I can’t sit here forever, so I push up, bracing backwards on my elbows to take the weight of the pack that’s discommoding my center of gravity. I feel more than hear the prrrrr of fabric separating as I do, oh this is just getting better and better isn’t it? Now not only am I thoroughly lost on an unmarked track of a road somewhere in the Andes, not only am I out of water and pantingly dehydrated in the thin altitudinal air, alone and having left no trail of breadcrumbs literal or digital by which my vulture-gnawed corpse may be eventually tracked down and returned to my grieving parents, oh no that just wasn’t going to be quite enough—now I have a giant hole ripped in the seat of my pants. I am tempted to fall right back down to a defeated seat on this rock wall again, but unfortunately that won’t change any of the relevant details here and now I risk having rocks poke at my newly exposed skin through the brand-new ragged tear, so upwards and onwards I suppose, the choices are limited to say the least.
The day had begun so well, too, I should know by now to mistrust auspicious beginnings. Although actually, now that I am contemplating it in the leisure of this entirely lost moment with only my thoughts for company on an abandoned road, the auspiciousness of the day’s beginnings were dubious at best, it’s all relative. Leaving Otavalo in the morning after the market, I had aimed for the market in the next town over, Cotacachi. My guidebook has told me that it’s the second-best place in Ecuador to buy handmade leather goods, and it’s a lot closer to my planned route than the first-best place so I am on a mission for a lovely leather handbag, or perhaps a belt, or I don’t really know but I certainly want to come away with some manner of trophy or prize, something about which I can modestly say, “Oh, I just picked it up at the leather market in Cotachi...oh, a little town in Ecuador…it was about $15, I think?” when I am complimented on my unusual and lovely accessory.
Leaving Otovalo, then, and early early, both to hit the market right when it starts and presumably snap up the best or most unusual products and also because I have planned a rigorous day for myself, after the market I am to head back south towards Cayambe and then switch buses to the Hacienda Guachala, where I want to arrive no later than 2pm so that I can go horseback riding up to the old Incan ruins and be back before dark. Arriving in Cotacachi, early early and I get off the bus, the station is a bit outside of town away from the main square and for a market day I’m surprised how few people are on the bus with me. I pull out my guidebook and orient myself on the sketched out map, the town square is that way and up, of course its uphill, everything is in these Andean towns and is there any particular reason why they couldn’t build a town in a valley, or on a plain perhaps?
Through deserted streets with shuttered windows, I am the only person around and all the shops are closed. I find a tienda with it’s beaten tin shutter propped open on a stick, buy some cigarettes and some water. I ask which way the market is, I fail at this spectacularly but the dessicated old man manning the tienda knows where I’m going anyway, why else would I be here? He confirms that I’m headed in the right direction and eventually I arrive at the main square, the heart of the market. Or at least, it will be at some point today, but right now I have the park to myself, sharing only with a few pigeons and one of those old men that gravitate to the main square of any city or town to contemplate the Spanish colonial façade of the church that inevitably presides over any Latin American city or town.
I sit down on a bench, contemplating the Spanish colonial façade of the church presiding over the square. Smoke a cigarette and I am trying to appear as if this is exactly what I intended, arriving at this deserted square, maybe just to look at these giant plaster statues of garishly painted farmers, it reminds me of Paul Bunyan statues for some reason, folk heros. There’s probably a story associated with this oversized diorama, but I don’t know what it is and will likely never know, the old man on the bench could probably tell me, such stories seem to be the prerogative of the old men in the square but I don’t understand enough Spanish to hear this story or any other he may have.
Still just me and the pigeons, and the old man and the church and the diorama, and now someone is pulling up a wheeled cart covered with a frayed blue tarp. With a couple of deft gestures the cart becomes a pop-up craft stall, and the woman starts hanging leather handbags and trinkets on hooks studding the thin poles holding up the top of her stall. I give her a few minutes to set up and then casually sidle over, touching everything lightly and not speaking, pretending that I am one of a swarm of people evaluating one of many vendor stalls. My pretense isn’t going so well, and I’d like to just buy something and then get on with my day and get out of here but there’s nothing here I want, the handbags are all diamond patterned leather with a fringe that I don’t like and furthermore I saw these all over the market at Otovalo yesterday, I want something different, something the tourist groups swarming yesterday’s market couldn’t get there because they didn’t know to come even higher up to this town today, I want the prize, the reward for my superior knowledge and planning and this booth doesn’t have it.
Back to my bench, then, and oh here comes another tarp-covered cart and the magician’s touch that makes it a craft stall, and as I feared it is all the same things, that is the way of these markets the world over, everyone selling the same products and all competing to sell you the same trinket, buy it from me not her. I sidle over anyway, what else am I going to do here, touch everything gently, smile and step away. I am running out of time if I am going to keep my day’s schedule, and I decide that getting to my horseback ride is more important that waiting for these vendors to trickle slowly into the square to display their identical goods, and didn’t anyone tell them that markets are supposed to start at dawn?
