Mamá Cotacachi

As promised, our driver picked us up at 4:30 a.m. He drove us out of town, and gradually up hill. We passed through the still-sleeping town of Quiroga and onto a dirt track where we picked up our guide, Antonio.

A road winds up Volcan Cotacachi to a squadron of antenna: cell towers, tv and radio. We wound up the road until mud ruts stopped us, and the driver let us out, promising to return in the early afternoon. From the road, the rising sun showed the earth below us undercast. Otavalo was blanketed in cloud, only the peaks of neighboring volcanoes stod clear: Imbabura and Fuya fuya. Even our first volcano of the trip, Rocu Pinchicha was visible 80km away.

We left the road for a narrow footpath that lead up through the paramo grasses. Mamá Cotacachi is deemed more difficult; the last 40m or so require mountaineering equipment including ice axes, crampons and ropes. The service, with which we had contracted for the day had reminded us that the guide would take us only as far as we could climb without the additional gear.

The clouds came in quickly and within an hour, our vision was reduced to 20m or less. Our guide, sometimes only visible only as movement, always waited for us in a sheltered spot, out of the wind. When we arrived minutes later, out of breath, he offered shelter, fruit and chocolate. We ate claudias (yellow plums) and manderinas in the refuge of a rock. On more exposed sections, he peered around his hood to make sure we were following and adjusted his pace. At breaks we asked him about plants, learning some names and medicinal uses.

In the high alpine gardenhe rooted at the base of pies de gallina in search of a small creepi8ng herb. "Medicina" he told us "Contra la altitura." He pinched off a branch for us to smell. He cleaned the rest with bottled water, then tucked the leaves into a thermos of boiling water.

The route, though well maintained with carns, bisected many other trails, and without Antonio, we would have been lost. We reached a staddle after scrambling up a few pitches, and Antonio, waiting for us in the lea of a rock, offered steaming cups of tea and bread flavored lightly with anise. We peered up at Mama Cotacach's final pitch. It was steeper than we'd yte come and coated in rime ice. The ice was beginning to accumulate on my raincoat as well.

Though higher, we found the climb somehow gentler, perhaps it was simply less steep until the final ascent, or perhaps our footing was surer on the less-traveled path. But it may also have been the folklorico and andean flute eminating from the pocket of our guide, or the promise of hot tea luring us upward.

Las Fruitas

In the mercado that spills out of the daily market and onto Avienda 31 de Octubre, open air stalls offer myriad varieties of fruit. Some are familiar: mangoes (two varieties), bananas (at least five), guavas, papayas, pineapples, oranges, blackberries, strawberries, avocados, cherries and grapes. In small moments of bravery, I sally into the market, bringing back a new trophy each time.

I sample tomates de árbol - strange egg-shaped fruits with a mottled maroon and crimson sin. When I peel it, the apperance and texture are entirely tomato, but the taste is an earthy tartness that, I find out later, makes an excellent ¨juice¨ (fruit, agua purificada y asucar)

I try tamarind, cracking the dried pea-pod like husk for the sticky fruits inside. I´m surprised, after using tamarind paste and encountering it in indian restaurants to find that the fruit is mostly seed.

It's not until our profesoras take us to the market that we make the aquaintance of some of the more obscure (to us) Ecuadorian fruits. Like pepina, whose thin yellow skin hosts purple stripes and whose taste and texture bring mellon to mind. and naranjilla (little orange), a small member of the citrus family with a flavor akin to kumquats. Its tartness likewise lends itself to juice and ice cream.


After offering us a quarter of guayaba each, and discussing its characteristics in spanish, Elizabeth roots around in the remaining half for the gusano, or worm, that is often found there. "Protein", I say, "I feel it moving", Mike says. While the custard-like texture puts some off, the fruit can be used medicinally to treat diarrhea.

We end our tasting with a family of fruits whose juicy, and somewhat slimy flesh surrounds a multitude of small seeds. "Pomegranite", I think, "Salmon roe", Mike suggests. Elizabeth hands us each a spoon. The flavors range from sour to sweet and each sports a thick husk that needs to be ¨cracked¨ to get at the fruit.

