Otavalo, in the shadow of Imbabura

Saturdays carry with them a mean market scene down here in Ecuador, where local merchants gang up on select patches of open city space, blocking roads while hawking all sorts of wares, food and livestock.  According to nearly every travel guide, Otavalo’s the king of these, and a site no tourist should miss.  I’ve been trying to get down with the grizzled “Traveler” vibe that eschews popular tourist spots, but I’m simply too new at all this — and too used to “market” translating to “Wal-mart” back at home — to pass up on the traditional Ecuadorian experience.  Unfortunately, its hyped-up, “if you don’t check this out, you may as well have just gone to Mexico” guidebook reputation seems to have transformed it over the past few years from “traditional Ecuadorian experience” to “kitschy tourist trap.”

Actually, that’s not fair.

Looking down on the heady market scene

There are plenty of goods — clothing materials, rare foods and grains, and sometimes even truly handmade wares — that make it enough of a destination to have earned its popularity.  And seeing hundreds of “traditional” merchandise stands crowded up uncomfortably against one another like sweaty kids at a summer music festival is a uniquely non-North American sight.  The sea of colors and people, and the open invitation to practice haggling skills is almost alone worth the trip.

But after being sold on the idea of buying goods made by indigenous old women wearing interesting hats for ridiculously low prices, it was a bit of a letdown to see every clothing stand presenting the exact same four alpaca sweaters, clearly made and purchased originally from the same factory.  And possibly it’s just me, but when I think “traditional wares,” cheap red, yellow and green necklaces with Bob Marley’s stoic visage printed over them and chintsy marijuana pipes shaped like two turtles banging with “GALAPAGOS” stamped over the top turtle’s shell don’t come to mind.

The day trip — two hours by bus — was another one randomly plotted out on the spur of the moment around the hostel’s dining room table the night before with the help of a Lonely Planet guide and a few bottles of Pilsener.  As generically flavored as it is named, the beer is the most reliably served throughout Ecuador, followed immediately by Club (also Ecuadorian) and Brahma (Brazillian, I believe).  Budweiser and Heineken make appearances from time to time, but that’s about it on the beer front.  A six pack of Guinness, occasionally snuck in via luggage or political connections, has alone been known to inspire house parties.  Pilsener isn’t terrible, but it’s terribly far from good.

Everyone takes buses, but no tourists seem to have mastered the procedure yet.  The schedules change too often to be written up in any guidebooks, though street vendors sell cheaply printed copies of bus times that might just be reliable enough to be counted on for the next few weeks.  Terminal Terestre tends to be the standard spot for inter-city traveling, though there are other options with different times, destinations and deals, and international bus travel requires a dropoff I haven’t even discovered yet.

Despite the existence of the station, buses will slow down anywhere along a given route for every cluster of potential travelers on the sidewalk.  Thus, the few faces we see in the massive complex are either vendors selling chips, taffy, fruit, beer and/or hard alcohol, or other tourists like ourselves.  Destinations are boldly listed above every ticket window, yet those manning the booths still bark out the destinations relentlessly to the mostly empty station, as though yelling “MINDO MINDO MINDO MINDO!!!” enough might inspire someone originally planning on a trip to Guayaquil to spontaneously alter their travel plans.

Otavalo’s two hours away, so it’s easy to guess the two dollar price before even making it to the window, following the fairly intuitive “a buck an hour” rule for bus rides here.  There’s five of us on this outing, including two Canadians on the last leg of their South American adventure, and Arlem and Simona, two Germans I spent several days traveling with before determining they weren’t actually a couple.  Leaving the station, only eight spots on the bus are filled; it’ll be packed well before reaching our destination.  Quito to Otavalo probably should be an hour-long trip, but stopping at nearly every city block to alert everyone on the street that this bus is going to “OTAVALO OTAVALO OTAVALO OTAVALO!!!!” can be a bit of a slowdown.

Ecuadorian public transit chip vendor

Another interesting take on bus travel that hasn’t really caught on yet with Greyhound up in the States is the allowing of a barrage of solicitors onto the bus with the regular passengers.  With each random stop to pick up new riders, salesmen hop on the bus to walk the aisle with their wares until the next stop several blocks later, where they ostensibly jump out to wait for the next busload of potential buyers.  The majority of these are nonabrasive food vendors, pushing everything from plantain chips and popcorn to hot quesadillas and bowls of rice and chicken [Sorry I've yet to take pictures of these, Liz!].

Far more irritating are the ones with a pitch– a spiel.  Like door-to-door Cutco Knife salesmen of the 50s, they come prepared with inedible merchandise you didn’t even know you needed, yet now suddenly must buy before the credits on the Nicholas Cage DVD have even finished.  The atonal Spanish speech drones on as though even the speaker can’t stand listening to himself anymore, punctuated at times by the lifting of these incredible products into the air to inspire an awe from the listless bus passengers that never comes.  Here’s a bracelet made from five metals that will protect you from most infections and diseases — looks pretty damned dapper too!  Try some top-of-the-line shoe inserts — it’s like your toes are having sex! [Note: my Spanish is not yet good enough to know for certain that this is what was said].  Want some imported incense?  Christmas tree ornaments?  Luxury chapstick?  Good thing you rode the public bus today, because man, you can’t find goods this high in quality anywhere else!