I leave the square empty-handed, walk down the cobbled street back towards the bus station, downhill this way at least, the sun coming higher over the mountains and now the town is starting to wake up, there are sweepers in the street and the shop windows are rattling open, maybe here but no it’s those same diamond-patterned leather bags and so I move past and return to the terminal, and board my next bus, on to Cayambe, this goes smoothly too so I am on track so far. We rumble down the mountain and around the curves, it’s about an hour on the bus and then arriving, I’ve looked and my book tells me there’s no central station and the place I’m aiming for is a little off the track, there’s no direct bus anyway, I’ll have to catch another bus and then get dropped at the closest access point and walk, and I am trying to make this connection fast I can’t afford to get stuck waiting for a bus for two hours if I am going to end my day on a mountain pony so I jump off the bus in Cayambe, according to my book I need to go two blocks to the right and then one straight ahead and then I’ll be at the right local bus so I walk fast and see a bus right there, it’s about to pull away perfect timing but have to make sure it’s the right one, I shout “Guachala?” The bus tout responds in rapid Spanish, I look at him blankly and point at the bus and ask again, “Guachala?” and he nods his head while rolling his eyes and I climb on, third bus of the day down and I am on my way and almost there.
The bus is supposed to drop me off right by the equator, there’s a little monument there proclaiming the belly of the globe and we pass it on the road, I tug at the tout’s sleeve and ask the question with my eyes, it’s more eloquent than my Spanish. He nods, he knows what I’m worried about, this isn’t the right place. He asks me a question, I guess trying to confirm exactly where I want to go, I understand only “Guachala” so I say “Si, la hacienda Guachala,” my guidebook said the bus drivers would understand where I wanted to go. It’s an old hacienda or farm estate that’s been reimagined as an eco-hotel ranch in the heart of the valley and it’s the only place a gringa like me would be headed. My research indicated that I could take a taxi from Cayambe, or alternately take a local bus, this one that I’m on, and ask to be dropped at the access road, from which it would be an easy one mile walk to a clearly marked sign. The bus tout and I have now conferred several times and agreed on “Guachala,” so we are all good to go and he shouts to the driver to stop a few minutes later, he’s given up on talking to me since sign language works better and points at me, and then the dirt road that is branching off to the left, I step off the bus and ask one more time, “Guachala?” pointing to the indicated road, just to make sure one last time that we’re all clear, he nods and rolls his eyes again “Guachala” declarative and certain, and then the bus pulls away.
It’s a crisp, clear day, middle of the summer but pleasantly cool high here in the mountains, and the road across from me is invitingly shaded by tall trees on both sides. My directions say I can take another bus the rest of the way, but it’s only a mile and it’s a beautiful day and early too, before noon and I am right on schedule, I am sure I can walk it before a bus would come anyway and it’s a better story to “hike” in to this hotel as that is definitely how I will tell this story, with no mention of the bus option. There’s a bounce in my step, I adjust the straps on my backpack and make sure my water is handy, I only have about half a liter left but its only a mile and I’ll be at the lovely hacienda soon, I cross the road and set off down that shaded road feeling a little bit like an adventurer from a fantasy novel.
A beautiful day and walking down a pretty road, and not steep uphill for once just a gentle rise. I walk for a while, I’m not really keeping track of time yet. I know it should take me about 15 minutes to walk a mile but everything is a little harder here at high altitude so it may take me longer, I make sure to keep drinking water, hydrating is important. There’s a fork in the road, to the right it continues on and to the left there’s a gate, could this be it? But my directions don’t say to bear left, and this gate doesn’t have a sign and there’s supposed to be a sign and I’m not sure if I’ve gone far enough yet, I pause for a moment, indecisive. Wait, perfect, I see three people walking down the road towards me from beyond the gate, I wave and shout, “Donde esta la hacienda Guachala?” pointing first towards the gate, and then towards the branch off to the right. They look at me warily and then shout an answer, I don’t understand so I ask again, “Guachala? La hacienda Guachala?” And they nod to each other and then point up the right branch, I smile and wave a thank you, adjust my pack on my back and continue on up the road, still stepping lightly and confident that I am almost there.
