Ecuador travel writing; April 2001.
(Ecuador travel writing, ⛔️ ✋ Content and Language may offend)
Quito New Town
Quito, the Ecuadorian capital; more specifically Quito New Town; not the colonial, conquistador treasures of the Old Town; no, the New Town, which spreads out across most of the volcanic basin on which Quito has evolved; the New Town – a relentless featureless place of uniform cuboids, mostly two or three, maybe occasionally thirty, floors tall; the New Town, planned with a grid-like layout – previous earthquakes have meant that it couldn’t really have anything other than a new town appearance; the New Town, which outstrips the Old Town in geographical spread by a factor of fifty. In a word, vast.
Coming into land for the first time in this city, its spread from the air is daunting. Dipping below the clouds and then sweeping low from head to foot across its span, before touching down on the edge of the metropolis, I feel a sense of helplessness; a case of whatever happens during my sojourn here, I will be but a microscopic dot on its landscape. You are on your own now mate.
Quito, Pichincha, Ecuador
Alloy and steel
At the heart of the New Town there is an epicentre – I do not use this noun lightly. It is both a literal and metaphorical description, this being a South American flashpoint in seismic terms. This epicentre, particularly vibrant by night, covers a square half kilometre and acts as a magnet for Johnny Foreigners – el gringos – to come and eat, drink, surf the net, dance and sleep; a district to chill out, whilst making onward travel arrangements for a several month long jaunt through surrounding Latin American countries.
My first three nights in the New Town were spent in a zone on the periphery of the epicentre. After dusk, during my initial sorties away from the hotel, on several occassions I would be startled by the outline of a human silhoutee slouching in some doorway, complete with gun and lighted cigarette. However, a couple of seconds later I would be reassured as a white Policia insignia on a black cap came into focus. Quito New Town, once a haven of night time security away from the violent crimes of the Old Town, but no longer so safe these days.
Take that epicentre – the grid for gringos. Come dusk, the travellers are now joined by the silhouettes of El Policia standing on every street corner and at every restaurant entrance. Silhouettes in black capes, many with rifle carbines strapped across their chests, others with stocky rotweillers straining at the end of leashes.
Ecuador, one of the safer Latin American countries, apparently.
Strange how such a strong show of force by El Policia – also backed up in no small measure by private armed security companies – strange how such a substantive display of alloy and steel of bullet proof vests, of broad leather belts lined with bronze and silver bullets; strange how all this can make one feel safer while striding from one street corner to another.
…. And a month later, having moved accommodation to within the epicentre, strange how sleeping in a small hotel that does not so much have a night time receptionist on duty, as an armed guard on the front entrance steps; strange how this can make one feel safer. But it does, aided and abetted by numerous (admittedly second hand) tales about people who have strayed marginally beyond the protected zone, and have been lightened of their load.
But anyway, all this is just a background sketch of a multitude of black cloaked, ammunition studded silhouettes, that loiter in the streets with canine friends, specifically for your own safety.
No space at Sutra’s
Leave them for a moment, and come with me, as we step off the street into a well-to-do establishment. Come and meet a casual acquaintance of mine, who has just sat down inside this trendy meeting place.
The restaurant has the appearance of a large bamboo hut, split on three levels. Each level is opening fronted. What is this place called? Let’s look up at the placard across its roof. Ah there it is. Why it’s Sutras, of the India variety, as in various positions. Sounds cosmopolitan enough. Lets go up the wrought-iron spiral shaped staircase and find a seat.
Several revolutions into our ascent to level three, we spot a few steps above us the tightly jean clad posteria of a young women, who is also doing a fair amount of turning in revolutions. A few strides later you and I set foot on the top level. But alas, where to sit amidst this gringos’ den. A multitude of cocktails are being supped, lashings of spaghetti carbonara or suzette crepe are being gorged, beer is being downed at twice the price of establishments either side of the hut. It’s hardly a typical Ecuadorian hangout. What the hell though, we’ve come here to enjoy ourselves, but where to sit?
All the tables are full. Even the computer terminals that occupy an adjoining room are occupied, fueling the addiction of those who, having travelled so far, feel the need to transport themselves back in cyberspace, to the communities from which they have come. Hotmail, Netphone, Yahoo – just a few essential terms in the electronic travellers’ bible.
The top of my tall frame is level with the thatched ceiling. I must be blocking out a considerable amount of light and feel rather conspicuous. I survey all in front of me, but where the hell to sit. There is no space at Sutras.