Off the bus, more food vendors sit hunched over in small booths, generally alone and without the aid of reading materials or other forms of entertainment to help pass the long, uneventful day.  Hot dogs (the term wouldn’t possibly translate enticingly over here — especially given the amount of stray dogs ambling down every street) are popular, as are hamburguesas, which I hopefully needn’t translate.  Sadly, the popular style of the latter here are paper thin slabs of meat that make the basic McDonald’s variant look positively beefy.  Otavalo’s food market’s almost as hyped as the merchandise spot, so buying such standard culinary offerings seemed criminal.

Not terribly different from the standard US farmer's market, actually...

Cramped quarters and an overwhelming supply of goods play tricks on our ADD minds and we get separated from the Candadians within the first fifteen minutes.  No handy mall maps proclaim “you are here” but the pungency of the food court is a handy olfactory guide and cheap linen peasant shirts are ignored for now as we hone in on enough food to fill a mall’s worth of stores in the states, all crammed into a space about one fifth the size.  The display, as colorful as it is aromatic, is a mix of hot almuerzo (lunch) stands and fresh meat, bread and produce vendors.  Fruit dealers pile bunches of grapes up to five feet high over their platforms, with mandarins, apples and various other fruits in large bags hanging over the sides of their tables, a dollar per bag.

That Wilbur was some pig.

A quick turn and I’m unexpectedly eye to eye with the impassive eyes of an ostensibly succulent pig, its unmolested head trailing off into entrails upon the table.  He’s not alone, as apparently nothing says “good fresh meat” like greeting each shopper with a giant porcine grin.  Beef doesn’t seem to be as prevalent here, though every possible cut of pork lays across the open-air tables, and select vendors offer fresh cuy (guinea pig) as well.  I haven’t tried the latter yet, but decide as I walk by a stack of the rodents, each with a deep-fried grimace perpetually frozen on their faces that this is neither the time nor the place.  Soon, though…

Two bucks gets me a plate of rice, vegetables, sausage and plantains and a bowl of chicken consomme, plus another dollar for some juice.  The soup is a comida tipica (standard local food, basically) and this isn’t my first time downing it.  For the most part, it’s a simple chicken broth with meat typically still attached to a bit of bone for some flavor.  The extra flair comes with Aji sauce — a thin salsa made with peppers, onions, tomatoes, garlic and vinegar almost religiously placed on the table of every restaurant I’ve been to — plus some avocados, and a small pile of funky black powder with the lightly moist consistency of fresh soil.  The flavor’s more interesting than good or bad, and after several samplings I finally break down and ask when I’ve got a translator handy.

I generally just add salt when my soup's a bit lacking, but I guess dried cow's blood works too...

“He says it’s dried cow’s blood…”

“Oh.”

Well, this is what I came here for.

Strange and unusual bacterias and parasites have made their homes in my digestive system, as expected, and I run to the bathroom for some temporary relief.  Entry’s five cents, but I made the rookie mistake of not bringing toilet paper along, so a handful of the stuff costs me an additional twenty.  The stall’s far from gorgeous and missing a toilet seat as well, but I’ve seen worse both here and in the States.  And the smell’s barely even asphyxiating.  My stomach problems aren’t too rough yet, but the fun’s just beginning…

Outside, the Germans and I weave in and out of the stalls.  Before it dawns on me that I’m checking out the exact same shawls, shirts, sweaters, smocks and socks at every other stand, the rainbow of colors is as overwhelming as a Skittles commercial.  I settle on some alpaca socks, which I successfully haggle down from seven to three dollars, despite not really wanting them.  Many of the stalls are specifically aimed at tourists, but there’s still a sizable cluster of them that aren’t; a sneaker stand displays a vast pyramid of shoes, paired together by a single knot in the shoelaces, ten bucks a pair.  One stand is just a series of old electronics scattered over the pavement, including a vintage Beta-max along next to a cardboard box of copied movies on those bizarre single reel tapes to go along with it.

The Otavalo garment district

Entire tables are dedicated to yarns and clothing material of every color and local animal fur, apparently for a tenth of the cost that the same quantity would cost at home (as was giddily explained to me by a habitual knitter with a trash bag full of the stuff).  A light blue alpaca sweater reminds me of something my friend Aimee would wear, but if I picked up something for her, I might feel obliged to grab something for her husband Bernie as well, and that would be terrible [private note: f bernie].

We saunter around for a couple of hours, almost buying some things we almost want, before heading back towards the bus for the two hour ride and obligatory Jean Claude van Damme movie.  Twenty minutes outside of the station, a European woman tells us that we’re close to La Mariscal (turns out it means “The Marshall” — Backstory there still uncertain…) and we unwisely jump off.  It’s a long walk, and Arlem is the

In the end, it just wasn't my style

one that just got tackled and mugged in broad daylight just two days prior, so every group of four or more males between the ages of 17 and 35 heading toward us is perceived as a threat, leading to some timid dashes across the street — through moving traffic at times — likely amusing the hell out of our potential “attackers.”

Enough other people have been enthralled by Otavalo that I wouldn’t knock it.  If nothing else, the place is on every “Ecuador Top 10″ list, so a quick visit’s good just for the sake of proper touristry and a sense of completion.  Nearby are large blue lakes, and the dormant volcano Imbabura that Otavalo sits in the shadow of both offer plenty of multi-hour hikes and diversions that we failed to take advantage of.  But in the end, I’d filter the trip under “mildly interesting things that I need never do again.”