Thanksgiving, Grand-Adventure Style

When last I blogged about the Grand Adventure, our gang of nine - plus tour bus driver, Byron - were in the town of Mindo, Ecuador. After being tested by the coffee plantation, we piled onto our tour bus and gratefully put our feet up for the drive back to Quito.  

Wednesday evening: following an afternoon rest, Byron returned to our hostel to drive us to the airport. This time, as the bus pulled up, we noticed someone new in the front passenger seat: Byron's wife. We're pretty sure he brought her along to prove he wasn't making us up.   

Why the airport? My youngest son had been unable to travel earlier and was arriving just in time for Thanksgiving with the family. Given the absurdity of nine people flocking to Mariscal Sucre Airport to pick up one lone traveler, we decided to go a step further. When Adrian finally emerged from customs, there we were, all lined up in front of the door, holding a sign with his name on it.

He appreciated the moment and I finally got my airport sign - even if I did have to hold it myself.

Thursday morning dawned sunny and clear, unusual for Quito in November. It was perfect for Thanksgiving with a twist.

Our first destination was Quito's historical center. We started with the Basilica, my favorite among Quito's wealth of old, majestic churches. That was followed by the Plaza de la Independencia (Independence Square). 

Forgive me if, for a moment, I wax laudatory. There is nothing quite like standing in the middle of this plaza, surrounded on each side by the Four Powers: on the west, the Presidential Palace; on the north, the Archbishop's Palace; on the east, the Municipal Palace, and on the south, the Cathedral. History hums beneath your feet, channeled by cobblestones laid hundreds of years before. It is one of my favorite parts of town.

I'm not exactly sure where His Eminence currently resides, but it's safe to say not in the palace. Much of the historical Archbishop's Palace has been converted into little restaurants and shops. We had a quick bite to eat there, then walked across the square to the Cathedral. After a brief visit, we continued down the street to La Compañía de Jesús (The Society of Jesus), a rather amazing old church where the central nave is covered in gold leaf. 

Following this mini-tour of churches, we walked up to the Plaza de San Francisco to find Byron and get back on the bus. Our next stop was Panecillo, the hill that rises midway down the valley of Quito. At the top, there is a massive statue: a winged Madonna, a snake crushed beneath her feet. You can walk up a spiral staircase inside the Madonna's pedestal, and stand on a narrow walkway at the top. The statue rises above you. The city sprawls before, beside, behind you. And if you look almost straight down and to the right, you see the Olla (pot): a cistern made of brick and clay, a relic from times past.  

Not a typical Thanksgiving? Perhaps not. 

But Thanksgiving is a day we are reminded of God's bounty. We stuff ourselves silly on foods resembling those provided by the native peoples of our land. We come together as a family. We look back to when we were strangers and were fed.

It was more than appropriate, then, that on the fourth Thursday of November this year, after appreciating the beauty and history of Quito, Captain Byron navigated our ship-on-wheels to the town of Sangolquí. Sangolquí is known for its cuy (guinea pig) a delicacy among the native peoples of the Ecuadorian highlands. 

We were given a warm welcome at the restaurant Byron took us to. A table was quickly set up for our group. Soon, dishes filled with cuy and potatoes and other goodies began to appear. We laughed, we talked, we ate, and while there was no wishbone for anyone to find, there was the occasional tiny paw. 

Finally, as my family finished up the feast, I asked the question that had to be asked. "So... how do you like the cuy?"

I don't remember who answered, "It's good. Tastes like turkey." The rest concurred.

As we climbed back onto the bus after dinner, I thought about our celebration:

-Family, check.
-Foods traditional to the people of the land, check.
-Strangers... based on the bemused looks of the restaurant staff, I'm pretty sure they'd rarely seen stranger. That got a check as well. 

And I gave thanks.

[coming soon... the final chapter, a.k.a., Shop Till You Drop]

Continuing the Grand Adventure - Part II

Monday afternoon, we drove back up the mountains to the small town of Mindo, nestled in the cloud forest in the midst of a large national park. Once again, Byron had to deal with my directions: "it's just up a little street about a block or two downhill from the main square; I think it's that first block; maybe the second... oh, wait, that was it! Go back! Go back!"