A glimpse of Denim
Waiters and waitresses make me side step this way and that as they dash past with trays full of ice cream, fruit and Lasagna. I turn around. The tables immediately behind us are also taken up. But wait a moment – what’s this I see? Another couple of metres back is a thick wooden pillar and behind that a small table, a table for two. I strain my head – it is half-vacant, half not. The sight of a swinging leg, tightly clad in denim catches my eye. Yes, the pair of jeans that proceeded me up the staircase, sits at one side of this small table. Alone? Yes, but alone for the minute, the hour, until dawn even? Who knows?
The worst case scenario – or so it seemed at the time – I walk over to the table, the only seat available in this wicker world: ‘Oh my, sweet Miss, please may I join you?’
‘No, kind Sir – the dreaded response – it’s just not possible. My friend will be back in a moment you see. Now why don’t you just return to the centre of the floor, with your tail between your legs, and keep looking for seats. That’s a good boy now.’
Come on. Make a quick decision.
I gaze over at the half vacant table. I look at Miss Denim. Our eyes make contact. Denim’s emit a distinct twinkle, accompanied by a smile. Sorry I didn’t catch that – my mind speaks. A twinkle and a smile; yes but for who? For a returning partner? Or maybe her face is permanently like that. Another twinkle; an increase in the gradient of the smile. No partner to be seen. I raise my eyebrow and nod slightly – a kind of question without words. She nods back. Affirmative smiles the denim clad Ecuadorian. I wander over. The complement at the table is now complete; Denim and I.
A breath of Denim
Late twenties, shoulder length copper coloured frizzled hair, striking sharp features, pouting lips. Meet Miss Denim, AKA Jeanette; an indigenous lass marooned in this sea of gringos.
At the point of sitting down, my intentions with Jeanette were – I think – strictly honourable. A beer and hopefully some interesting conversation. I hadn’t really thought any further ahead than that. Admittedly though, there was a certain amount of demure that pulled me towards that table. And let’s face it, she was, in common parlance, quite a looker – or was it hooker – but such considerations paled into insignificance over the next few seconds.
‘Do you speak Spanish?’ she asked.
I nearly went into a convulsion.
No, of course it wasn’t an unreasonable question, rather it was the smell of her breath, which drifted across the table. It was rotten to the core; enough to clear out a restaurant at several paces. To make matters more unpleasant, she spoke quietly. This made conversation difficult, entailing me having to lean across the table to hone in on her utterances, whilst at the same time being subjected to this sewer.
Jeanette’s jigsaw
And now I had an intuitive jigsaw to complete – the conundrum that was Miss Denim. I already felt in possession of the four corner pieces
The pieces were all there, when I first sat down at that half-vacant table, but don’t be so presumptuous, I told myself. No asserting what you perceive to be the final outcome just yet – wait for the picture to be completed for you.
Gradually Jeanette stated to slot the bits into place, largely in response to my own curious probing. First, a harmless platitude from her, “Hm, yes I saw you standing over there, looking all around for a seat. Oh, look nice man, I thought. Please come sit here.”
Yes, alright. Get on with it.
‘So where do you live?’ I asked a couple of minutes later.
‘Oh, in a hotel one block away.’
‘Sorry, did you say you live in a hotel, or you work them.’ I wanted to ask. And now you see what I am driving at, what my intuition was telling me. But still I gave her the benefit of the doubt and kept stum, after all, passing a verdict merely on the basis of her sitting down alone and having ghastly breath would have been highly dubious to say the least.
However, bit by bit other pieces of the jigsaw were unveiled and gave cause for concern.
By now our order had been placed, as one you understand – Well it would have been churlish to place it on separate bills. A beer and black coffee duly arrived.
‘Beer no good for me,’ said Jeanette. ‘I need strong coffee. Several of these I need to keep me awake each night.’ It did not bode well.
‘Keep you awake at night? For your job? So how do you earn your living?’ I wanted to ask but held fire.
And next, a language problem; just a slight one, but none the less a communication barrier; the need for a spot of translation. Jeanette delves into her handbag and out comes a Spanish-English dictionary.
‘Do you always carry a dictionary around with you?’ I asked, adding this to my so far patchy evidence.
A wry smile; she stroked my arm.
‘Is this for your job? ‘
‘No for pleasure,’ she insists, with a titter, leafing through her little book for that elusive phrase, ‘Ah, yes here it is. OK you make me do this.’ More stroking of the arm.
