Beer and ice cream

The rest of our bus ride was uneventful, and not only because I managed to sleep through the second leg of our journey as well. (I’m now remembering how poorly I slept the night before because of the music that inexplicably blasted from some unknown loudspeaker in downtown Otavalo until well after midnight.)

But from what I did manage to see through the occassional cracked eyelid was stunning. We were descending from the 9,000 foot volcanic foothills of Quito to the lush, mountainous cloud forests along the western slopes of the Andes. At 4,500 feet elevation, the area would still qualify as high elevation in most other countries, but was markedly different than anything we had seen in Ecuador so far.

We seemed to be nearing the end of our journey around 3 pm. The bus conductor hopped off the bus for a quick minute as we passed through the cute little Main Street of what my cell phone map told me was Mindo (there was no announcement). Most of the people still on the bus at that point were clearly tourists. None of us knew what we were doing. While some people were getting off, several others were staying on. I didn’t think the bus went to any other cities after Mindo, but it’s not like these bus lines are know for their clarity or ease. Nearly everyone who takes the busses grew up riding them, and it’s obvious from the fare payment (the conductor just comes through with a basket, and everyone tosses in what they already know to be the price) to the departure times (when the driver says so) that these routes aren’t the main way visitors got from town to town. We took pride in choosing the more adventurous route (and in the saving of $150 over another private car ride), but also wanted to make sure we made it to our hostel that night. So I  decided to take my chances at what seemed to be the bus stop for Mindo. We quickly gathered our belongings, and we hopped off the bus with the few other tourists who clearly didn’t know what they were doing, either. We were barely able to convince the conductor to open the luggage compartment for us, and the driver was clearly not thrilled. He started rolling the bus forward as we were getting our bags out, and the conductor was in a full sprint by the time she hopped back on the bus. I guess that wasn’t the real stop. But we made it!

Not loving the vulnerability of lugging around more bags than people on a busy thoroughfare in a city I had never been to before, I quickly checked the map and shuffled everyone up a side street. But my caution was far more than what was necessary. After I realized that the first few people who approached us were genuinely curious about who the new visitors were (and not trying to size us up and steal our luggage), I relaxed enough to join the conversation. One person walking alongside us was visiting from Quito, another lived a block away, and they really were just saying hello. Apparently people still do that. How nice.

Our hostel ended up just being a few blocks away. It was a cute little family-run operation alongside a meandering river that ran through town. We had been spoiled by immediately becoming family with the owners of our last hostel, but the people who ran this hostel were plenty friendly in their own way. The desk clerk seemed a little frazzled when trying to find our reservation, but eventually led us to a room that would work very well. Not much in the way of a tour or introduction, but we got what we needed.

With our bus-terminal lunch leaving us wanting, our only real agenda item for that afternoon was finding a nice dinner. And boy, did we ever. On Alicia’s tip (weekend trips to Mindo are popular among the embassy staff), we found a Persian restaurant not far from where we got off the bus. Alicia told us it was easy to miss, but delicious. She was right on both accounts. It was a little 6-foot wide stall sandwiched between a basket shop and a panadería that was run by an Iranian refugee couple who somehow managed to settle in Mindo, Ecuador. What a strange and beautiful world we live in.

Aimee and I were already enthralled by the two (two!!) pages of vegetarian options. But beyond that, it was, by far, one of the most incredible meals we have ever eaten in this country or any other. Easily the best falafel I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a lot of falafel.

But, alas, the restaurant wasn’t perfect. It didn’t serve beer. And the 5,000 foot elevation drop brought a heat that we just weren’t prepared for. The kind of tropical heat that only a watered down, slightly chilled local beer can cut through. So we wandered the streets looking for a particular type of establishment that sold both beer and ice cream, and lied to our children that we were doing this for them.

I know. We’re so selfless.

Bus day!

We woke up early on Sunday to get a jump on our all-day bus adventure (and to have a handy excuse for skipping that week’s culto).

Mimi and Quinn spent no fewer than 30 minutes saying goodbye to Jose and Matilde, their Kitchwa grandparents that week. They were such lovely hosts. 

 

To that point, Jose offered to drive us to the bus station when it didn’t look like there’d be any taxis coming by. On our drive, I asked Jose how long he had been running the hostel. He told me that he started building it in 1975. And that’s not like when I say we are renovating our home when I really mean we’re hiring people who know what they’re doing to renovate our home. Jose himself was the one swinging the hammer back then.

His original intention was to use the massive estate as a home for all of his extended family. But like most construction projects down here, it advanced in fits and starts. When he earned some money, he bought some brinks. No money, no bricks. So by the time he completed the house 30 years later in 2005, his children had moved out to start their own families and his parents had passed away. (At that point in his story, I had to explain away my watery eyes as a sudden-onset banana allergy.) So he instead decided to open his home up to travelers. He’s been running the hostel ever since.

When we pulled up to the bus terminal, Jose pointed out the busses heading to Quito and sent us on our way with hugs and well wishes as if he were dropping off his own family. But as Jose pulled away to return to the hostel, our vibe suddenly switched from warm and fuzzy to sharp and observant. After all, we were in a busy South American bus terminal about to traverse over the Andes with two small children. We needed to bring our A game. I didn’t make things easier for ourselves by sending more suitcases than suitcase contents back with Alicia. So about a third of our possessions were stuffed into a couple of shopping bags and our dirty clothes sack. We were getting the full experience.

