Quilotoa, Ecuador The stretch of Quito continues on for half an hour or more as I head south by bus to Latacunga, diesel fumes slowly painting the small tiendas and casas gray. Rough concrete block is the dominant theme. Once in Latacunga, I am suddenly the only gringo in town, as I settle down for some lasagna swimming in a tray of bubbling cheese in a small restaurant alongside the beautiful central park. It´s Friday night and the place is buzzing with teens cruising, couples making out, reggaeton, and some sort of political car parade, horns blasting. Cops are everywhere, stopping cars and searching them.
Up early the next morning to catch the bus to Zumbahua, and after a couple hours climbing into the picture-perfect Andean mountainside, I am once again suddenly in another world. This is el campo, the country, rural, remote, home of the Quichua-speaking idigenous folk. This Saturday market is not for tourists (I´m the only one), rather it is a trading center for the campesinos who have come miles from small villages and home-plots to buy and sell the things they need to live.
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Bread, vegetables, herbs, clothes, hardware, beans, music, llamas, pigs, chickens, piles of guts on open tables warming up close to the sun. All for sale. The bronze-skinned, wrinkled, tough, stalky, rooted women look beautiful in their felt hats, very long coal-black braided hair wrapped tightly in multi-colored woven bands. The solid red, or green, or blue shawls covering elaborate embroidered blouses or T-shirts. Black skirts. Knee-high socks of various shades and patterns pulled up tight. Simple thin black shoes, some appear plastic, offering no support and little defense. The oldest of the women are barefoot. The men in slacks, button-down shirts, and light jackets. (more…)
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