Eventually, we pulled up in front of Caskaffesu, the delightful bed and breakfast where we were staying. We checked in and then walked downtown to find supper. 

"Downtown" Mindo consists of one long main street and a few straggly offshoots. Restaurants abound. Soon we were enjoying thin-sliced steaks on rice, eggs on rice, stewed meat on rice - you get the drift. A little huddle of dogs watched us from the doorway; I'm pretty sure that anything left on our plates ended up in their bowls.

Back at Caskaffesu, tired and full, I climbed under the covers. The sound of frogs and crickets and my granddaughters'steady breathing mingled softly in the night. Then the rain started and I slept.

Tuesday: After breakfast, Byron drove us to the butterfly farm. Hummingbirds were just beginning to flit around the feeders that line the path. Once inside the enclosure, we dipped our fingers in banana water and wandered around picking up butterflies at will. Well... almost at will. Some had other ideas, preferring to perch on pant legs, backpacks, bald heads and other attractive places.

After the butterfly farm, we took a pickup truck to the zip-line station. I rode up front - all of the rest, fascinated that one was allowed to ride standing up in the back of a pickup (yes, with bars), hopped in the back. 

At the zip-line station we ran into an obstacle. Me. I am a round person, and the zip-line harnesses are meant for more oval-shaped people. After some discussion, we decided to change activities and the truck took us instead to the tarabita.

A tarabita, for those who are unfamiliar with one, is a small cart suspended from a cable strung across a chasm or river of any significant size. There is a pulley system to maneuver the cart from one side to the other. When I was a kid, tarabitas were hand-operated and there were no seats -just a small platform and something to grab onto.

By contrast, this tarabita was a luxury. Big enough to hold four seated on benches, it was enclosed in rails that provided plenty of protection. The cable took you out over a deep ravine with the river flashing white water far below.  

Being the helpful sort of person that I am, I instantly volunteered my two daughters-in-law, a son and a granddaughter for the virgin voyage. It didn't occur to me that any of them might not appreciate heights.

Still, let the record reflect that they did get in of their own free will.  

The gate slammed, and they were off. The rest of us stood and watched them glide gracefully out over the tops of trees, across the narrow canyon, over the pristine water so very far beneath them. They slid up to the far end of the cable and then slowly began their return.

And stopped. With the enigmatic announcement of "pictures",the tarabita operator paused the cart over the deepest part of the ravine.

We could hear the commotion all the way back at the platform. 

We tried to yell helpfully, "Pictures!" but they let us know in no uncertain terms that pictures were not on the agenda, and I think I may have heard a suggestion or two about what our fates might be if we did not get them back to firm land Right Now. After about a minute, the tarabita started up again and completed its journey.

I have never before, in my entire life, seen anyone get off a tarabita so fast.

After we had all had a chance to ride the tarabita across the river, the truck took us back down the mountain. We paused at the Mindo river to skip stones and take family pictures against the lush backdrop before getting back on our waiting bus.

First, lunch and a rest. Then we walked past the square to a special session arranged for us with Victor, a local chocolatier. After an interactive lesson on the history and craft of chocolate-making, Victor brought out trays of fresh fruit to dip in the chocolate the group had just made. It was a perfectly delicious way to end the day. 

Wednesday or, How to slide down a mountain: Susan Alban and her husband, Luis, own a coffee plantation outside of Mindo and agreed to take us out to see it. After breakfast, and making sure that everyone put their "walking shoes" on, we piled into a pick-up truck that took us to the entrance to the trail. 

Susan and her three dogs led the way. Emilio, who works for the Albans, soon made his way back to me; an experienced woodsman, he knew a weak link when he saw one. For one thing, when I packed walking shoes, I packed them with the streets of Quito in mind. Leather soles are not the smartest thing for narrow dirt paths that go up... and down... and twist and turn... and have sharp drops... and occasional mud... and it was on one of the muddy "downs"that my feet slipped out from under me and I went down flat on my rear.  

I burst out laughing. The guys all turned to help me up, but after surveying the path ahead of me, it seemed more logical for them to wait. Then I scooted on my bottom to where the path leveled off a bit more before getting back on my feet. 

And so we continued on. The uphill parts weren't too bad. Emilio and sometimes Patrick or Blake or Travis (or any combination thereof), would give me a hand or a boost and I generally stayed on my feet. When we came to a downhill spot that was too steep for comfort, I would sit and scoot. 