No more than 90% sure we were getting on the right bus, we loaded two of our bags (the two we could most live without) in the underside luggage compartment. The rest we carried with us to our seats. Once we were good and tucked in (and heard the driver yell out, “Last call, Quito!”), I realized that neither of our children had gone to the bathroom even once since waking up. This was not going to end well. There are no bathrooms on these busses, and every  South American bus driver I had ever encountered would sooner leave you on the side of the road than risk being late because of a bathroom break.

So I took one child under each arm and gave my best overwhelmed dad face to the driver while asking if they had time to go to the bathroom. “Bien rápido. Un minutito,” which loosely translates to, “If they have to poop, say goodbye to your bags and look for the next bus in an hour.”

I took him at his word and sprinted to the restroom with our kids. A wave of relief came over me when I felt enough small change in my pocket to pay the $0.15 fee to the attendant sitting outside of this and every other public bathroom we had encountered in the country ($0.20 if you want toilet paper). Although in all honesty, I would have gladly given her the $20 in my wallet.

Reminding my children through the open bathroom doors that we had to keep it quick, I nervously split my attention between them and the bus door. Still open. For now.

Mercifully, neither kid had a #2 sneak out on them, and we hopped back on the bus just as it was starting to roll away. Aimee had the hand sanitizer ready to go (no time to wash hands), and we patted ourselves on the back for successfully pulling off one of the more critical potty breaks of our parenting career.

The bus ride itself was delightful. We had long since discovered the time-warping power of audiobooks. So while Mimi and Quinn listened to the tales of magical forest creatures and trucks, respectively, Aimee and I marveled over the scenery and fell dead asleep, respectively.

I eventually woke up to the calls of “Cafe! Cafe!” from the hop-on, hop-off food vendors that these bus routes are known for. As nice as a coffee sounded, I couldn’t get my act together fast enough to fish a few coins out of my pocket. And if I’m honest, I didn’t want to be the next victim of questionable food choices. That hadn’t ever stopped me before (and how risky is boiled water and coffee grounds?), but when iron-stomached Aimee goes down, no one is safe.

We rolled up to the Northeast Quito bus terminal around lunchtime. Nearly every bus route in the northern half of Ecuador starts or ends in the city. But it’s a big city. So we needed to catch a cab across town to meet our bus for the second half of the journey. We saw a line of reputable-looking taxis waiting at the terminal when we got off the first bus, and I was feeling ready to give the Quito’s taxis another shot. And I’m glad I did. The driver was friendly, the pre-negotiated price was fair, and at least 50% of us had seatbelts available. Checked all the boxes.

We rolled up to the other bus terminal about 15 minutes later, and found the sign for the bus cooperative that runs to Mindo, our destination for the next few days.

I’m now realizing that I haven’t talked much about the cooperative system. Every neighborhood we visited throughout our trip, no matter how small, always had at least three pillars of the community: a financial cooperative, a transportation cooperative, and a small army of street-side produce vendors.

It’s pretty evident that all three of them feed off each other. The financial cooperatives function as micro-credit agencies that lend to the farmers, who bring their crops to town in the back of a pickup or bus from the transportation cooperatives. The cooperatives seem to be the product of government policy, foreign non-profit seed money, and grassroots ingenuity. I’m far from qualified to say with any certainty that the system works well. But it sure seems like it does. I see indigenous farmers walking into the financial cooperatives every morning to make a deposit and the 25 year old cooperativa drivers have meticulously maintained trucks that wouldn’t look out of place in the parking lot at an Arizona trailhead. Plus, I always know with absolute certainly that I’m never more than a half block away from a dozen mandarin oranges for a dollar. What’s not to love?

Where were we? Cooperatives. Bus terminal. That’s right. We knew the Flor del Valle cooperative ran busses to Mindo, but we didn’t have any idea about the schedule. I thought the busses ran every hour, but my information was outdated (as was often always the case in this post-COVID travel environment). After we watched several non-Mindo busses come and go from the Flor del Valle parking spot, Aimee talked with one of the cooperative employees who told her that there were only three Mindo-bound busses running each day. Oh boy.

I call this one “Surviving a 2 hour layover at a remote South American bus terminal on a hot afternoon with small children, too many bags, and not enough food.”

But we made it with our wits intact. The room temperature chocolate milk bottles and semi-stale cinnamon rolls from the bus terminal’s newsstand made a passable lunch for the kids. Aimee and I powered through on the miscellaneous nuts and energy bars we managed to scrounge from the bottoms of our backpacks. We’re on vacation. This is fun. We chose this.

How much for the alpaca?

Saturdays in Otavalo are market days. It's a scene. But since we had already been down there a few times (and didn’t need to encourage any more souvenir requests from our children), we opted to explore a few other sights around town. We would definitely be breaking our one-activity-per-day rule, but it was our last day in Otavalo and we wanted to make the most of it.

As we were getting ready to leave for the day, we were unable to find Mimi. But that was nothing new. She had become the little mayoress of Hostal Curinan, and was known to hang out in the office greeting new guests with Jose and Matilde. In fact, when we were looking for Mimi a few days earlier, I asked Jose if he had seen her. He replied matter of factly, “Mimi? She’s in the office. She’s always in the office.” And that’s exactly where we had found her this time, getting her hair braided by Matilde as the two of them chatted like schoolmates. Neither of them understanding each other’s language particularly well, nor seeming to mind. It's going to be hard to part these two when we leave tomorrow.

