Luna de Miel, Part II
So, there we were, honeymooners in Bogota.
My spouse, not being schooled in doctoring and hoping that the malady that had so quickly befallen me would soon pass, forged onward, dragging me (my vision of what was happening, certainly not his) here and there so that I could experience the highlights of Colombian culture.
I remember that there were colorful open air markets with all manner of foodstuffs and crafts.
Of particular note at that point were the less than alluring odors originating from pieces of animal carcasses in varying states of decay.
There were knitters plying their handmade sweaters and mounds of equally freshly produced, right off the sheep, ruanas (capes) adding another scented dimension to the mix.
There was the Museo de Oro or the Gold Museum when my only memory is of a guard yelling at me for putting my fevered brow on the cool glass of one of the display cases.
It all became a big blur of resolve to get through this.
Despite it all, I wore my brand new, bought for my honeymoon, bright yellow coat. One tries.
While the husband made plans for the next leg of our trip, I became exceptionally fluent in two phrases, “Donde esta el cuarto de bano?” (Where is the bathroom?) and “Venden Pepto Bismo?” (Do you sell Pepto?).
Not at all what I had envisioned.
We were next scheduled to fly to Ipiales, a border town between Colombia and Equador on our way to Otovalo.
When I say fly, I do mean in a plane.
The plane, I found out to my dismay, was a vintage World War II DC 3 that looked like it had just returned from recent conflict.
At one time it had something written in on its side, but the letters were reduced to smatterings of red pigment that looked like bullet holes.
We were, in addition to the pilot and copilot two of four passengers.
Most of the interior was filled with newspapers. I asked if the plane had a rest room. Of course not. This was my first time in a prop plane.
Bogota is situated on a plateau between two of the mountain ranges that run north and south through Colombia.
At 8000 plus feet above sea level the mountains still tower above it.
And it was those mountains over which the DC 3 would fly to get into the next valley.
DC 3’s are not pressurized.
I don’t think that the pilot took the landing gear up. It felt like he simply rolled up one side of the mountain and down the other.
Actually, the feeling came from the up and downdrafts that occur while flying at 16,000 plus and minus feet.
Under other circumstances, it would have been an adventure. By then there wasn’t much beyond Pepto Bismol or going home and having my mother take care of me that was impressive.
Ipiales has no airport.
There was a sort of general landing strip that served the area.
It was necessary to take other transportation to get to Ipiales.
My spouse had secured two seats in a por puesto, or local taxi.
Our luggage was tied to the top of the car and I sat between my husband and the driver, noticing as we began our tortuous ride on the switchback roads lined with crosses where cars and busses had gone over the edge, that there was no windshield in this vehicle
It was about two hours into our ride when we stopped at a wide spot in the road. There had been a landslide on the road ahead. Cars, trucks and busses were lined up on both sides of this area waiting for the landslide to be cleared.
The spouse and I got out of the car and headed toward a small store on the mountain side of the area where I hoped they might have some kaopectate. I’d given up on Pepto.
No luck but they did have warm soda retrieved from a battered, not working refrigerator. You can’t have refrigeration without electricity.
They might not have electricity but they did have bathrooms. They were across the road.
Sure enough, like a row of porta-potties, there were a number of doors leading to mountain style restrooms, seats perched out and over the precipice so that what one’s body eliminated then became fertilizer for the crops growing on the hillsides below.
I wasn’t sure whether this was a crazy or a brilliant idea but desperation creates opportunities that would be otherwise not even be considered.
We arrived in Ipiales, covered in dust, with the name of a hotel that was guaranteed to have bathrooms, hot water and food.
I didn’t care about food, just bathroom facilities and hot water.
The desk clerk assured me that they had plenty of the latter. While my spouse headed for the dining room, I dragged myself upstairs to the room where the hot water awaited or at least I thought it did.
Unfortunately the hot water to which the clerk alluded was in the kitchen for tea.
At 11,000 feet above sea level, without central heating, I took a freezing cold shower to remove the road grime from our taxi trip.
I then started to try to put other phrases together like, “I want to go home.” and “Please take me to the American Embassy.”
We were then off to Otovalo, the small town in Ecuador where the local indigenous people of the same name had a famous monthly market.
The Otovalo Indians are ubiquitous throughout Latin America and legendary for the quality of their wares.
Our means of transport this time was the bus.
The bus was colorfully painted. It had a windshield but somehow all of the other windows were missing. It filled up fast with people, luggage, assorted boxes, chickens, pigs and goats.
When the inside seats were filled, people cambered to the roof to join the luggage and the livestock. I was fortunate to get a where-there-once-was-window seat. My husband and I were joined by a gentleman rather dapperly dressed in a black threadbare suit who was carrying a very large burlap bag filled with onions and garlic.
More joy!
My spouse and said gentlemen struck up a spirited conversation while I tried to form sentences that included thoughts like, “I want to go home” and “take me to a hospital.”
I rested my head on the metal that formerly contained the window and persevered. Well, not really. I was complaining, but in only my head, right next to the headache and just north of my intermittently protesting innards.
This was a long trip on the thousand year old Incan highway, broken only by stops by sketchy looking quasi military types who stopped the bus to see if anyone was smuggling coffee into Ecuador.
Don’t ask.
I have no idea why this was important. We did meet two engaging and totally lost citizens of her Majesty the Queen who quickly latched on to us because my husband spoke Spanish.
Our new friend with the onions said that he was the head waiter in a wonderful hotel in Otovalo where many Americans stayed and where they served, according to him, American food. That was our next goal.
The hotel that our onion friend described looked fabulous as his description.
The building with a red tile roof and stuccoed walls, surrounded a courtyard. Tropical flowers hung from the balconies. It looked like a travel poster. I had visions of a lovely room with its own bathroom, maybe even a concierge type person who could find some medicine for me.
All was not as it appeared.
Our room on the first floor was so narrow that the two beds were lined up foot to headboard.
The opposite end of the room had doors which opened into an automotive shop. The charm of the place was decidedly diminished by the exhaust fumes that seeped through those doors.
The lovely façade also covered up the fact that there was only one, door-less bathroom for 12 guest rooms. There was only water to said facility for two hours a day. For us that meant that water would be available tomorrow.
Our new British friends had equally squalid conditions.
We compared notes and decided to find a cantina, some food and drink and stay up as long as we could.
Well, they stayed up all night, drinking warm soda and beer along with two Americans who had walked across the isthmus of Panama to get there. Me? I put my head down on the dirty table and slept.
The next morning, we arrived at the plaza where the market was to take place to find out that the Otovalo Indians had had a fiesta the day before and were sleeping off their celebration.
I did manage to buy a scarf from one of the three stalls that were there and, seeing the beautiful children dressed in their native attire, I revved up my best Spanish and asked, Puedo tomar su photo? (Can I take your picture?) The mother’s reply, “Sure, for a dime.”
All was, again, not as it seemed. I probably should have asked that mother if she knew where I could get some Pepto Bismol.
It was on to Quito that afternoon. By this time, my bright yellow coat was a dusty beige, less of a contrast to my greenish pallor.
