no gringos were harmed in the making of this blog

Let's start simple: I like a lot of things. I like adventure, hot showers, delicious new foods, inside jokes, massages, painting, a good beer, a good whiskey, making people laugh, surprises, photography, kissing... The list goes on. Trust me. The things I do NOT like is much shorter: Rude people, being cold constantly, headaches, negativity, liars, oranges, and ignorance.

After a fantastic night of drinking, dancing, and making new friends, my roommate, Ian, and I woke up early to a cold, dark apartment. We have electric showers. Did I mention how much I love hot showers? And despise freezing my tots (yes, tots) off? Damn. So, sans electricity, we bundled up, grabbed some treats from the local bakery and scurried to the first of a few bus stations. The overcast morning partially disguised the beautiful Andes mountains, but the bolder peaks managed to stand strong for their 15 minutes of fame here and there. After a few changes, we settled in on a relatively clean, electric blue bus with matching velvet curtains & velvet reclining seats. I kept damning the luck that our camera got picked off our group in Tulcán the first weekend I arrived.

The dilapidated houses and strangely colored businesses lined the streets of northern Quito, and each took a part of me as I stared out the window over Ian's folded arms while we were flying by them. This bus was not exempt from the street vendors selling powdered milk, candies, Seco de Pollo, sodas, bootleg DVDs, music, and other, usually unidentified, items. 

The white fringe in the front window of the bus swung back and forth in unison with the passengers as Barbie Princess en Español with talking gatos (cats) played loudly between bursts of static on the TV behind the driver. Standard popular Ecuadorian music played relentlessly from the driver's stereo on the other side of the TV. Paired with the city traffic and the repetitive lists of what was 'se vende' (for sale) marching up an down the center aisle, our situation did not bode well for grabbing a few Z's. I ignored my headache the best I could, shoving it further and further back in my head until I managed to make room for the sweet thoughts of coconut drinks, textile shopping, new foods, and another new adventure in Ecuador.

Otavalo was absolutely charming. A small town set in the Andes, about 2 hours north of Quito, was sprinkled with all sorts of people. Saturdays host the biggest and best market, wherein local vendors, indigenous families, adventurous tourists, hopeful children, and random backpackers alike venture out to find the ultimate treasure.

Every textile invited me to run my fingertips over its threaded nature; the most brilliant cotton weaves, the softest alpaca wraps and scarves, the most intricate woven bracelets... It was all too much.

Musical instruments begged to be strummed, beaten, blown, and played at every turn. Wooden Andean pan flutes (WAY harder to play than anticipated) wrapped in an array of brilliant braided knots, small, solid guitars- either painted or carved to bewilder the eye as well as the ear- and brightly styled maracas called to me. I cannot wait to get my ukulele and start learning!

Ian is a haggling god. With that being said, I was prepared to see either this man swindle old ladies or be pushed around by them, but I was surprisingly impressed. He managed to secure amazing deals for his family gifts and still leave the vendors happy. I started taking notes immediately. By the end of the day, thanks to Ian, I too had scored some sweet deals in the middle of the Andean mountains in Ecuador. My life is rad.

I felt exhilarated and needed to taste more. Literally. I snagged this random food cart as it was passing by and asked for this softball sized monster of a snack. "Papas Rellenos, sesenta centavos, por favor" he chirped. I like me some papas, and sixty cents will sell me on most anything, so I threw some ají (salsa/hot sauce) on top and wandered back to Ian. We parked it on a curb behind two thirty-something ladies selling bracelets and scarves and bit into what has become my new favorite food in Ecuador. A hard boiled egg, buried in tasty flavored rice and tender beef, wrapped in a spiced tortilla and in my belly as fast as I could get it. Don't worry, Mom, I shared like you taught me.

Papas Rellenos

To my dismay, we were never able to track down the coconut drink vendor, but at least I have another reason to return in the future. Oh, and the fifty things I want to buy.

In the center of the open market were food vendors, selling everything from fresh fruits and vegetables to chicken heads and feet (one was looking at me...) and spices. Indigenous women wrapped in jewel tone shawls and donning fedora hats with peacock feathers or colorful hair wraps cooked contently for anyone who would stop. We decided to sit down on the toddler-sized stools in front of a small table with a massive pan over gas burners. Potatoes, a few veggies, and what was described as "Carne" by the small, but plump, indigenous woman (we called it "Mystery Meat") on a small plate for 'una dolorita' and we were set. Small, stray dogs wandered up to us and gave us "the look" but I informed them I don't speak very much Spanish and they'd have to try another table. Yes, it actually worked. Ian ate more than I did, but we both waved cautious white flags in the face of the Mystery Meat as a preemptive strike against food poisoning. (No gringos were harmed in the making of this blog.)

Paintings, hand carved wood, pipes, kitchen ware, bitchen hammocks, clothes, candy, spices, hats... Otavalo had everything and I wanted to build a home with everything I saw. I pried myself away from the market, having only purchased a small, hand painted bowl for myself, and Ian and I loaded onto another electric blue bus. Fed, walked, and played with, we were both ready to nap. Anyone see where this is going?

This time, there were no reclining seats, no charming, old Ecuadorian movies to win me over... Instead, we were plagued with Jean Claude Van Damme's "Cyborg" dubbed in crappy Spanish voices absolutely blaring over the shoddy speakers on the Blue Bus of Death. After 2 hours of horrible explosions and grunting (I am not going to clarify if that's the movie or the bus. Use your imagination.) we ran from the bus and I looked adoringly upon my new treasures from the Middle of Nowhere, Andes, Ecuador.

Until we meet again, Otavalo...