Our first stop was the local animal market (the same one that Lucia had tried to sell a pig at the week before). Whereas the main market is heavily geared towards tourists, the animal market was decidedly the opposite. I mean, what could a tourist possibly do with a possibly dead chicken or a very much alive alpaca?

Of course, that didn't stop Mimi from making a fairly convincing case to bring a rabbit home.

From there, we headed up (way up) to the foothills of the mountain range encircling Otavalo. The drive itself, while slightly nausea inducing, was nearly worth it on its own. It meandered through a hillside farming community and provided a stunning overlook of the nearby Lago San Pablo.

Our ultimate destination on that drive was an expansive nature preserve advertised as a Condor Park. It was, but that's selling it short. It's also a stunning cliffside overlook, a reasonably comprehensive aviary showcasing several local birds of prey, and also a window back into time. The park staff take rescued birds, large and small, and nurse them back to health as part of a traditional cultural practice with roots going back nearly 5,000 years. The birds are sent sailing over the city, always coming back. It’s completely under-sold, and was a very impressive operation.

Another family wandering around the park that day was from Eastern Oregon (originally Tanzania) with kids about the same age as ours. It was nice to chat with them a bit as our kids played together after the bird show (these kids know no strangers). Despite the parents appearing to be only a bit older than us, their work (something having to do with exotic snakes, they didn’t exactly go into detail) had allowed them to be within a year or so of retiring. They were in Ecuador that summer to scout it out as a potential destination. No one in the family spoke any Spanish yet, but they weren’t going to let that stop them. And we couldn’t blame them. There was a reason that nearly every foreigner we met in Otavalo had either retired there or was thinking about it. We were among the very few short-term visitors (although that was partly because the minimal but very visible drug violence in other parts of the country kept a lot of people away).

We swung by the main market on our way back. Quinn had his eye on a hand-carved wooden excavator he had seen a week earlier. We told him to think on it at the time, since we were going to keep non-wearable souvenirs to a minimum. He did, and to no one's surprise, he remained pretty focused on adding to his truck collection. But when we went back a few other times during the week, we hadn’t been able to find that artisan again. Quinn was sad, but surprisingly understanding for a 5 year old. So we figured we'd take another stab at it, and pass through for one last look when the market was in full swing. 

We ended up finding the artisan, but the excavator wasn’t out on his table anymore. Oh boy. Parenting. But Quinn demonstrated a reasonable amount of maturity, especially given his love for all things trucks. And in a positive reinforcement win for the ages, when the artisan heard us talking about how cool the excavator had been (as opposed to us having to stave off a meltdown), he told us that he had a finished one back at his workshop! After talking details with the artisan and then taking some much needed quiet time at the hostel, we returned again before dinner to reconnect boy and truck. It barely lasted 5 minutes before a big drop knocked off the wooden exhaust pipe, but Quinn didn’t care. He was in love.

Dinner that night was in a restaurant overlooking the market that we hadn’t seen earlier in the week. Quinn had actually discovered it when he noticed the first letters of his name mirrored those of the restaurant (Quinde, which I'm now realizing you can see in the top left corner of the photo above). It provided a stellar view over the market, and a charming end to our time in Otavalo.

Our taxi home that night was flagged by our children as they walked out of the restaurant. Mimi and Quinn, ever the small town kids, couldn’t get enough of just putting out their hand and having car stop for us. On more than one occasion, I had to apologetically wave off cabs overzealously flagged by our children when we were steps away from our destination. But by the end of the week, they were getting the hang of it.

I put my seatbelt on as we rolled away from the restaurant, pleasantly surprised that this cab had functioning ones for all of us. But just as we turned the corner and passed a police checkpoint, our driver reached over and released the buckle on mine. 

“There. That’s better.” He said. “Thanks for doing that.” This country is still clearly getting used to its traffic safety reforms. Our driver, making sure that our last night in Otavalo wasn’t too idyllic, presumed I had just put my seat on so he didn’t get a ticket. Nope. Mostly because I didn’t want to die. Tomato, tomato.

But perhaps the nicest part of the evening was that we had been out all afternoon, and Aimee didn’t have to abruptly excuse herself even once. She was finally turning the corner! Which was good, because we had a 5 hour bus ride the next day.

A day in the life

Aimee was still fighting off the last remnants of her stomach bug on Friday, so I took the kids into town to run some errands. ATMs compatible with international debit cards are relatively hard to come by in Ecuador (and are non-existent in the small town we were heading next), so we went to the main bank in town to get enough money for the next week or so. I gave the kids a quick lesson in travel safety when they ask-shouted in the middle of Otavalo’s busiest street, “HOW MUCH MONEY DID YOU GET, DAD?”

But thankfully Ecuador is a pretty safe place. Nothing came of it. And all fairness to our kids, they aren’t totally naive. They knew the town was safe enough, and could probably navigate it on their own at this point.

Walking around that morning brought to mind a moment from our last day in Cotacachi, when Lucia sent Samuel to the market for some eggs. Quinn wanted to tag along, and we knew that he’d be perfectly safe with the 10 year old. Kids are given more responsibility in environments like this, and with practice, live up to the expectations. 

Aimee and I definitely had to challenge ourselves to allow just the right amount of freedom for our kids to have their own growth opportunities that month. It wasn’t easy when we ourselves were out of our element, but it was definitely worth it.

Ok, I’ll figure out how to parent on my own time. We can get back to me having too much cash in my pocket. A new charango meant a new charango case.

This case says, “I went to South America this summer and I want you to know that.”

There weren’t a ton of options.

