by Becca Bloom
My youngest sister, Jessamyn, had been accepted into a highly-coveted modeling agency internship in New York. She was the gorgeous, free spirit of our family. And the one most likely to call me for a loan when she’d maxed out her credit card on a designer dress or tickets to Rome when her rent was due.
My mom was going to be featured in September’s edition of Digital Photographer in a spread on award-winning photos. She was the CEO of her own studio and the most talented photographer I knew.
Dad had finished a sculpture he had been working on for over a year. Buyers had lined up for it, and to celebrate, he and Mom had bought an RV. They planned to chase inspiration all over the country for the next six months while Mammy, my dad’s mom and my favorite person in the whole world, house-sat their home in the Portland suburbs.
They pitied my simple life designing webpages and other graphic artsy things in the solitude of my cozy, studio apartment in the Pearl District of Portland. They thought I needed a grand adventure.
Lost in my thoughts, I hardly noticed when the plane landed. The applause of the passengers jolted me back to reality. I pulled out my phone, checking for messages. My flight delay had messed up the plans of the Jimenez family to pick me up, but Sylvia assured me that someone would be there for me. All I had to do was look for a sign with my name on it. Sylvia’s straight-forward, precise way of writing reminded me so much of my mom, my relief was real. I’d heard horror stories about the buses in Ecuador and was grateful for her help.
“You have ride?” asked José. “My wife drive taxi.”
I was so ready to get outside after having spent hours breathing in the same circulated, perfume-infested air. I didn’t think I could stand another four hours to Baños. “I’m all set. Thank you. Have a safe trip to your home.”
We shook hands and parted ways as the crowds disembarking from three arriving flights that afternoon merged in a jumbled mass in the hallway leading to immigration.
Not having any luggage to slow me down, I looped my arms through my backpack and made good progress skirting along the edge of the walkway. However, halfway to the little booths where I would get my first stamp in my passport, I had to stop to catch my breath before continuing my trudge through the masses. Either I was in worse physical shape than I had thought or I had underestimated the effects of Quito’s high elevation. Oxygen was in scant supply at eight thousand feet. People shouldn't live this high, my lungs screamed as I wrestled through the crowded hallway only to wait an eternity in the immigration line.
First, there was the line for the stamp in my passport. Then there was a line to get my bag. Then there was another line where they insisted on riffling through my bag. As if I hadn't been through enough security in the past two days. Finally, there was a line jammed up by overflowing luggage carts and unruly kids just to get out of the sliding glass doors leading out of the airport.
Tired, hungry, and wanting — no, needing! — a shower, I scanned the crowd for a sign with my name written on it, knowing that I wore a scowl. So help me, if my ride out of here was late, I would change my ticket for the first flight back home. After I managed to get a shower, that was. And a doughnut with lots of frosting.
Finally, I saw it. A woman with dark eyes and bronze hair smiled at me as I lugged my bag over to her.
"Señorita Jessica?" she asked.
"Yes. Thank goodness you're here! It's been a long day."
She smiled and nodded at me, reaching to help me with my bag. Turning around, she took off through the crowd.
"Oh, I guess I'll follow you then," I said, trying my best to keep up with her without bumping into too many people on our way outside.
The pocket of her Aeropostale sweatshirt rang, and she deposited my carry-on in the trunk of a yellow taxi before answering it. With a smile and the universally understood sign of pinching her fingers together to communicate that I give her a moment, she answered.
I understood nothing and was terrified when she held the phone out to me. When I hesitated, she pushed it toward me, saying, "You speak." At least, I think that's what she said.
Taking the phone, I said, "Hello?"
"Jessica?" said a woman's voice on the other end.
"Yes?" I answered slowly. Please, please, please speak English…
"Hi! This is Sylvia. We're thrilled you're coming to visit us. Your parents are such dear friends of ours. I'm so sorry my son couldn’t pick you up, but he had a jungle tour scheduled today, so I arranged for Maria to drive you here. Her husband came in on the same flight. Isn’t that convenient?"
She spoke quicker than I could reply, but eventually, she had to breathe. "Thank you for arranging for transportation," I said, before she could start in again.
"Think nothing of it! Maria will drive you straight to my restaurant. You’ll stay with my daughter, Adriana, in the apartment above it. I sent some food with her because there aren't many places along the way to stop. Please help yourself and we look forward to seeing you in about four hours! If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me or ask Maria’s husband, José. He speaks English."
Cologne Dude. Lovely. "I think I'm good. Thank you."
I heard something like the sound of plates crashing. "Ay, caramba! I have to go. See you in a bit!" The phone beeped in my ear.
Handing it back to Maria, I said, "Gracias."
As promised, there was a cooler. I opened it and was delighted to see a sandwich, a bottle of orange Fanta, and a packet of Oreo cookies inside. Just like the lunches Mammy had packed me for school (except she would never send “pagan” cookies with me when she always had homemade goodies on hand). When I was little, I dreamt of opening a bakery so I could spend all day with her eating yummy treats.
