Otavolo

Back in Quito, I spent a couple nights refreshing myself on civilization and life in the city. This, of course, included a night spent in one of the top hotspots for young, twenty-somethings in the capital of the up-and-coming economy of Ecuador. I was invited out by the director of Yachana’s institute who lives in Quito to a live performance by Herman Napatoli, one of Ecuador’s favorite folk guitar players held at an artsy, eccentric little tavern called Pobre Diablo. Cocktails, candelit tables andcortavenas – a genre of music in Latin America with songs recounting the all-too-common tale of the sorrow and melancholy of a broken heart, literally cut veins. Despite the melodramatic lyrics, the crowd didn’t seem to be filled with too much sorrow; the popular Ecuadorean songs were cheerfully sung by all alike, especially the song about the gringita loca in which they all enjoyed staring and laughing at the table hosting the only two white girls in the room while singing. I got a free CD, a nice buzz, and several tips on adventures to be had around the country from friendly young Quitenos.

Mid-stroll on a busy street in Quito, after roaming in search of some internet access, Dan swears he sees one of her colleagues, Zee dash into a small restaurant. Sure enough, there were our fellow students from Colorado sharing a modest almuerzo, now Golden Gods of bronze skin after spending the summer in the Galapagos Islands. Hugs were given, smiles and stories exchanged, and three hours later we were on a bus to Otavalo, a small town outside of Quito in the shadow of the volcano of Imbabura in which is held one of South America’s most grandiose weekend markets.

In the morning, the sun beckoned along with the roosters for an early awakening. We were thinking we could pounce on the best offers of early dawn but soon discovered that the only purchases we would be making that early were bolones de verde and cafe. Somehow I managed to forget the most important lesson of Latin American culture: everything moves slower, everything begins later. Alas, what a riveting way to uncover the wonders of a city; the merchants erecting their kiosks, the senoras knitting up the last of their alpaca hats to sell, the multitudes of vendors sharing rice and guinea pig breakfast on the curbs of streets. The young girls shade their glistening, wind-burnt red cheeks under rainbows of Alpaca tapestries. Babies are stowed and slung over the shoulders of their mothers. Fingers are licked clean of breakfast, hair is braided and the desired possessions are intricately placed on the tables in preparation for the long day of commerce that lay ahead.

Eventually shoppers began to meander the nearly ten city blocks filled to the brim with necklace pendants made of conch shells, indigenous symbols painted on recycled leather, the notorious hand-woven Panama hats, and an entourage of sweaters, tapestries and woodwork. Of course, let us not forget the tranquil sounds of highland music accompanying our stroll with pan flutes and charangos. I am proud to say I was only sucked into buying one item of art despite the vendors best efforts, a purchase I’m quite satisfied with.

Wrinkles formed on my forehead as the morning sun peaked through the clouds, gradually unveiling the magical interplay of the snow-capped surroundings. Papa Imbaburu and Mama Cotacachi (as they are locally referred to) seem to be in constant contest for visitors’ curious eyes, moving in and out of the clouds to pronounce their latest display of precipitation. Written in plain English on a tourist map of the city it is said that when the morning reveals Mama Cotacachi covered in snow, its due to a “conjugal” visit from Papa Imbaburu. I didn’t ask the locals about this legend.

Due to our early start, we had time to wander up the hillside in the sunny afternoon to the magical, healing tree called “El Lechero”. I was surprised to find a rather small tree that, not surprisingly, looked nothing like a milk man. Our young friends enjoying a birthday party of Pilsener’s atop the hill thankfully informed us of the milk-like substance that seeped from the trees veins, rumored to bring healing powers to those who drank it. After a couple untasty experiences with tree saps this summer, I declined the offer. The clearing where the tree lay did offer an exceptionally refreshing view of all the volcanoes and lakes that lay in sight of the small town of Otavallo, yet another miraculous landscape in the land of Ecuador.