Since we were in no rush, we made a stop at our favorite cafe. It was Aimee and my favorite because they had fantastic coffee and a comfortable patio we could linger in while we figured out a plan for the day. It was the kids’ favorite because the juice glasses were the size of their heads.

A belly full of fruit sugars led to a particularly spirited round of Jenga.

It was a delightfully lazy morning, but we did have a few more errands to run. We needed some envelopes to go with the five handmade greeting cards we had bought in the market. So we went to a papeleria where I knew we’d be able to buy them individually. I absolutely love how stores are set up in this part of the world. Need a piece of rope? Go to the rope shop below the owner’s apartment. It’s between the wheelbarrow shop and the wire shop, just down the street from the nail and screw shop. But most charming of all, I needed some thread to fix a button on my pants. So I went to the thread shop, where I purchased a single sewing needed with a couple feet of thread already tied to it for all of $0.10. I almost felt bad taking the owners attention for such a small sale, but he didn’t seem to mind. With errands complete, we headed back to the hostel and were pleased to see Aimee functioning at no less than 80%.

That evening, Gloria, our neighbor from North Carolina, invited us, the Swiss/French resident, Jose, and Matilde to the common area of the hostel for some homemade brownies. But as she was baking them, her gas went out. Natural gas piping (or really any reliable plumbing for that matter) doesn’t exist in Ecuador, so everyone has small propane tanks attached to each of their appliances. Tank exchange trucks run through the city at all hours of the day, so a refill is never far away. In fact, the catchy, indigenous-flavored tune the trucks played to announce their proximity had become the soundtrack of our trip. All of us were humming it constantly.

After delaying our gathering first to 7pm and then to 8pm, she eventually just threw in the towel. Brownies weren’t in the cards for that night, so we met over some chips, tea, and whatever else anyone had laying around their room. It was great to get to know the other residents a bit better. We learned that Ernesto, the Swiss/French flute playing amateur pastor, kept coming back to Ecuador to escape the highly scheduled, routine-based daily life in Switzerland. That’s per his fully Swiss wife, who joins him for a coupe of weeks every summer and told Matilde that Ernesto comes down here because he loves that there are “no rules in Ecuador.” I think that’s a bit debatable, but I’m sure compared to Swiss life, Otavalo is a veritable Wild West.

Gloria had actually suffered a mild stroke earlier that year. But the health care in northern Ecuador is good enough (as was her love for the area) that she decided to stick with her plan of full time residence. The place was filled with a decidedly quirky batch of people (as are most hostels), and we loved every bit of it.

Where the cemetery is more fun than the park

Monday started off slow, at least to us. I had some work to do that day, so we didn't put much on the agenda. But apparently for every other person in Ecuador, the day started off with an earthquake. We had slept right through it. We wouldn’t have even known one occurred if Alicia hadn’t texted us to see how we were doing. We were completely fine, but apparently quite sleepy.

Amazingly, the earthquake was far enough from any population centers that, despite being quite jarring to anyone who was awake, it didn’t cause any injuries or significant property damage. Ecuador owes much of its unique topography to being the meeting point of several major fault lines (the rest to the volcanoes that those fault lines created). It has experienced some pretty serious earthquakes in the recent past, but thankfully, this wasn’t one of them.

Purely coincidentally, we had been planning on visiting the local cemetery that day. It wasn't because we were having any macabre thoughts from the earthquake, it was just the thing people did in Otavalo on Mondays. Seriously. Thursdays too, apparently. The local community (particularly the indigenous members) make a mini pilgrimage twice weekly to visit the graves of their ancestors and leave trinkets and food. It was like we were living through a scene from Coco. In fact, the whole place had a very festive vibe. There wasn’t a tear in the place. Everyone was friendly and welcoming. A few people stopped to chat with us, and seemed to genuinely appreciate having a few extra people at the party.

The only other event of note that day was when Aimee’s 2 hour timer from her lingering food poisoning went off just after lunch. So we decided to head back to the hostel. Quinn wanted another pickup truck ride, but I couldn’t subject Aimee to one of those in her current state. So I sent her and Mimi back in a regular car taxi, while he and I flagged down a truck and hopped in the back. Riding in the back of a pickup bed as often used for farm supplies as humans along the near-vertical road back to our hostel was about as delightful as it sounds. The only redeeming factor was the satisfaction I took in knowing how much money this $1.50 taxi ride was saving me over taking Quinn to Disneyland. This was his jam. Of course, Disneyland had seatbelts and paved roads, but where’s the fun in that?

The next day, we went into town to ask about the intercity busses. Aimee and I felt that the kids had earned their first South American bus experience. It's a rite of passage, and they've proved their merit. We'd be heading to another city in a couple of days, and this seemed like a fun way to do it. Plus it would save a healthy chunk of our travel budget over taking another private car ride.

Our plan was to send most of our bags back with Alicia and Isaias when they came to visit us later in the week for the 4th of July. The date is meaningless in Ecuador, but our embassy closes for US holidays. That meant Alicia would have the day off. With a lightened load, we didn’t feel like it would be too crazy to take a couple of kids on a four hour bus ride. Bag theft was a potential risk, but the busses otherwise had a pretty safe reputation. And Ecuador's busses looked more like the touring coaches we see tourists taking to the Grand Canyon than the retired school busses half filled with chickens that Aimee remembered from Nicaragua.

