Destination: Otavalo (part 1 of 3)

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The interior of the Quito bus terminal is dimly lit, with a high ceiling and dingy concrete floors. Venders line the middle of the terminal, perched on stools beside stands piled high with brightly packaged candy and soda. A single lightbulb hangs from the roof of each stand. Along the right wall are ticket windows for destinations throughout Ecuador (Cuenca, Guayaquil, Baños, etc.). The ticket sellers lean out their windows and holler their bus' destination as you pass by. Outside these windows are attendants who try to hustle would-be travelers. Twenty feet away from the Otavalo ticket counter a hustler spotted us approaching, and, shouting, "Otavalo, Otavalo, Otavalo!" he ushered Brenna, Ami and I over to the ticket window. Once our bus tickets were purchased we found ourselves outside and then hustled onto our bus.

The bus seats on our bus were cushioned and fake velvet curtains were draped in front of the windows. A black partition separated the passengers from the bus driver. On this partition hung a picture of a rather sickly-looking Jesus wearing a crown of thorns, blood dripping down his face. Above the picture it read, "Dios guia mi camino." No offense, Jesus, but you don't look like you're in a position to guide anyone anywhere.

When the bus pulled out of the terminal there were approximately eight passengers on board. I wondered how it was the bus company made any money when they willingly left the terminal with so few passengers. I didn't wonder for long. As we left Quito (a lengthy process) our bus attendant leaned out the door and shouted, "Otavalotavalotavalooooo!" at the pedestrians. Any time someone wanted to board the bus would slow to a crawl (and occasionally even stop briefly) just long enough for the attendant to hop off and the new passengers to climb on. Off the bus would rumble with the attendant jumping back on just before he was left behind. Periodically venders would clamber on and wander the bus aisle, selling water, candy, fried potatoes, and more. A mile or so later they'd exit the bus, off, I suppose, to sell their wares on the next bus.

The ride to Otavalo took roughly two and a half hours, during which we wound through hills, spotty forests and barren land dotted with cacti. An hour or so into the trip it occurred to me that I was placing a great deal of faith in our bus driver -- I had no idea what road we were on, what any of the landmarks between Quito and Otavalo looked like, or if there was a bus terminal in Otavalo or if we were just going to be dropped off somewhere (or if we would receive some warning before we arrived at that somewhere). It was an unsettling revelation, but one that troubled me only briefly. There wasn't much I could do except enjoy the bumpy ride. Which I did. As much as one possibly can.

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