Days in the Andean páramo

Saquisilí market
I wind between pigs and sheep, feeling ridiculous with my huge backpack and out-of-place white skin, but everyone ignores. They are too busy bargaining over the price of this llama or that cow. I am shocked when two ladies next to me agree on a price for a few pigs, pick them up, and throw them unceremoniously into a potato sack as though they were vegetables from the grocery store. Meters away, a man is hauling another pig, one bigger than me, into the back of his truck by its hind legs as it squeals loudly in protest.
The Saquisilí Thursday market is the largest indigenous market in the region, and I don´t see any foreigners around enjoying the spectacle. After watching the animal market as the clouds gathered around the snow-capped Cotopaxi volcano in the distance, I make my way to the tapestry and jewelry vendors, bartering for a few ridiculously inexpensive souvenirs. I have some time before the bus to Isinliví leaves so I grab an almuerzo of soup, chicken, and rice. My soup is filled with chicken feet, one food I still am not quite delighted to find on my plate.

Isinliví
The one daily bus to Isinliví is filled with Quichua campesinos returning to their farms from the market. The road narrows as we climb higher into the Andes. The hairpin curve is so tight, the bus must reverse in the middle of the curve, back wheels spinning on the very edge of a precipice. I actually stand up in panic, ready to attempt an impossible dash to safety should the vehicle plummet into oblivion. The two women across from me laugh hysterically.
¨I get nervous,¨ I explain, smiling back, knowing how humorous it must be for them to watch my facial expressions alternating between consternation and sheer terror. They smile, some of their teeth rimmed in gold, their faces brown and leathery under their European-looking homburg hats. The women are wrapped in shawls and wear velvety knee-length skirts. And I know underwear is impractical… it makes peeing in the fields more awkward.
I wear pants and hiking boots. And funny-looking piercings.
About two hundred people live in Isinliví. I disembark, drop my backpack off at the hostel, and hike up to a little hill beyond the village. I walk past pigs and sheep and nervous schoolgirls who giggle as I pass by. The view is incredible. Below me lies the Toachi River Canyon, like a canyon in the Colorado Rockies, but greener and wider. I eat grapes and enjoy the view until the rain starts. Shuddering under my thick poncho, I hurry to the warmth of the stove in the hostel.
Llullu Llama Hostal is run by Jose Luis, a Quichua guide, and his Dutch girlfriend, Katrien. They are incredibly amiable, and we spend quite the night chatting away in Spanish and English. The kitten, Rumi (Quichua for rock), pounces from lap to lap as we pass the time. Katrien and Jose Luis invite me to the local school presentation after mass the next day.
One class presents a traditional dance, the boys awkward under their long red ponchos and the girls dazzling in their fluorescent skirts. Two boys put on a play as a cautionary tale about an ¨Indian¨ who goes to Guayaquil, the big city, leaving his indigenous ways in search of work and money… only to end up a pot-smoking thief. The boys are absolutely hilarious, though, and we laugh until we almost pee. Example..
Policeman, You´re smoking marijuana! That goes against the law!
Indian boy, No it doesn´t!
Policeman, What?
Indian boy, It goes against the throat!
We are the guests of honor, and they decide that we will be the official judges of the who-made-the-best-manger contest. The second graders, with their Christmas lights and moss-covered manger, are the winners, especially since the sixth grade baby Jesus had gone AWOL.
Outside sit two ¨Añosviejos¨ (Old Years), scarecrows dressed up like old men to represent the old year. They will burn these effigies at night to represent the passing of the old year and their preparation for a new beginning. The sixth graders begin dancing, and the pull one Añoviejo out of the chair to join the dance. We think they are dragging the scarecrow along, until the Añoviejo starts dancing by himself! There was a boy inside the whole morning! Waiting, not moving… it was the grand surprise the sixth graders and their teacher had planned. Women scream, men laugh, we clap our hands, amazed and impressed.
The teachers give Jose Luis a cuy, a dead guinea pig, to thank him for our attendance. The cuy will be dinner tonight, the thick meat strange but juicy.

Trekking the Rio Toachi Canyon
The next morning I leave with detailed instructions and a rough map, planning my backcountry hike to Chugchilán. My pack is heavy and the hike will take most of the day. As I climb in and out of ridges, the pack pulls at my shoulders and my head spins from the altitude. The trails take through fields of sheep, pigs, cows, horses, and llamas. I stop to re-pack my bag, moving the heavy books to the bottom where the weight will be placed more on my hips. Three children stare at me unabashedly during this entire process, looking at each other wide-eyed to my friendly questions in Spanish. A couple passes, urging a reluctant horse across a river. Farmers harvest their plants from impossibly steep cliff sides.
I cross a ridge to find the River Toachi Canyon sprawled out below me, amazingly beautiful. I have to make it to the bottom of the canyon then climb back out the other side. Resigned, I chug some water and begin the steep descent, half falling through gravelly tunnels as my balance is affected by the heavy backpack that is slowly killing my back. Suddenly, a vicious dog rounds the corner, barking and growling. I grab a handful of rocks, ready to beat it off. Most dogs in Ecuador are not like the cute little puppies we are used to. They are vicious, sometimes rabid, animals, ready to bite and mangle with little warning. The standard defense is throwing rocks.
The dog´s owner appears, a young man wielding a machete. For the first time, I am very alert. He´s a strong man with a weapon and a dog, and I am a tiny foreign woman weighed down by my pack, sick with altitude, and very exhausted. We are three hours from the nearest town. But all is well. He calls the dog off and points me to a faster route to the river. He is friendly enough, but I breathe easier once I reach farmland again in the valley. At the river is a wobbly suspension bridge with no rails. I cross it after my lunch of crackers and water at the riverside. After the river, I climb to a blue and white church in Itaulo. I would say the town of Itaulo, but there is no town, just a chuch. Then, I enter Hell.
The trail out of the canyon is a set of incredibly steep switchbacks. I am bent double under my backpack, cursing myself for bringing my books, heavy heavy books, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. I cannot even stop for water, fearing that upon straightening up, I will topple backwards. A man passes me, trotting by rapidly… on horse. I want a horse!
At the top of the cliff, a man is harvesting corn. We exchange greetings and chat as I catch my breath. I turn to his wife, but she only grins at me. She doesn´t speak Spanish.
After a day of lonely trekking through the high Andes of the Quichua, I arrive in Chugchilán, a tiny village.
¨You carried this all the way from Isinliví?¨ the hostal owner´s son asks, taking my bag to help me inside. He is impressed.
I want to hike to Quilotoa the next day, but my body hurts from the hard trek I´ve already made it endure…. Quilotoa entry to follow….