That afternoon, I went back to Jose’s taller. He was finishing up a beautiful little charango that was a bit smaller and much more durable than the one I bought before (it was constructed from a single piece of hardwood). So I justified buying it as a travel charango. At some point in my life, having a second, slightly tinier charango might make sense. Never hurts to be prepared.

The rest of the day was spent in and around our hostel. Jose and Matilde had told us when we checked in a few days ago that they host activities for the local children every Tuesday through Thursday afternoons (seriously, this place couldn’t get any cuter). By now, I had figured out that most of the additional programming at the hostel had a slightly religious tinge to it, but I wasn’t above sending my kids to Kichwa bible camp for a few hours of quiet for Aimee and a chance for me to figure out how to play one of the two charangos I now owned.

True to form, our kids snuck off within a few minutes to pick some of the blackberries that were abundant on the property (taking a few of their new local friends with them). And also true to form, they immediately returned as soon as the camp snacks were served. Praise Jesus.

Aimee felt well enough to go out for dinner again that evening. Our kids had already filled themselves up on the Body of Christ, but Aimee and I needed some real food. As we had learned the hard way, finding decent vegetarian food would be tricky. But we figured that one of the local Asian restaurants might have some promise. We had our eye on one that looked a bit nicer than the usual chifas we saw around town (a uniquely Andean take on Chinese fast food). It was. But when Quinn--already overstuffed on camp snacks--projectile vomited his California roll across the table, none of us really had much appetite for the rest of the meal. My hope (proven correct after he woke up ravenous the next day) was that he had just eaten more than his stomach could hold. We didn't need any other food borne illnesses in the family, and thankfully our luck seemed to be holding.

By Wednesday, most of my work responsibilities were behind me (and Aimee’s functional capacity was now at 3-4 hours per day). So we could venture out for a bigger excursion. One of the more popular sites around Otavalo is the Cascada (waterfall) de Pechuge. It was a lovely (and short) hike up to a stunning waterfall. Definitely our speed at that point in the trip. 

The tail end of the hike with through the on-site camping area, which included a pretty questionable park. Even Quinn (who was bombing down mountain bike trails at three years old) said at one point, “Dad, a lot things here are really dangerous.” I couldn’t have said it better myself, and thankfully we all escaped with limbs intact and free from tetanus. I still can't believe I let Mimi ride that zip line.

Thursday was the Fourth of July. No more meaningful in Ecuador than the third or the fifth, but it did mean that we got to see our friends again. They hadn’t been to Otavalo before, and it was nice to show them around for a change. We weren’t sure if they’d be able to make it, since there were some transportation industry protests planned for that day (the gasoline price had recently gone up), but they didn’t have any appreciable impact on the roads. The nice thing about Ecuadorean protests is that the relative security in the country (and still quite-low gas prices) take the edge of protests more than in places where conditions are a bit more dire (looking at you, Nicaragua).

We took our friends out to what looked to be (and absolutely was) the nicest restaurant in town. A whole page of vegetarian options! And we obviously needed to take them through Otavalo’s craft market before heading back for a lovely afternoon chatting at the hostel.

This town is fun. This town with wonderful friends makes me understand why at least two people at our hostel never moved out of their rooms. I was starting to think that there might be a third.

Clovers, charangos, and an accidental culto

After a nice night of sleep for the three non-food poisoned among us, I figured I should at least leave Aimee with a quiet hostel room for the morning. So after a simple first breakfast (our room had its own little kitchenette), I took the kids outside to wander around the hostel grounds. 

As we wandered, we met one of our neighbors in the hostel, a Frenchman living in Switzerland (where his wife is from). But for the past several decades, he has been spending his summers in Ecuador, with the last 5 being spent in the room adjacent to ours in Hostal Curiñan. His Andean wood flute playing drifting through the open windows was a delightful soundtrack for the morning, and he himself turned out to be just as delightful. He was in his 70s, and had a warmth that can only come from someone who gets to spend his summers is such a charming setting. As we were chatting in Spanish (which he spoke perfectly, despite it being no less than his fourth language), Jose, the hostel owner, walked by. 

Jose and our neighbor talked about playing music later that morning and invited the kids and I. “It’s great, we’ll play some songs and tell stories,” he said. It sounded like a perfect opportunity to visit with our new neighbors and give Aimee a longer respite. But as soon as I agreed (and milliseconds before I put together what it was that I was committing to), Jose added, “Es un culto (worship)!" Right. Songs and stories on a Sunday morning. Those dots should have connected themselves, but I was too smitten with our surroundings to realize that I had accidentally signed us up for a church service.

But as far as church services go, one that pulls together a dozen people from all around the world and is heavy on songs in the Kichwa language in a makeshift chapel overlooking a charming Andean town is about as good as I could have hoped for. Our neighbor played the part of pastor, singing songs and playing along on his guitar and wood flute. Matilde gave the sermon, and the other 10 or so people in the room participated in various calls and responses throughout the songs and spoken portions.

For the first 45 minutes, the kids did great. Quinn played along to the songs on our charango that I had brought down when I still thought it was just a little singalong (nobody seemed to mind that his tuning was rather distinct from the rest of the group's).  Mimi sat with Matilde and played with her tiny dog, Mole (who Quinn had renamed "Guacamole" the day before to Matilde's delight). But at nearly the exact same time, both of our kids reached their limit and said to me (at distinctly non-church volumes), “Dad, I’m bored.” Appreciative that very few people in that room spoke English, I sent the kids out quietly and remained for the last 10-15 minutes of the service. Although slightly more discreet than my children, I was no less excited that it was wrapping up. It was a charming little cultural experience, but that only goes so far. The history of Christianity among South American indigenous cultures is extremely complicated, to put it mildly. I’m in no place to judge its current value, but I didn’t need to spend my Sunday morning in the middle of it.

