I am sitting at a 100-year old maple dresser, primarily because the 200 year old writing table doesn't have a flat top upon which to set the NEC Versa 2000C laptop -- its writing surface is slanted, to facilitate the easy, aggressive flow of 18th century Spanish script, written with a quill. Above this desk is a Durer; Otavaleno weavings decorate, simply, the thick stucco and stone walls; outside, llamas graze peacefully in the grounds. Arucauria and palm trees are arranged around a pool, separated by expanses of lawn fringed with lilies. We're roughing it again, at the Hacienda Pinsaqui, five miles north of Otavalo.

Pedro Freile Larrea is the seventh generation of Los Freiles for whom this hacienda has been home. He is fond of horses, and brings them into the large parlor to warm before the fireplace. Here Bolivar slept on his diplomatic commutes between Quito and Bogata. Here Ecuador and Colombia signed a friendship treaty in the 19th century. In 1868, a terrific earthquake destroyed all of Imbabura province -- including Otavalo -- and the Hacienda had to be rebuilt. Two decades later, the hacienda was sold to los Freiles. Four years ago, Pedro Freile -- a tall, expressive man beneath a yellow and black poncho -- began to rehabilitate the buildings. Today seven quarters and a dining room have opened to introduce visitors to the pleasures of another era.

I could say we have retreated here from the cholera epidemic sweeping Otavalo, but our purpose is much less illustrious: we're resting our senses after a morning at the Otavalo market, perhaps the oldest indigenous trading event in South America, if not the Hemisphere. A barrage of stimuli assaulted us at Poncho Plaza, from the stripped chickens hanging from their bound claws, the stacks of tomatillos and papatitos and chiles in rainbow colors, the Quechua men and women in simple hats and black wraps, to the piles of rugs and blankets and vests and sweaters and shawls and camisas and beads and religious icons, arrayed in a sunburst beneath the cloud-draped sky.

The iron gate of the Plaza Cafe rattled up just as reached the plaze this morning, as I stepped around a diminutive Quechua woman carrying a cuy, or guinea pig (said to be quite tasty, too). Morgan greeted me pleasantly, and we ordered cafe con leche and waited for the sun to come out. After the typical breakfast of such establishments along the Gringo Trail -- banana pancakes with local berry syrup -- Rocco and I armed ourselves and began to wander the periphery. We had been told often, from several sources, to be wary of the thieves at Otavalo: they were said to sidle up with a sharp knife and slit the billfold and passport from your fanny pack without you're knowing it. Cameras in particular were said to be at risk: hold onto everything tightly, travel in pairs, stay alert, and verify your insurance.

A parallel theory runs, you get what you expect. We expected to get great photographs of one of the world's most colorful and renowned markets, and I do believe we succeeded. Rocco carried a Nikon F2 with a 105mm, and a 28mm lens, while I for the most part went digital -- carrying the Kodak DC50 in one hand and holding onto my pack with the other, where the Sony DAT Walkman, earphones and directional mic were stored. We have found, to our constant amazement and pleasure, that the DC50 is a great camera, with a zoom from wide to tele, built in fill-flash and capable of high-resolution images in true Kodakchrome-compliant colors.

Otavalenos are notoriously shy of cameras, and many of them turn their backs or cover their faces; but no one seize our cameras and throw them in a sacrificial fire. The dress of the indigenous Quechua varies from village to village, as it does in many other indigenous culture areas from Southeast Asia to South America and on around the world. Here the predominant color is black -- black shawls, black dresses, black folded head cloths on the women, black ponchos and dark fedoras on the men. Gold and red beads highlight the women's wardrobe, and some blue or maroon is often seen. But I often lose Rocco in the crowd: she is of that generation that favors black, a statement segueing into a fashion, just as she segues into the color palette of the Otavala market.

Every now and then we'd buy something -- a necklace for Rocco, toys for my children Brian and Nicole back home in Healdsburg. (Hi, kids.) Finally it was time to go -- the quiet haven of the inner sanctum of the market, where the thick woolen rugs muffled the cries and clangs of the street merchants -- was beginning to fill up with Europeans. Rocco and I found a rooftop cafe for some tea, juice and final shots, and headed back to last night's lodging, the Ali Shungu.

The previous night at the Ali Shungu was comfortable, but disappointing. Margaret Goodhart, manager of the Ali Shungu (which is Quechua for "buen corazon"), did not have the good heart to let us make the call to Quito last night, being skeptical of tourism in general and the internet in particular. So we have not been able to make an internet connection since early 2 am Friday morning -- when I fell asleep downloading email and a jpeg to Brad Johnson, our web designer , and was stuck with a $20 phone bill in the next morning. So now we must leave the hallucinatory comfort of the Pinsaqui and taxi back five miles to Otavalo, to find the public phone office.

We know we should really find a quiet Quechua town like Peguche or Agato where weavers weave their wares; perhaps pay a responsible visit to the Instituto Otavaleno de Antropologia, or make one last attempt to find Carlos Zorillo and Sandy Statz of the Intag Cloud Forest Reserve, to see one of the world's richest biotic region, on the western slope of the Andes. But I suspect we will return to the Pinsaqui, wander the garden and look for orioles, dine on shrimp, new potatoes and white wine, and sleep off the first week in Ecuador. Virtual Antarctica was never like this.

-- Christian Kallen

 

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