Once at the plantation, Susan showed us the coffee cherries at different points of ripeness. We found some wild moras and wandered among scattered banana trees. It was beautiful and peaceful and real.

Eventually, we started toward the road - not back the way we came, but down to the other side of the plantation. We hiked past the top section of the waterfall that graces the Alban's land. My guardian angel Emilio, with the help of my three guys, gave me a hand, an arm, a shoulder as needed but for the most part it was me vs. mountain.

My dignity was long since moot, but at least I could make it mostly on my own steam.  

The rest of the group mastered the trail easily. One banged knee, a few ant bites, but by and large, they were all doing great - and were way ahead of me. By the time we got to the middle section of the waterfall, the mountain clearly had the upper hand. I was willing to settle for not requiring rescue by pack mule.

It was at the end of the trek, where the final slope led down to the bottom of the hill, that I made my final stand. I wish I could say"triumphantly", but that's hard to pull off when you're round, middle-aged, red-faced, panting, wheezing, hobbling and the back of your pants holds the mud of the last two hours.

To my left was the final descent, steep and daunting. Emilio pointed to my right. There, at the bottom of a lush, green slope, was the end of my journey. A large rock rested by a rippling stream. At that moment, it was the most beautiful rock in the world.

We took a picture there; I am sitting on the rock with my whole adventurous crew behind me. 

What the camera angle does not show is the me-sized swath of flattened vegetation where I threw any remaining dignity to the wind and slid on my bottom all the way down that last hill, coming to a rest a couple of feet from home base.

I'm counting it as a win.

[next up... Quito, the airport and our Thanksgiving Cuy]

The Grand Adventure, Part I

It was indeed a Grand Adventure and as I sit here nursing the end of my cold and enjoying my tiny vodka-peach drink, it seems a good time to start putting it down on paper.  

EATING OUR WAY TO THE COAST

Saturday:  We met up in Miami International Airport, 9 of us in all, bound for Ecuador: two sons, two daughters-in-law, two granddaughters, a nephew and his wife and me, the proverbial partridge in our little family tree. For this many people - and to give us the chance to enjoy everything together - I had hired a van and driver for the week. I was ready to burst through the doors of the Mariscal Sucre Airport into the thin, mountain air of Quito and find our driver (holding one of those little signs one holds when the picker-upper doesn't know the pick-upee.) I was excited.

I was still excited but a little less enthusiastic when we all cleared customs and no one was holding a sign with my name. 

Granted, we were significantly late. Visibility had been poor and our plane had to abort an attempt to land before circling around and coming at the runway from the north. But still. I was expecting a driver holding up a little sign, and not one of those signs being held up were for me. 

While my group tried to avoid the hovering ambush of gum and candy vendors, I ran around trying to find our van and driver. To the amusement of those holding signs, I went back and re-read theirs, just in case. A couple of phone calls and a number of friendly (and at least one possibly illegal) suggestions later, our driver, Byron, pulled up. To my happy surprise, the company had upgraded us free of charge to a 16-passenger touring bus. The lack of a little sign was instantly forgiven.

Byron had a genius for smiling in the face of absurdity, a trait that would stand him well over the next few days. To being with, I am not an address person. He followed my rambling description of "a block north of Rumipamba... top of the hill, south of Mañosca..." with good cheer and in record time the bus pulled up at the front door to our hostel. We unloaded our belongings and agreed that Byron would pick us at 10:00 a.m. the next day.

Sunday: The bus arrived at 9:45. Full of bakery-fresh bread, naranjilla juice and other breakfast goodies, we actually began boarding around 10:15. By 10:30 we were on our way to our first stop: the store, to get water bottles, toilet paper and a few snacks for the road.  I saw some granadillas and added them to the cart. A few chirimoyas looked decent: I chose three. What was meant to be a brief stop became a shopping trip and I checked out with two large cloth bags full of goodies for the road.

We stopped in Aloag, still in the highlands, for allullas and queso de hoja (hard biscuits and fresh string cheese).

After a couple of hours of breathtaking views down the twisting mountain roads, we reached Tandapi and bought some fritada, maduros and mote (fried pork, ripe plantains and hominy.)