But there was another little bonus to accidentally joining a culto. One of the other attendees was actually a musical instrument maker. Jose introduced me to him after he saw my charango and said that the other person (also named Jose) made them in his workshop a few blocks from the hostel. Yes, I already had one. Yes, it was perfectly adequate for my needs. Yes, I still barely knew anything about the instrument. But still, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to go check out an actual Andean instrument taller (workshop). So we exchanged phone numbers and made plans to meet in a couple of hours.

[Instrument Jose is the person on the right in the photo above. Hostel owners Matilde and Jose are the other two people in the photo who aren't my daughter. I was too shy to take a photo during the actual service, so I snapped the one above afterwards when instrument Jose was showing me how to play my own charango.]

By that point, Aimee was feeling a little better, so she came down to join us and got a nice laugh out of me accidentally sitting through a church service. But she enjoyed meeting the other hostel residents as much as I did. One of them was from North Carolina, and came to visit the hostel as a visitor after retiring as a psychiatric nurse two years earlier. She quickly decided to make it permanent and has been there ever since.

Ecuador is a retired ex-pat haven. It’s affordable (especially outside of Quito), it’s relatively stable for the region, and there are plenty flights to and from the United States. There were several little communities in the region around Cotacachi and Otavalo clearly catering to ex-pats, and we could absolutely understand the appeal.

Aimee felt like stretching her legs a bit after spending the morning in bed, so we stopped by instrument Jose’s taller in what was ostensibly an attempt to get a small repair on the charango I had already purchased. But I couldn’t not look around at the instruments strewed among his workshop at various points in the construction process. They were beautiful. 

It was approaching 1 pm at that point, and none of us had eaten since breakfast. So I didn’t have much time to dawdle at the taller. I silently decided to return later and purchase a second--completely unnecessary--charango. But there was no time for that today. We all walked into town and found a delightful lunch spot literally seconds before everyone melted into hypoglycemic messes.

Since we had a late lunch, I figured we could just snack our way through dinner back at the hostel, so we stopped at the panadería for a few loaves of bread to go with the delicious avocados we had bought for about a quarter each the day before.

Aimee was still touch and go with her illness, and had about two hours of human interaction capacity before she needed to curl back up into our (bathroom adjacent) bed. To give her a quiet afternoon, I pointed out a clover patch by our room and told the kids that finding one with four leaves would be pretty lucky. I watched them frolic around the idyllic hostel grounds, completely unaware of how lucky they already were by simply being there. But what I had hoped would buy us at least an hour of quiet time abruptly ended about 5 minutes later when the kids ran up to our room exclaiming that they had found one! 

Man, those kids really are lucky.

Pigs, ponchos, and parasites

Our sad departure was made slightly less sad by the sound of another pig being dragged off to slaughter at 4:45 on Saturday morning. Lucia and her family were loading it up on their truck to sell it at the weekly animal market in Otavalo. We had said goodby the night before, since they would be at the market by the time we awoke. So we were surprised when we saw them again around 8 am. They told us that they weren’t getting the price they wanted, which meant the pig could live another week. Either way, it was nice to chat with them a bit more before we took a cab to Otavalo, ourselves.

I had a bit of trepidation on whether we’d be able to fit all of our bags into the bite sized taxis that zoomed around Cotacatchi (and I didn’t want to take a pickup truck between towns). But we were fortunate to hail one that not only had enough room for all of us, but was actually driven by someone from Otavalo. He had come to Cotacachi that morning to work the still-ongoing festival, but was happy to head over to Otavalo with us. Most importantly, he knew exactly where our hostel was. Which was convenient, because I had picked it two days earlier based on nothing more than a smattering of positive online reviews and what appeared to be a nice location. 

As we drove up a hill overlooking the village, we saw what could only be described as a villa. It was a beautiful large home with a handful of surrounding structures. It was close enough to town that we could walk (a key requirement after our last stop), but far enough that the kids could explore the grounds without any real dangers to worry about. But it’s not like they were going to worry about anything even if there were risks. That’s my job. They still haven’t developed that part of their brains yet, which is both the magic and the horror of traveling with them.

The charm of our hostel was also embodied by the couple that ran it. Jose and Matilde were an indigenous Kitchwa couple probably in their late 60s. They were strikingly familiar with our own corner of the world, as they had participated in an indigenous cultural exchange with members of the Navajo Nation in the 90s. I barely expect someone from Arizona to know where Window Rock is, let alone proprietors of a hostel in the central highlands of Ecuador. We were in the right place.

We spent the afternoon heading into town for lunch and to visit the artisan market that Otavalo is known for. That would have been an enjoyable, thoughtless afternoon before kids. But Aimee and I really struggle with how to discuss souvenirs with a 5 and 7 year old. We don’t need any more stuff in our house, but on the other hand, it’s nice to support the local artisans. As with tourist markets pretty much everywhere these days, several goods were imported from even cheaper labor markets overseas. But Ecuador (especially Otavalo) still has a decent amount of local crafts and garments. Since I have a soft spot for musical instruments and Aimee has a soft spot for her kids in adorable animal sweaters, we settled on flutes and ponchos.

