with a large toothy smile urged me to follow him. Naively I excused myself from the table and followed. He brought me to one of the de-meated cuy carcasses and informed me I had yet to try the best part. With that introduction he lifted one of the little animals, snapped open the skull, and with a buoy knife that had somehow materialized without my knowledge, scraped off a piece of its brain. Still smiling, he thrust the knife toward me and said, "try it!" Uncountable swigs of Zhumir were quickly wiped from my blood stream and sobriety hit me like a plane crash. Faced with a drunk uncle, a big knife, a cheering peanut galery of relatives, and of course, the brain of a guinea pig, I felt my adrenaline increase and my body prepare for its "fight or flight" response that all humans experience when faced with perceived discomfort. Forcing down my logic, I slid my mouth over the knife and closed my teeth around it, quickly sliding them off the knife until I had collected the guinea pig brain. It dissolved quickly in my mouth before the taste was even palatable. I vaguely remember a dry taste that stuck to the roof of my mouth. The taste quickly dissolved much like the brain itself. Having ultimately proven myself in the eyes of my family, I removed my sobriety with a quick gulp of Zhumir and again joined in the conversation, trying to act as if eating guinea pig brain was something I had done all my life.

Being back in South America three years later, I found myself ordering guinea pig from the menu. As I sat peeling the skin from the meat, I remembered my first experience, turned to my girlfriend Michelle, and with a toothy smile asked her, "do you want to try the best part?"