In Alluriquín we bought hand-pulled taffy.

I opened the bus window and took in deep, comforting breaths of air. When I was a kid in boarding school heading home for the weekend, that peculiar smell of lowland forest, mountain rivers and taffy always told me I was almost there.

We considered stopping for lunch in Santo Domingo, where I grew up, but decided to just keep snacking.  Visits to friends would have to wait. We needed to get to the beach before nightfall. 

Several kilometers later, we stopped for gas and a street vendor tempted us with mango slices.  Travis saw the gas prices and began plotting how to sneak some home in his suitcase.

The terrain began shifting to hills with occasional flat land.  Plantations of pineapples, African palms, cacao and bananas lined both sides of the road.  Somewhere along the way, I took out the granadillas - I have no idea what they're called in English.  The 10-year-old liked that the insides look like fish eyes.

Close to the coastal mountain range, we stopped for yuca bread and oritos (tiny yellow bananas).

Finally, just around dusk, we reached Same (south of Atacames).  After settling into our cabins, we gathered to decide on our next course of action.  The answer was unanimous: supper.

The front desk clerk recommended Seaflower, a local restaurant just inside the tiny hamlet of Same next door. Seaflower... with the name in English, I thought "tourist fare", but we were hungry after a day of snacking, so off to Seaflower we went.

The bus turned down a narrow street and stopped in front of a quiet building with bamboo walls. Hundreds of bottles swung from the ceiling in a never-ending chime. 

A couple sat chatting at a small table; the only other people there besides the owner and his right-hand man.  It looked like no one had been there all day (as I found out later, there hadn't.)  But the man who came to greet us promised that we had, indeed, found Seaflower, so inside we went.

Instantly, the kitchen sprang to life.  The couple sitting at the small table got up; the wife came to take our drink orders, while the husband went over to the bar.  Her accent in English set her apart -  something I should recognize and just couldn't. So while others were asking for piñas coladas and margaritas and beer, I was asking our impromptu waitress about herself. 

She told us she was French-Canadian (ah-hah! the accent!), her husband was French, and they were staying at the beach for several weeks. They had become friends with the owner and liked to help out from time to time.  By profession, they were translators. 

Everyone at our table pointed a finger at me and chorused, "So is she!"

In between the parade of dishes (lobster in coconut sauce, grilled prawns in butter and wine, whole pan-seared fish, conch cocktail, calamari, mussels, plates of patacones, paella, drinks that were a work of art), Josie and I swapped stories and I thought about how I have been slowly shifting my lifestyle over the past year in order to live more of the nomadic life that she and her husband have already attained. It gave me hope. It also made me smile: what were the odds of finding someone living my dream in this quiet little corner on Ecuador's northern coast?

Our cook came out to chat. A local boy, he had been trained and worked at upscale restaurants in London, Paris and Barcelona before the call of home was too much and he came back to his roots. The restaurant had been abandoned by the former owner; he purchased it and kept the name. Business was slow, but life was slower. He was happy.

As we walked back to the bus, the bottles rang softly in the breeze and I was happy, too.

Monday: There's nothing quite like falling asleep to the sound of the ocean rocking the world gently just outside your cabin, especially after an unexpectedly gourmet dinner on the beach. And there's nothing quite like waking up to the early morning light playing on the waves and knowing that it's out there, just waiting for you to come play.

It was a beautiful morning. The 14-year-old picked up what she thought was a rock and found a very upset hermit crab in her hand.  Carol Ann's pink sunglasses were lost to the surf. Patrick tossed the 10-year-old into the breakers over and over and over until he was tired but she was not.  We played. We laughed. We burnt. 

Around lunchtime, we packed up and took off for Atacames.

On our way, we stopped at a cocada factory. Blake and I went in and bought several packets of cocadas, willfully ignoring the fact that if we ate that many while they were fresh, the coconut-molasses goodness would put us into a stupor.

After an enormous lunch in Atacames, we hit the open road again. 

It was probably only an hour or two later when someone recognized the place where we'd bought yuca bread the day before. 

From opposite ends of the bus, I heard Mandy and Tiffany both murmur, "I could eat...."

[next chapter: Mindo, or, How to slide down a mountain]

(Same, Esmeraldas, Ecuador)