Gittin´er done in Quito

When I awoke at Camilo´s this morning, I was on my last $4. The night before, dark and pouring rain, I attempted to gain access to my cash at the ATM across the street. No luck. Everything was closed, dark and creepy, so I retired to my hostal. (Later that eve Camilo came over and we ended up going to his apartmento instead).

This morning it re-surfaced. Sure, I had a place to stay so technically I wouldn´t have to sleep on the streets tonight. But being without money in a foreign country is more than a bit unnerving.

Camilo and I took a taxi from bank to bank, with no luck. I even tried the emergency card my Mom gave me. What kind of Banco International doesn´t take a Canadian cash card? Time was running out, and he had to get to class. I was on my own. I was carrying some things I was going to stash with the rest of my luggage at the Secret Garden Hostal in San Blas. Basically, I am walking down the street carrying two orange bags and a giant blowgun. As if I don´t attract enough attention as is.

I seemed to be in banking alley. One after the other, they were conveniently lined up. And one after the other, they all spit out my card and said something about not accepting the card. I visited more than a dozen banks, and no luck.

With $4, I could get to San Blas where I knew there was a bank, but there was no guarantee I´d be able to get any out. Then I would have too little money to get back to his apartment. For some silly reason, I left my travellers checks in my bag at his apartment. I had had no trouble getting money out in Puyo, the little jungle town. So why here?

I decided, upon my $2 taxi ride´s arrival in San Blas, to head straight to the secret garden to stash my stuff. Then, at least I wouldn´t have to be toting around a blowgun, anyways. I turned up Jose Antepara, and began walking the steeply inclined road up to the Secret Garden. Suddenly, a rattily-dressed, leery looking man spied me and came right for me, at an astounding pace, considering his age. Instinctively, I darted into the nearest shop, a small convenience-style shop. My heart racing, I peeked out the door a few moments later, to discover him still lurking there. Eeep! I waited another few, and no longer seeing him, I followed two clean-cut young men up the street.

Who knows, maybe he was one of those crazy-friendly types and just wanted to chat. But then he would have followed me into the shop, right? I guess I´ll never know, but I am sure following my instinct was the right thing to do; and in doing so I surely avoided trouble.

At the hostal, Brad, the Canadian manager, was not there and Chasqi, the guide who still had my trekking poles, had not dropped them off. Frustrated, and breathing heavily because the the altitude, I stuffed my crap in the corner under the stairs near the rooftop terrace. Mostly souvenirs and extra clothes, there was nothing of real value. Besides, someone could steal it; it couldn´t make my day any worse. I had no money, a broken watch, broken glasses, and was starvingly hungry. Go ahead, it would make my day. I was already broke, blind, hungry, time-less, and if I didn´t find a bank, homeless.

Walking down the street to my last hope, the Banco Pacifico, I fought an inner battle. I had only had two cups of coffee all day; and it was about 5 pm now. I had been awake since 8:30. Justifiably, I was quite hungry. Camilo had made breakfast, which was darling, but I didn´t like the meat (bologna?) in the hot grilled sandwiches, so I told him I was not hungry, and was content with the hot cafe con leche. I had just over $2 left. I knew I couldn´t make it to Camilo´s in northern Quito on that, anyways. Maybe if I found something to eat really cheap...

And there it was. Two women and a deep fryer sat in front of a little cafeteria. Crispy, freshly fried cheese empanadas, twice the size of one of my outstretched hands, glistened and beckoned to me. A quick check of the price; 40 cents. A true steal; it would be an entire meal. Before placing it and a napkin into a plastic bag, the shopkeeper, upon my "si", dusted it with sugar.

It was heaven in dough form. Light and yet crispy, the sugar gave it a taste quite similar to the beaver tails one finds at home, in Ottawa. It was the most delicious street food I´d ever tried, and if it wasn´t for transportation, I could live for days on that $4. Maybe being on your last few dollars in a foreign country, your next meal uncertain, adds a certain flavour that´s impossible to find elsewhere.

The Banco Pacifica was my salvation. I almost wept when the words "Now dispensing your cash" flashed across the screen. Victory was mine!

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Some city buses here in Quito beep out a tune. I never noticed it before. Some the same, some different, and for a reason that escapes me. Perhaps it signifies the destination. The funny thing is, one actually emitted "Rudolph the Red Nosed Raindeer" and it seemed to ridiculously out of place, that I laughed right out loud.

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Its now 9:45 pm, and the glow of my completely sucessful day flls me. What had started as a nightmare ended as a lofty dream. Tomorrow, at 8 am, Chasqui is dropping off the trekking poles. I found the money, bought a new watch battery ($0.45), new nose pieces for my glasses ($3.00), a duffel bag to leave all my souvenirs at the hostal in ($9.45), and I got 2 GB of photos put onto four cds ($16.00). I had dinner at the Secret Garden as well; coq-au-vin and french onion soup. Camilo had class till late and relaxing in the familiarity of the hostal was exactly what I needed.