I don’t have any notes on our lunch. And that’s not a huge surprise. We were really struggling to find vegetarian food in this country. Quito has some, but it was usually bland and clearly geared towards tourists. The outlying towns ate a striking amount of meat, and seemed to have nothing else on the menu. We ended up eating breakfast for lunch at a little coffee shop that would become a frequent destination that week. Breakfast was usually a safe bet for meatless options, and after two weeks of navigating South American streets with two small children, I’ll never say no to a second cup of coffee.

The afternoon back at our hostel was equally delightful as the morning. We took advantage of the stellar view (and the beer fridge in the lobby).

Vowing to have a few more options than omelets and waffles for dinner, we did a bit of research. We had already learned that the post-pandemic restaurant scene had turned over enough that guide books (and even internet searches) were just about worthless. But I found a vegetarian restaurant in town that looked halfway decent and seemed to still be in business.

It took a few tries to find the place, but after walking down the side alley that led to the entrance, we walked into a lovely little outdoor courtyard inhabited by two people who were either customers or the owners. They turned out to be the owners and told us to take our pick of the tables.

The nights at 9,000 feet tended to get crisp, and we didn’t bring the kids’ new pochos, knowing from experience that they wouldn’t survive even a single meal. But aside from the shivering, the meal was looking like it was going to be wonderful. After putting in our order, we saw one of the owners run out to the market. We had grown used to that after ordering any vegetarian food. We seem to be the only two in the country (a feeling that was further reinforced by being the only group in that restaurant all night). I had a passable grilled veggie sandwich, and Aimee had a salad that she described as delicious at the time. Yes, foreshadowing. She’d be regretting that salad over the next 5 days. About two hours after our meal, Aimee excused herself to the restroom, and we only saw her for momentary glances through the rest of the week. It was a doozie.

We were no strangers to food poisoning. But it was usually me. I’m the one who can’t pass up a 30 cent grilled something or other on a street corner. Aimee’s the responsible one. But after building up a robust gut microbiome from 2 years in Nicaragua, she had perhaps become a bit too confident in her ability to ward off pathogens hitching a ride on uncooked vegetables.

Thankfully, that would be our only bout with food borne illness during the trip. And as Aimee said several times over the next few days, at least it wasn’t the kids. Kids with food poisoning is scary. Adults with food poisoning is a blog post. And on that note, I’m going to go get Aimee some more electrolyte powder.

Ratoncito

I don’t recall if we set an alarm on Wednesday. By that point, we knew we didn’t need to. We were started to dial in our daily rhythm. Pre-breakfast in our bedroom, main breakfast with Lucia and her family, then second breakfast (and third coffees) at a cafe in Cotacachi. It was delightful.

I had a bit of work to do that day, but with the time zone difference, there was time to explore a bit with my family first. So we took advantage by going to a little cultural museum downtown. It featured some of the indigenous traditions of the region, as well as several of the more prominent post-independence cultural figures (mostly notable musicians). It was quaint and charming, and almost felt like we were trespassing. Aside from some musicians using an empty area as a practice space, we were the only souls in the building. 

There wasn’t a guard out front or even a ticket window. Just a paper sign in sheet on a clipboard by the door. Through most of our time there, I wasn’t sure if we were actually in an exhibit or just an empty office. Our kids, devoid of any inner, “We probably shouldn’t be here voice” led us into a room that seemed to have been recently used for some type of work training, but otherwise wouldn’t have been out of place in Versailles. 

I love this town.

But, you know, work. I had some odds and end to take care of, but nothing I couldn’t do from a coffee shop. That said, my main task was to find some type of work space for the next day. I’d be doing some telemedicine, and didn’t want any patients wondering why they were hearing pigs and roosters in the background. I was already pushing my luck with this trip as it was. So I scoped out a few options and had a relatively quiet afternoon.

While I was working, our kids played soccer with the host children and smattering of cousins. The only event of note was that Lucia was out at some sort of community meeting that evening. So the usual dinner cues of lights on in the kitchen and the wafting smells of deliciousness never happened. Turns out she prepped some food for both families ahead of time, but each family was way too polite for that plan to work. The rest of our host family was waiting for us to come inside for dinner, but we didn’t want to seem pushy or anxious. So finally, about an hour after we would have put the kids to bed, we meekly walked into the main house to see if, um, anyone, you know, might be hungry for some dinner. Our host dad was visibly relieved to see us emerge from the guest room, and all 8 of us, famished by that point, inhaled the meal.

Thursday was my first day of true doctor work. As in, I would be sitting at a computer in South America talking with a patient on the western edge of the Navajo Nation. What a time we’re living in.

My set up at the house wasn’t ideal. There was decent internet connectivity, and even the animals in the background wouldn’t have been a strange sound to a Navajo cattle farmer. But our room was pretty much just bed and bathroom, neither of which would have been the most professional background for a physician visit. So I woke up well ahead of both families and made my way into town via a shared taxi.

My explorations the day before determined that best bet for a worksite would be a budget hostel. It took a bit of explaining that I only wanted the room for the day (and that I wasn’t a total weirdo), but we worked out an arrangement. Given the lack of any other options, it actually wasn’t a bad set up.

Work actually ended up going great. Despite my end of the connection being a $10 hostel in a tiny farming town in South American, the only hiccup was an IT issue on the Tuba City side. That will not be a surprise to anyone I work with. But once we got that squared away, I had a decent day chatting with patients. I let my patients know that I was out of town but didn’t want them to go without care, and they were very understanding and appreciative of the unique arrangement. Maybe we can make this a regular thing?

