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.