The road is climbing more here, the uphill is a little steeper and the trees have petered out, the sun beating directly down on my head. Off to my right I see a giant plastic tent thing in a field, looks like an agriculture project of some kind, there are four of them in a row and that is definitely not a hotel ranch and I keep going. The road is getting rougher, the ruts deeper and with fist-sized rocks cropping up occasionally, I haven’t seen a car or a bus yet and I’ve been walking for a while now shouldn’t there have been a bus by now? But there hasn’t been, and those people told me I was going in the right direction so onwards and upwards, and I see a gate off to the left, it leads to those giant plastic greenhouse things it’s not where I’m headed but there’s a man in rubber waders by the gate, he’s leaning on it laconically watching the approach of the tall blonde with a backpack out here where there are no other blondes with backpacks, and as I approach I stop, leaning on my knees for a second and panting a bit, “Donde esta la hacienda Guachala?” He looks at me blankly for a second, I know I asked that question right but he seems confused, I ask again, “Guachala?” And he nods, a little abruptly as if startled, and confirms, “Guachala,” but doesn’t indicate a direction. I ask again, “Donde?” pointing both ways up the road, ahead and then back the way I came although I know it’s not back there I would have passed it by now and there’s going to be a sign. He nods again, says “Guachala,” and points up the road, I am still on the right heading so I wave my thanks and continue on.
I keep walking, the road worsening and sun growing hotter, I take my last sip of water and something has definitely gone wrong here because even allowing for altitude slowing me down I have walked far more than a mile and I know it, but everyone keeps telling me that the Hacienda is up this road, from the guy on the bus to those people by the first branch to the dude in the waders so I’m not sure how I went wrong but I did somehow, and I am sweating and tired and this bag is heavy, maybe I should just sit down for a minute but there’s nowhere to sit down out here on this empty road other than in the middle of it, despite the lack of traffic I’m not quite comfortable doing that so I continue on. A few minutes later I see a low rock wall to the right, loosely stacked and then it looks like covered with chicken wire to keep the wall a wall rather than a pile of rocks. I’ll just take a little break here, take stock and evaluate my options, which really means take a moment and pretend that I have options.
I sit down, don’t bother taking my pack off I’ll just have to put it back on and if I lean back a bit the bottom of my pack rests on the wall too, just take a minute and get my breathing back to normal and I really wish I had more water but I don’t. So nice to sit down, and I consider my options, I could just stay here, sitting comfortably, until a car comes along and, except there hasn’t been a car for the hour I’ve been on this road so that is probably not going to work. I could backtrack the way I came, back to Cayambe and then get a taxi I guess, but that would take the rest of the day and I know I’m close, I know it, I followed all the directions perfectly and Guachala is somewhere close by it must be, probably just a few more minutes up the road and I know they’ll have water there. Whenever I get there. So I take a deep breath and stand up and then that prrrring sound…
I stand there, swaying a little. I consider crying, hey look I do have options, I could cry or not cry, it’s nice to feel like I have a choice of some kind. Crying, however, would just mean that I would be a tired, crying tourist, lost in the middle of the road and alone and still not at the Hacienda Guachala or knowing which way to go, which doesn’t really progress me much towards the goal of being a non-crying, non-tired tourist seated in a comfy chair at the Hacienda Guachala which has to be somewhere around here, it has to be. I decide not to cry, for the moment, although I am reserving the right to cry later if I deem it necessary or helpful in any way. I adjust my pack again, this time trying to pull it lower to perhaps conceal the rip in my jeans a little bit, as if there is anyone out on this godforsaken road to see it anyway. I continue on in the same direction, if I am lost, which I am, I am at least going to commit to being lost, I shall be as thoroughly lost as it is possible to be, despite the fact that I have that sneaking feeling that the Hacienda Guachala is probably right in front of me and lit up with blinking lights and neon arrows and I have just somehow managed, with all of my considerable talent of being oblivious, to not see it.
Around the curve and then Eureka, at last, I see something off to my left that looks like a driveway and not to an agricultural tent, there is a bona fide fountain there I have found something! I am not ready to quite believe that I have found the Hacienda Guachala, there is no sign but this is by far the most promising thing I’ve found on this road yet. There’s a middle-aged woman near the driveway, she sees me approaching and pauses, looking at me curiously, and I stagger up, panting, and ask, “Esta la Hacienda Guachala?” Her face smooths a bit, “Si,” and “Oh thank god I thought I’d never get here,” speaking English now because I know the people at the Hacienda speak English, I emailed in my reservation a week ago and they are expecting me, but her face is crunched in confusion again, she didn’t understand me and does not seem to have any expectation that a tall blonde tourist will wander in off the road, this must not be it after all and we try to exchange information but it’s not working very well, she can see the defeat on my face though and stops, says that she will get her daughter.
She steps away and calls in a clear, ringing voice, I am familiar with that tone, it’s how my mother used to call me and my sister home when we were playing out in the countryside where we grew up. A moment later and a young girl runs up, she’s about twelve or so. She has a quick conversation with her mother in rapid Spanish and then turns to me where I am swaying with my knees locked, and asks “What are you trying to find?”
