Alao Ecuador with the Chagras

I can’t remember the last time I rode a horse drunk with forty cowboys for twelve straight hours in the mountains of Ecuador. But if I could, I’d probably tell you it was one of the best days of my life. I know that because that’s exactly what happened yesterday—and it was, in fact, one of the best days I’ve ever had.

Three days ago, late in the afternoon, I decided to drive by myself back to Alao to find Pepe Abarca—a well-known and respected Chagra—and ask if I could stay with him and his family for the five days leading up to Carnival. To make things smoother, I had Carlos translate a letter explaining my intentions, and I planned to bring supplies as a thank-you for what I hoped would be his hospitality.

I woke up early and went into Riobamba with Carlos’s mother to buy essentials. We stopped on a quiet street in the middle of the city, where she pointed to a worn brown wooden door. “That’s where it is,” she said. “Go on.”

As I walked up, it felt like I was about to walk into a back-alley drug deal. Before I reached the curb, a small older woman with short silver hair, wearing a floral shirt and apron, stepped out and looked me up and down. Nervously, I said, “Yo necesito un litro de puro.” I need one liter of puro—moonshine.

She nodded and motioned for me to follow. Inside was a maze of dim concrete hallways that led to a room with five blue food grade 100 gallon barrels tucked in the corner. The smell made it obvious what this place was. She filled my bottle, sealed it tightly with plastic wrap and a rubber band, and handed it to me with a knowing smile. I literally paid onr US dollar and made my way back to the car.

We then gathered food—rice, sugar, butter, toilet paper, oil—enough to last a family a month. After a few more stops, I finally headed toward Alao, arriving at Pachi’s farm in the early afternoon. Pepe wasn’t there—he was already out in the mountains, as any good Chagra would be.

Christian, one of Pachi’s cousins, explained that staying with Pepe wouldn’t be a good idea. His house was small—just a kitchen and one bedroom—and already full of family. I was disappointed, but I understood.

Then Christian said something that changed everything: I had arrived at the perfect time. The next morning was the cattle roundup—when the farmers and Chagras ride into the mountains, drink heavily, and gather livestock for the rodeo. He offered me a horse. I stayed.

The night was cold, and sleep on the hardwood floor was nearly impossible. By 5:30 a.m., I gave up and got dressed. Shortly after, trucks rolled in with horses and riders. By 7:15, about twenty of us were mounted and heading into the mountains.

I managed to avoid drinking—at first. But around 9am, deep in the mountains, we met another group of Chagras. They were already drinking, and they were ready for more.

We climbed a muddy hill, dismounted, and the real drinking began. Tin cups filled with puro were passed nonstop. Shot after shot. Rain falling. Laughter rising. Within forty-five minutes, I must have had fifteen little tin cups worth.

At one point, I thought I was starting to hallucinate. I stepped aside and took it all in.

How many thirty-eight-year-old guys from the U.S. get to ride horses in the Ecuadorian mountains with forty Chagras, drinking moonshine, rounding up cattle, and photographing the entire thing?

Not many.

I decided I wasn’t going to waste a second of it and decided to do as they do in Rome and started slugging more tin cups of puro.

Soon, we were heading back down the mountain—drunk, on horseback, driving cattle through mud and rain. It was chaotic, dangerous, cold, wet and somehow perfect. I climbed back on my horse, let it do its job, and rode on.

By the end of the day, I felt like a Chagra myself.

We returned to the farm around 6:30 p.m. Most of the men were already passed out or puking—on the steps, in the house, in trucks, all over the place. I stood there, one of the last ones awake, watching the horses being unsaddled as the exhaustion set in.

The hallucinations started creeping back. I grabbed water—lots of it—and tried to write, but gave up after a few sentences. Sleep came hard, and the night was spent waking, drinking water, and recovering.

By morning, somehow, I felt surprisingly okay. Certainly still drunk-ish.

Still, I knew I wasn’t spending another night on that floor.

I drove back to Riobamba, to Carlos’s empty house. As much as I love his family, nothing felt better than that quiet space. I took a long, hot shower, swallowed a few vitamins, and crawled into bed.

I woke throughout the day, this time using a proper bathroom—no darkness, no cold, and no cowboys throwing up in the next room.

And just like that, one of the best days of my life came to a close.