The lesson fuels my bravery, and I expand my forays to ordering jugo de naranjilla with dinner, and buying guayaba jam for our morning breakfast. We find the heladeria and watch the sorbet-like ice cream being made. Fruit juice and sugar are beaten in a copper bowl nested in a larger bowl which is lined with reeds (to serve as insulation) and ice. Taxo and maracuyá for Mike, and guyabana and mora for me. What will we find next?

Pay Attention!

La escuela sits on the third floor above a dentists office and a candy store. It holds a maze of small rooms, each with a table and two chairs and a stack of books. The day begins with a stack of blank paper on which Fernando writes our lectures, scrawls new vocabulary, or draws pictures to explain them.

On our first day, he asked if we'd like to study on the roof top terrace and we've claimed it each morning since. The three of us sit at a picnic table under a yellow umbrella, which offers shelter from the sun and passing showers. After the lesson, we practice with a mixture of written and oral exercies. We read about Ecuadorian history, geography and culture. Always his lectures, explanations, jokes and praise, as they should be, are in spanish. We write it, read it, listen to it, and stumble through speaking it.

I had bought a notebook before I came to Ecuador in an effort to prime my learning. I worked through it, a chapter at a time, picking up basic vocabulary and grammar. In the six hours we studied on the first day, we covered most of what I had studied. By the afternoon of the second day we were on to completely new material. I fall asleep and wake to a litany of conjugations and vocabulary.

There are, of course, moments of great humor. When Fernado went to photocopy an exercise for us and mientras tanto (in the mean time) left us another task. We heard only "tonto" which means "dumb", and made us all laugh. And again when we struggled over the translation of students "puden atencion" or "put attention" to their studies. Imagine Fernando's dismay when we told him in the U.S. students "pagar" - pay attention! He covered his mouth and threw his head back laughing. Settling down, we put our attention to our lessons and moved on.

Finding my Edge

We set out for Imbabura amid lifting clouds in an camioneta. The driver brought us as high as he could on the cobbled road that switchbacked two thousand feet up the mountain's shoulder. From there we climbed through cow pastures and scrub to the high paramo. The trail followed a ridge and ascended steeply up a slope to gain the next. Though I am a strong adherent to staying on the trail to prevent damage to the surrounding area, the previous night{s rain had turned the foot path into a otter slide. Adjacent tussocks offered steps to climb the steep slope.

Paramo grasses gave way to a high alpine garden, which in the swirling mist, appeared like a Japanese painting. Occasionally the clouds parted to reveal our destination: a rocky crag impossibly high above us.

The path, while solid enough, snaked along a knife's edge ridge. The mountian fell away to the left and right. Sometimes we saw nothing, other times, windows in the clouds offered us views across to distant ridges and summits. Hummingbirds plunged down the slope or sprung into view only to hide themselves in a shrub. The diverse alpine garden drew me on, and the path drew me up, despite the tether of thin air which forced me to stop again and again and again sucking air.

The garden diminished and we moved up over exposed rock. My breath came in gasps from fear as much as from altitude. I was safe, and I knew it, but the effects of the altitude were insiduous. My mind, my heart and my gut longed to push on, to overcome my fear and acomplish something I knew I could complete. But my body seemed drained of all motivation.

We climbed on. Again I stopped, leaned against an outcrop, and again held court. The heavy mist around us solidified inot sleet. Above us a group who had passed us earlier were beginning to decend. I watched Mike scramble up to confer with them and I followed. "Fifteen more minutes" the assured us "y no mas dificil!"

Something in that last stretch realeased me. Already I had moved beyond what felt comfortable and into new terrain. I stood 50m below the sumit of a mountain 15,400 feet above sea level in a mix of sleet and freezing fog. I was on top of the world and it was enough.

In the Hands of Strangers

We left Otavalo on Friday afternoon in a down pour and headed to the bus station for a weekend excursion. The terminal in Otavalo is a paved plaza that, to someone, must have a clear order, but to me, resembles a pick-up-sticks tangle of busses. Walk around confused for a moment in this town, however, and help will find you. A gentleman in a yellow raincoat and pants pointed us to the bus for Ibarra, and within ten minutes of arriving at the terminal, we were on our way.