“La Hacienda Guachala.”
“This is the Hacienda Guachala.”
“The hotel?”
“Aaaah!” We are having a moment of clarity here at last, and there is another rapid exchange of Spanish and then, “It is on this road,” I was headed in the right direction the whole time go me, “About five kilometers,” you have got to be kidding me there is no way I can hike another two and half miles up hill with this backpack and no water, her mother doesn’t understand the conversation but sees my face fall and steps in, why don’t I come inside for a moment and set my bag down.
I am not sure this is appropriate and I feel like I’m intruding, a stray wandering in off the side of a mountain, but they are kind and I need to sit down and take my pack off so I follow them into their ranch house. The daughter sits down to talk to me, she is excited to speak English and also to make fun of her mother for not speaking English “very good.” They offer me water, I accept gratefully. They also offer coffee, or would I like some fruit perhaps but I really don’t want to impose and the chance to sit down in the shade and drink some water without my backpack is all I wanted or needed right now. Well, that and to be at the Hacienda Guachala, which I have still not quite managed.
The daughter explains that her father will be in soon, he is trying to sell one of the horses or something like that, and until then we make the obligatory small talk of travelers. She is really excited when she hears that I’m from New York City, so delighted that she delights me too, after all let’s think about context here—she lives on a farm in a remote corner of the Andes and a New Yorker has just walked up to her house to have a conversation in English. She introduces me to their dogs, they are beautiful, and we are still waiting on her father so she insists on showing me the farm, there are llamas and a pond and a stunning mountainscape all around, I could be Julie Andrews singing in the
We go back inside, her father is done with his transaction and I going to meet Josef. He strides over and shakes my hand, says in perfectly accented and inflected English, “Hi how are you?” This is certainly an unlooked-for boon; it turns out Josef was formerly an English teacher in
As it would turn out, the entire valley is the historic Guachala estate, and the bus driver dropped me off at the wrong access point. This explains why everyone kept pointing me further up the road, a tactic which I was coming to regard darkly as a malicious prank pulled on the lost tourist, but no; the whole valley is the Hacienda Guachala, and the hotel that I am aiming for is only one small part of it. Josef’s sister in law owns the hotel, or something like that, a cousin or other relation. He offers to drive me up there, I accept but then his daughter interrupts, she had insisted that she would take me on horseback. Josef pauses, and then asks me, “Would you like to go by horse?”
I don’t want to intrude, don’t want to impose, but I really really do want to go by horse and it’s not so much of imposition really when it is making his daughter’s day, as this whole interlude most definitely is. He sends his farm hand to saddle up the horses, they are Peruvian walking horses and we talk horse-talk for a while, the only walking horses I’ve been on are
He assigns me to his daughter’s horse, and she runs alongside as we trot up the road, its shaded by trees again and I am enjoying the peculiarly smooth walking gait of this horse, it is subtly different from the Tennessee walker gait, and I am getting my horseback ride after all. We arrive at a hacienda, yes yet another Hacienda Guachala but it’s the right one this time, we’ve come up essentially by the back door and there isn’t a sign if I’d been on my own I might have missed it, well that’s not true if I’d continued on I certainly would’ve run eagerly to any sign of human habitation whatsoever and damn the lack of signage. We pull up and dismount, he is going to walk me inside and make sure that I am solidly landed in my intended destination.
He greets his sister-in-law or cousin or whatever she is, they embrace and kiss on the cheeks, they are speaking in rapid Spanish again and I can’t understand much of it but he gestures to me and says “la turista perdida,” he is explaining that he picked up a lost tourist off the side of the road. I am still pretty tired, but this whole interlude has given me my sense of humor back and when the hotel manager turns to me to greet me I smile and say, “Si, yo estoy la turista perdida,” and we all get a big laugh out of it. Josef walks me in, he takes my notebook and writes down his email address first though, if I run into any problems in
As we walk onto the veranda, Josef sees another family eating lunch, there are shouts of joy and surprise as they greet each other vigorously. I learn that these are old friends, from Colombia, they have not seen each other in years and this family just happens to be on vacation at the Hacienda Guachala this weekend, the world is really that small, what a coincidence. Josef bids me farewell, so does his daughter, and I am already plotting the gifts I will send to them when I get home, a “Brooklyn” t-shirt for the daughter and maybe some of my mom’s homemade pickles, appropriate hospitality gifts, I have already given Josef my parents’ phone number and assured him that he will always be welcome in North Carolina, knowing that my parents will be eternally grateful to the man who picked up their dumbass lost daughter in the third world and delivered her to safety, sitting in a comfy chair at the Hacienda Guachala, not-crying, not-lost.
I will wait until tomorrow to ride up to the ruins.