While I was working, Aimee took the kids on a guided hike around Laguna de Cuicocha. The guide was arranged by the same person who coordinated our homestay. So I knew that although the information ahead of time would be scarce, it would be a reliable experience and I didn’t need to worry much. 

Connectivity was scarce outside of the city, so I knew I probably wouldn’t hear from them until I got home. So it was a very pleasant surprise when I ran into them at the local market for lunch! They had just arrived and were in the process of connecting up to WiFi to tell me about their hike when the kids saw me walk in. I was in the process of ordering my usual eggs and potatoes when I heard “Dad! Dad!” in very familiar voices before I was tackled by two small children.

Aimee shared some photos over lunch and told me they had a delightful time.

But since the professional hiking guide moved at a much faster pace than our 5 and 7 year old, they were famished. We all enjoyed another massive lunch before I headed back to the “office.”

The rest of my day was a remarkably normal work afternoon, despite the surroundings. Aimee and the kids’ afternoon was anything but normal. In this version of what passes as a work day, the rest of my family went with Lucia to her mom’s farm. But it wasn’t just any farm, it’s an animal farm. The kids got to play with the usual pigs and chickens, but there were also multiple litters of kittens and puppies. You try telling these kids that there’s no way we could get these animals on an international flight home. We’ll see if it goes any better.

Once everyone had made it back home from their respective adventures, we all settled down for a very nice dinner and a lovely chat. We were really starting to connect with our host family and have much more meaningful conversations than the usual tourist/host pleasantries.

Thursday had been a rest day for the festival, but it was in full swing again on Friday. That was immediately evident as I woke for work to the usual animal sounds now joined by a car alarm, super loud music coming from somewhere down the street, and much earlier (yet equally unintelligible) announcements broadcast by the church loudspeaker a few blocks away.

But I didn’t mind the early rise. I had another work day ahead of me and needed to head into town anyways. Again departing before Lucia’s delicious food hit the table, I was at the mercy of whatever I could find in town. The tourist cafes didn’t open until 9, but I knew there had to be something. There was already a lot of activity as the city woke up, and I couldn’t imagine that every one of those people had breakfast at home.

So I headed down to the bus station/main market, and was relieved to see a few food stands already open. In line with me were paramedics, street sweepers, power line workers, and the other people who didn’t have the luxury of waking up slowly. I was dramatically out of place in my buttoned up shirt, but I’d like to think that there was still a bit of camaraderie that crossed cultural boundaries. 6 am is still 6 am.

Five minutes and one dollar later, I had an enormous plate of eggs and potatoes in front of me and knew I’d be good for the day. But like most super tasty food stalls, each one had their thing. The eggs and potatoes place didn’t do coffee, and the coffee place wasn’t open. But thankfully I was now getting the lay of the land and knew I could get a halfway boxed coffee from one of the panaderías.

Caffeinated and satisfied, I set off to my hostel/office. The stairs up to the second floor reception desk (I was working above a diaper store) was barred and locked. Not a huge surprise at that hour. So I rang the buzzer and pressed my ear up close to the speaker, hoping to be able to decipher the Spanish over the buzz of the city street. I couldn’t hear anything, so I said “hola?” into the void and pushed the button again. After repeating that futile routine for about 10 minutes, I took a seat on the bench out front and tried to at least clear out a few work emails over my cell phone.

I tried the door again a few times, and then sent a text message to the phone number listed on the front sign. Nada and nada. Now getting dangerously close to my actual start time (when patients would be sitting in a room waiting for me), I needed to start figuring out a backup plan. There were a handful of other hostels in town, but I had already ruled out a few of them for their limited WiFi, lack of individual rooms, or general creepiness. I walked over to one of the others, and despite the owner being even more confused about why I just wanted a room for the day, we were able to come to an agreement. The internet connection wasn’t quite as robust and the general vibe made me even more glad I wouldn’t be sleeping there that night. But it got the job done.

But as eventful as my day started, at it least it didn’t open with the neighbors slaughtering a pig as Aimee later told me her day did. Our kids are getting the full experience.

The rest of their day was a lot more tranquilo. They made their way into town and hung out at an open air coffee shop with lots of room for the kids to run around. They later even stumbled upon a little playground that we hadn’t seen during our earlier explorations.

There were a couple of other foreign kids at the playground, but this wasn’t their first trip down the slide. They and their parents had been living in Cotacachi for nearly two years as part of a religious-tinged water purification mission. Or was it a water-tinged religious mission? Hard to tell. But the children were delightful and were clearly thrilled to see some other kids speaking English ahead of their return to Minnesota later this year.

Later that day, Aimee helped Lucia capture a few cuy (guinea pigs) to be slaughtered and sold at market. (Remind me never to complain about my work day to her.) Guinea pigs are an unfathomably beloved delicacy around here. You can buy a whole chicken (living or otherwise) for $4, but a tiny guinea pig goes for about 8 times as much. We don’t get it either, but who are we to judge?

But perhaps the most important news of the day was that Mimi had lost a tooth! There had been one hanging on by a thread for the past several days, and it finally popped out over second breakfast. That gave us a great excuse to ask what were the local customs around kids losing teeth. It turns out that the ratoncito (little rat) tradition that we had first learned about in El Salvador was also popular here. Kids here still throw their  teeth on the roof and ask that the ratoncito bring them a little token in return. It was a lovely way to wrap up our last night in this charming little town.

Sensing the moment, Mimi said to me after she tossed her tooth on the roof, “I had a really fun time here.”

Me too, Mimi. Me, too.