We were supposed to go to Pasto, Colombia, because R had not yet done any field research in Colombia. The plan was to drive north from Quito, see the remains of the Inka bridge near the border with Colombia, then drive to Pasto and meet the archaeologist for the Inka Road for Colombia. R had emailed and chatted with her, but they'd never met. I was excited for the road trip, as I hadn't been that far north in Ecuador and it would be my first trip to Colombia, which I'd heard was so lovely. We'd had several translators from Colombia over the years and one of my colleagues and friends in the leadership program is originally from Colombia.
So why was I abandoned in Quito? Because I carry an American passport, and with my pale skin and blonde hair, I don't look very Andean. And since two French journalists were kidnapped and ransomed about 1.5 weeks prior to our trip, in the region through which we'd be traveling, the Andean archaeologists opted for caution. I understood, and I appreciated it -- it was as much for their safety as for mine, as I would be noticeable. I certainly had more than plenty of work to do, and the truth is that they weren't sure they would be able to cross the border either, but that didn't make the disappointment any less. But off they went, a party of three instead of four.
So once I started my day, I went in search of the map that we needed. Surprisingly, I found it in the tourist store. Since I was there, I looked into the tourist train that JC and I had failed to get tickets for last year. And I had options! But since I didn't know his schedule and hadn't yet heard back from my professors, I opted to do it solo the following Saturday. That done, I went back to the plaza where I remembered that one of the artisan cooperatives had a big store, and I figured I could get some reference work done for our museum shop. Bingo!
Seed jewelry from the rainforest.
This store is one of two in the city linked to a foundation that works with indigenous communities across the country. While we prefer to work with communities directly, using an agent such as this would be better for the international work -- they can work with more communities, provide more variety and diversity, leverage that to meet demand, and handle payments and shipping more easily. Unfortunately, their administrator was away on vacation, but all the staff were really interested. We had some great conversations and they gave me carte blanche to photograph so that I could show our business folks.
Panama hats. Yes, the real ones are made in Ecuador. Paja toquilla they are called, for the plant. I had too much to carry with the activity center purchases, but maybe next time I'll get a good hat. They are renowned for their quality and their sun blocking, and come in all types of colors and styles.
Lots of lovely weavings. Two trips ago I bought a loon rug like this, but it's purple. I'm looking forward to finally getting it hung soon.
Cute llamas made of reeds.
The embroidery work is stunning. And it's all done by hand.
After lunch, I stopped into the Cultural Center, because they often have good exhibits. They had a wonderful show by a painter named Bolívar Mena Franco. I liked his work very much. This one is titled Quito en Azul [Quito in Blue].
This one is Bosque [Forest]. No surprise, I liked the landscapes much better than any of the people paintings.
The bank has its own museum too, which was fascinating. I was seeking spondylus shells and jewelry for the activity centers, as it was an important product from the coast during Inka times, and used as currency. So I took this panel for more info.
An old coin press. This was meant to be driven by horses.
And amazing old bills. Many of them were printed in the States, which I found really interesting. They were Ecuadorian currency, but the production wasn't in country. (Now Ecuador uses the U.S. dollar, and it is a sore spot.)
My room. It was quite comfortable.
My view of the floor and courtyard. I often sat at the tables and chairs out here with the laptop, as the wifi signal didn't usually extend into my room.
View from the breakfast room on the top floor. That's the Panecillo, which I visited during one of my class excursions in 2010. Whenever I hear the word "syncretism," this is what I think of. As the statue was explained to me, it was explained as a prime example of syncretism and the method of the Spanish to stamp out indigenous religion and convert the Native peoples.
Sunday morning was quiet, and I went back to work. I headed out at lunchtime, but was thwarted by La Ronda -- I was close to it, but it's a night-time spot, so nearly everything there was closed. I did find a wonderful organic soap maker though, that used local honey as their base. Nice.
But I couldn't settle on what I wanted for lunch, and I was feeling the loss of my colleagues and the inability to reach any of my friends. So I wandered, and found this group on a corner.
From Otavalo, there were playing traditional Andean music. I bought their CDs for the activity centers -- I didn't officially have the approval and new funds yet for shopping, but figured I'd donate them if it didn't come through.
Around four I went back to the hotel, to work some more and wait for R. They got back a bit later than expected, and although he'd picked up a cold, he sounded good. They had a very productive and positive trip, but not without challenge. The rumichaska bridge sounded fabulous! I was very sad. They crossed the border, but the area was completely militarized. They made it to Pasto and met the archaeologist, then were told what hotel to stay in and to get there before dark and not leave it. They spent hours with her there, though. On the way back, they were stopped and detained for more than an hour as the militaries decided what to do with R's voice recorder. Eventually, since they all had Andean papers, they were sent on their way.
It was the right call not to go. I know that. And when I got back to DC I had lunch with my Colombian friend and colleague who gave me a great history lesson on the region and its separate nature from the rest of the country. Still, I hated having to do it. R was leaving again early the next morning and I was moving hotels, both to be closer to the next part of my work and to my friends and professors.
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