From Otavalo back to Quito

Today is the day we go to Peguche cascadas (waterfalls), which fall two kilometers outside of Otavalo, which is not too far to walk, especially if we get to see indigenous tribes along the way, which is expected. We both shower, and put our bags in a storage room in the hostel since we do not expect to return from our adventurette nearly in time for checkout. As we get about a block away from the hostel, we realize that we’re packing light. A little too light. What’s missing? We have water, snacks, and no bags as planned. But we don’t have the camera. We return to the hostel briefly, to get the camera out of our bags before getting back on track for our big day. The day is big because we’re not only trekking to the waterfalls and hiking thereabouts and back, but we plan on busing our way two hours back to Quito and from there, two more hours to Latacunga.

That’s what we planned. Here’s what happened: When emptied our bags; when we realized we lost our expensive camera; when we reported this to the worker at the hostel, and asked if we should contact the local police; when he said no, but there were ecuadorianos staying at the hostel who might have taken the camera; when we heard they would return by noon and considered waiting for this moment, weighing words wisely amidst cloudy emotions; when we figured the camera was left out on the table guarded by an unlocked door for precisely 48 seconds while one of us used one of the two bathrooms - the bathroom the other one was not showering in at the moment - before locking the door and this time frame was feasibly a thrifty theft time; when we sulked in the streets of a place not our own; when we passed by Fujifilm businesses and market stands where the camera might already be stashed; when we couldn’t remove the feelings we had in the place we were in, that is when we decided to change our plans.

We grabbed our bags and marched steadfastly to the bus terminal. Four men and one man escourted us, hollering, “Quito, Quito, Quito” to two buses going to Quito. We hopped on the fuller of the two, since it would leave sooner. Once aboard, the bus takes off and makes its way through the highs and lows between cloud nine and nigh cloud. We hop a taxi back to The Secret Garden to use their internet privileges so as to locate a better (See: cheaper, less crowded) hostel in the area. We come upon The Chicago hostel and it’s located in the fancy location two blocks away. Fancy means lucky. Bags on. You know the drill. Buzz the manager. Go to the room. Find out breakfast is included and get this: it’s on the roof – the open roof! Oh and by the way, we have a view from our room, which is more spacious than our last Quito hostel and comes with an unnecessary extra bed just in case the relationship is going cabbage (See: cabbage patch (See: sour patch)), I suppose.

I do not feel so well. I haven’t felt so well since the night before, actually. Nothing horrible, just stomach aches that m-ache me uncomfortable. I’m a paper maché stomach, macheted. And I’m starting to feel not so well, and think that perhaps we need more nutrition than half of a papaya we cut up and a clif bar. So we find ourselves walking old Quito for late lunch. We find it and plead that they make me a non-fish soup since that’s all they claimed to have. Please. Please. You must have another!

When you get in a new room and it’s hot out, you can’t wait to get your coat off. So you take it off. When you get in a new room and you have bags, you can’t wait to unpack ‘em. So you take the lid off. As I unzipped my duffel backpack and flung the lid open – to give my bag some air? – I heard a clunk, as the lid hit the wall. This was odd, because I never stow anything in the lid, especially weighty enough to clunk against a wall. A passport photocopy doesn’t clunk, you know.

Cameras clunk! Oh. My. Word.

Now we can continue on our way to Latacunga and do the Quilotoa Loop immediately, without having to postpone our trip to wait for any camera replacement options our minds were considering. The day has gotten better. We decide to make ourselves dinner. It’s getting darker out. Hurry! We walk around and ask people working in small shops. We look for vegetables. Where are the vegetables? At? We do a little tour of the now-familiar streets with most shops closed down, the bumpy metal curtains drawn by some artist like Hephaestus, Mephisto? Anyhow, we meet some Bacchuses who want to speak English at us and we speak español right back at them. We end up getting a tomato, a small onion, a small triangle of cheese - fresh mozzarella, I think, arroz (rice), and then frijoles (beans). We don’t use the kitchen to cook our dinner, because that’s off limits. We use the guest kitchen! How sweet is that? Not many hostels have this. Go Chicago Hostel, go!

Dinner is spectacular and is followed by a lot of talking with a fun couple who have many stories to share. One of them is a professional photographer who pokes things with sticks; the other is a better-safe-than-sorry traveler who one day wants a specific car. They both have English accents. Usually this trip we’ve avoided speaking English as much as possible – or maybe that’s just me, since I’m in a grind to learn Spanish. But this was fun. And we may run into them again since they’re eventually flying out of Santiago, the capital of Chile, where we will inevitably find ourselves passing through.

“Sensnational!” says your landscaper, n8