From the terminal in Ibarra, we walked six blocks or so to the smaller station from which busses leave for Esperanza. We found the plaza and began to board the bus, but the driver stopped us, explaining that we would reach Esperanza faster on the neighboring bus, which, as it turned out was the express.

It was probably evident to the driver and all the other passengers that when we boarded we were headed for the house of Doña Aida. The hostel, which sleeps 70 comes highly recommended both from the Lonley Planet book and fellow travellers as the starting point for climbing Volcan Imbabura. When we asked when to get off, the passengers passed knowing smiles and assured us it was a kilometer further up (and up indeed it was, the bus had been climbig steadily since we left Ibarra). When we neared the stop, we were ushered out of our seats and to the front of the bus. "Casa Aida?" the driver asked, and let us off at the door.

Doña Tamara met us at the door as if she had been expecting us, though we had no reservation, and she showed us to our room. She graciously agreed to have breakfast ready for us at 6:00 am and arrange for a camioneta to take us to the trail head at 6:30. We settled into our turquise, red and mustard colored room grateful for all the hands who had eased our journey.

Are the mountains out?

Roosters wake me when the world is at the edge of light. A short time later, traffic picks up. The sounds of diesel busses, delivery trucks and car horns join the morning symphony. The metronomic clicking of frogs who sang all night begins to fade.

Sunrise happens quickly on the equator, and dawn is a brief affair. Roosters and car horns wake one dog whose barking quickly ignites the others, setting the full cacauphony into swing. Only then does the sky sift from dark to light, the town from night to day.

It has become our habit, when the sun offers enough light, to spring out of bed and check the mountains. Mama Cotacachi overloks Otavalo from the northwest, and when the sky is clear, she fills our window. This morning, clouds flank her skirts, but her sumit is clear, crowned only with a lenticular cloud.

At 6:30, fully light, the music begins at the municipal track, where walkers, joggers make their circles and an aerobics class sends women bobbing and kicking to the beat.

It is not sufficient to say the weather is variable. It puts the fluctuations of the Northeast to shame. January marks a dry period in this region, but afternoon clouds and showers are common. Even when Cotacachi stands clear, Poppa Imbabura may be fully obscured by clouds. And so, he draws us, each morning, to the door and out onto our small balcony to peer out to the east, out across the empty lot which houses a sheep, and the frogs that each night sing us to sleep. We look out at the rising sun in hopes of a glimpse of Imbabura.

Otavalo

We arrived in Otavalo on market day. Its a small city of 50,000, folded in a valley between Vulcan Imbabura and Volcan Cotacachi. We found almuerzo (lunch) of chicken and rice and began to explore.

The Plaza de Pancho holds a daily hand crafts market of woven alpaca blankets, knit sweaters, embroidered wall hangings, carved statues, silver jewelry and montecristi, the traditional andean felt hats. On Saturdays it explodes into the surrounding streets, turning the main avenue and adjacent side streets into a pedestrian mall. Food vendors wheel carts with fruit, drinks, meat, beans and roasting plantains. At the fringes of the hand craft market, stalls sell jeans, sweatshirts, brillo pads, cell phones, soccer balls, pots and pans and anything else one might want or need.

Saturday´s volume weaves the hard goods market into the expanded daily market where vendors offer sacks of potatoes, beans, corn and rice, baskets of leeks, onions, tomatoes, grapes, bananas, mangoes, oranges and other fruits whose names and flavors I do not yet know. In the carne aisle sides of beef hang from hooks and pigs heads adorn trays. Women pluck lingering down feathers from whole chickens while they wait to make a sale.Dogs nose the street for scraps. Abuelas with the stature of children carry too-heavy bags. Otavaleñas, the local indigenous women brouse the market in their white embroidered blouses with billowing lace sleaves, long woolen skirts and woven belts, their children strapped to their backs with a cloth.

We wander the maze of stalls and streets, "mirando, solomente mirando", looking only, finding ourselves on the same street corner and turning a new direction. We did pick up some mangoes (five for a dollar) and bananas (five cents each)and some bread to serve as a light supper. We at it on our stoop, watching the clouds that crowned Imbabura and waiting for a glimpse.