Ski week under the volcano

SHERWOOD KIRALY

When I first heard of “ski week,” the February school break, I was

scandalized, and launched into one of my when-I-was-a-boy-in-Illinois

speeches, saying that from Jan. 3 to Easter I got just one day off

from school, by God, and that day was spent shoveling the driveway.

Now I’m used to it, and ski week seems as sensible as the All-Star

break.

This year we spent it in Ecuador.

The rationale for the trip was to visit Patti Jo’s nephew Jeremy,

who is marrying a girl from neighboring Colombia, but Patti Jo and

her mother Carol don’t need a reason; they are globe-trotters, eager

to experience life in out-of-the-way places. Our daughter Katie came

to interpret, and I was invited along on the

every-party-needs-a-pooper principle. I like it here in Laguna. I’m

satisfied here. My cries echo down the canyon whenever we leave town.

Ecuador is a topographically beautiful, mountainous, equatorial,

volcanic country featuring centuries-old cathedrals, indigenous

handicrafts and a national dish of guinea pig, served whole, head and

claws attached. Apparently it tastes like chicken. I say “apparently”

because I have yet to try it face-to-face.

When we asked one of our guides why this dish was presented

complete, he explained that for awhile it had been served cut up, but

some restaurants had

cheated and dished up rat instead. In Quito, the capital, we

mostly ate fish, which was quite good.

From Quito we went into the country, to a hacienda that formerly

belonged to Spanish aristocrats. It’s near Otavalo, set in a valley

between volcanoes, about 8,000 feet up. Getting there requires a trip

on a mountain road with hairpin turns and crawling trucks -- your

driver gambles on passing before the next oncoming vehicle comes

around the curve. Katie could read the various

“DANGER” signs but didn’t translate them, sensing we already had

the idea.

One day Patti Jo and Carol went further into the country to visit

indigenous potters, weavers and woodcutters, experiences so

emotionally powerful that

Patti Jo found herself near tears. Katie and I played ping-pong

and shot pool in the hacienda’s game room, which doesn’t sound

Ecuadorean, but we don’t do it at

home. We had a mother-father-daughter horseback ride another day,

under the volcano called Imbabura.

There was no TV, a deprivation for me, but of course we ended up

talking to each other more; I reminisced about shows I’d seen back

when I had TV.

The Saturday market in Otavalo is a kind of Ecuadorean Sawdust

Festival with hand-woven blankets, rugs, tablecloths, hats, native

paintings in the naive

style, and wood carvings. It truly was impressive, and the

bargaining was friendly. Our next driver gambled and won, making it

back to Quito on the mountain

road; I only screamed once.

On Sunday we flew to Miami, then to LAX, with a large, handsome,

hand-carved turtle as a carry-on. Monday I drove carefully to Ralph’s

and got some

headless, clawless chicken. Home.