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.