Was this going to be a command to engage in some kind of physical union back at the hotel. – a touch of sado-masochism maybe – Did they have those kind of things in her dictionary? Alas it was nothing of the sort. Make one laugh one’s head off, was the phrase to which she pointed.
‘Yes, very good,’ I said
And now, how to remain composed and at ease, when I keep getting glances from waiters and stares from other diners. A case of nudge-nudge, wink-wink. We know what you are up to mate, or was this just my paranoia?
‘Tonight?’ Jeanette asked, ‘where do you sleep?’
‘In my hotel, of course. Just thirty seconds away.’
‘You are sleeping alone. Me also sleep alone.’
Let’s consider the evidence, no matter how circumspect it might seem: sitting alone, maybe on the pull, maybe not; sleeping in a hotel, or maybe hotels; the Spanish/ English dictionary; and now a seemingly unveiled hint at climbing into the same bed.
Call me prejudiced if you like, but I couldn’t help but feel that this was more than just a women who liked to put it about a bit. I had had enough of disguised probing – time to be direct.
‘So Miss Denim, where do you work?’ (OK, I am merely adding the ‘Miss Denim’ bit for effect. But everything else is an accurate recollection).
Things went quiet, as another cup of coffee arrived for her. I tried again.
‘Jeanette, what is your job?’
An impish smile. ‘I work in discotech.’
‘Did you say you work in a discotech, or you work the discotechs.‘
Silence.
‘Sorry I didn’t quite catch that.’ But no answer, just a giggle and more rubbing of my arm. ‘So discotech or discotechs?’
A smile.
‘Well I assume you are not the DJ. So what does that leave? Ah yes, of course, you work behind the bar.’
A loud giggle, a shaking of the head and a blunt confirmation of status; the final piece in the jigsaw.
‘No, no!’ she exclaimed without so much as the bat of an eyelid. ‘Me mucho, mucho fucking in the discotechs. But shush,’ she said, clutching my hand, ‘This is my secret, Si? Tonight is Sunday, Si? Sunday is my night off. No one here knows what I do.’
‘I think a lot of people here know what you do. I guessed the moment I sat down.’
However, on the game or not, I wasn’t going to hold it against her, anyway I certainly had no intention of walking out and leaving my beer, at least not at Sutras prices.
At least we now had an interesting topic for conversation. Time for a bit of social research.
‘So mucho fucking,’ I said – a statement, rather than a request.
‘Si. It’s not expensive, maybe thirty U.S. dollars.’
‘Thirty Dollars?’ I exclaimed, choking back my surprise at the cheapness of this transaction. I angled for a tongue in cheek barter, ‘Thirty Dollars? I couldn’t possibly afford that. Look is there any chance we could agree on twenty?’
A scowl. ‘Certainly not! What do you think I am?’
‘I think we have already worked that out. We are merely trying to agree a price. OK, OK, only joking.’ I was after all on sticky ground and I did not fancy having her hot coffee thrown over me.
‘So tonight is a holiday for you? No mucho fucking this evening?’ I asked.
A further stroke of the arm. ‘No mucho fucking. But maybe some free fucking, Si? You nice man.’
‘Si. Me nice man. But now nice man goes back to hotel alone for sleep.’
‘Quanto?’ I called over to the till – a request for the bill. ‘And wipe that bloody smirk off your face.’ I wanted to say to the waiter.
I requested two separate bills. Not because I was too tight to stand madam a couple of coffees, but I wanted to return here another night, without them assuming I was prowling for prostitutes.
Alas, we were already rooted in the establishment’s mindset as a unified bill arrived. I paid and we got up to leave. At the top of the stairs a waiter and waitress called out, I’m sure with a sarcastic edge, ‘Goodnight, have a good evening.’
‘Piss off,’ I muttered under my breath.
At ground level, we said our goodbyes. I turned right and threaded my way through the display of alloy and steel, back to the hotel. Jeanette turned left and went off to do whatever else she usually did on her night off, other than frequent Sutra’s.
The next night, I put on a brave face and went back to Sutra’s, hoping I would not be recognised. I was greeted by the same waiter and waitress, who guided me over to our table from last night. ‘Sir, the waiter asked, ‘Will madam be joining you soon?’ Was he being serious or facetious? It had never occurred to me that Jeanette might be putting in another appearance, maybe even about now. I cursed my stupidity, ordered a beer, downed it and left.
Damian Rainford
(Header image: Pixels Free Photos)
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