José showed up then, pushing a luggage cart with four giant duffel bags on it. I looked between them and the trunk. Nope. There’s no way they’d fit.
“Hi, Jessica!” he waved as if I were a long-lost friend.
“Hey,” I raised my hand to wave, nearly pushing him away from me when he leaned forward to kiss me on the cheek.
“Is how we greet here,” he laughed along with Maria. “You get used to it.”
He hugged his wife, but she was more interested in the duty free bag he carried than in his public display of affection. Pulling the bottles out one by one and turning them around in her hands, she jumped up and down, squealing and speaking a million words a minute. Only then did she act like she was happy to see José.
He explained to me, “She like the whiskey. Is gift from me to my wife.”
An odd gift, to be sure, but she was obviously pleased with it, so who was I to judge? So long as she didn’t drink any of it on the drive home.
The next few minutes were spent trying to squeeze all of our luggage into the trunk of the car. Two fit, leaving the other two in the backseat with me and my carry-on which was squished behind the driver’s seat on the floorboard. I’d have to hold Sylvia’s cooler on my lap. I almost forgot about my backpack until I tried to sit down with it still on my back.
Seeing my problem, José reached out to take my bag from me. “I put it in trunk. It safe.”
I thought about it. All of my important travel documents, my money, and my cell phone were spread out between the pockets of my jeans and sweater. My laptop was protected inside a case, inside a padded daypack, inside my carry-on. Hey, I don’t take chances with my hardware.
The only item of value in my backpack was my e-reader. However, I hadn’t come all this way to bury my nose in my Kindle when there were volcanoes to see. My mom would expect pictures.
Handing him my backpack, I twisted around to see him tuck it into one corner of the trunk. It took him three attempts to shut the trunk over the duffel bags bulging out, but he eventually got it. Hopping into the front seat, we took off to the sound of 80s music playing on the radio.
Maria looked at me in her rearview mirror. “You like English music? I learning.” She smacked José’s hand when he reached for the radio tun
er.
“Yes, thank you,” I said as I pulled the pop out of the cooler to the tune of Bananarama singing about the cruelties of summer.
Untwisting the Fanta lid slowly, and hearing it hiss, I raised the bottle to my lips just as Maria stepped on the gas. Shrieking as the cold beverage spilled down the front of my shirt, she slammed on the brakes and looked back at me.
"You okay, miss?" she asked.
Not really, but nothing would be okay until I got a shower. I dabbed my sticky, stained shirt with the napkins Sylvia had packed in the cooler and tried to smile. “I’m okay. Thank you.”
Maria, as I learned to appreciate during the four-hour blood-curdling drive to Baños, only knew two speeds. Petal to the metal and stop — each of which she did as abruptly as a Formula One racer speeding into or out of a pit stop. José provided the occasional distraction by pointing out the volcanoes we sped by on the Pan American Highway.
“Some people, they call this Volcano Alley.”
“Are any of them active?” I asked, confident that with the series of unfortunate events during my travels, at least one of them would be.
“For now? Only Cotopaxi and Tungurahua. We see Cotopaxi soon.” He pointed to the left of the car. The wall of luggage wouldn’t let me see anything out of that side.
“Oh,” he said, understanding my predicament. “No matter. You definitely see Tungurahua. You know, it mean Throat of Fire in Quechua. Baños location at base of Tungurahua.”
“Baños is at the bottom of an active volcano?” How did I not know this before? Jessenia had me so busy with her incessant list-making, and I’d had to rush to finish my outstanding contracts before I left, I’d trusted Mom and Dad to provide me with all the information I had needed. Clearly, I was way too trusting if they thought staying in a town at the bottom of an exploding volcano was something I’d enjoy.
José didn’t seem bothered by it. He chuckled as if my question wasn’t one hundred percent serious.
“Is Baños safe from the volcano?” I swallowed hard.
José twisted back to face me, his face excited. “We drive by lava path from last big boom! Is close to town!”
Well, that was comforting. Fortunately — or unfortunately, it depended how you looked at it — Maria took all worries of death by exploding volcanoes out of my mind when she swerved to the left and José’s bags pinned me against the door.
I also learned that red lights were more of a suggestion than a requirement. Pedestrians most definitely did not have the right of way, as they crossed the highway lane by lane through flowing traffic. Oh, and seat-belts were considered a luxury — one which Maria's fancy car could not boast. I contented myself by wedging my feet against the bottom of José’s seat and locking my door.
I never did see Cotopaxi, but I did see the rugged, twin peaks of an inactive volcano José identified to me as the Illinizas. They looked like an old married couple. The man’s hair was white with snow and his wife had a touch of white at her temples (which she would no doubt cover at her next appointment with her hairdresser).
Tapping José on the shoulder and interrupting the zombie shooting game he played on his iPad, I asked him about them.
“Illiniza Sur is humid. Is why it has snow and glacier. Illiniza Norte is dry. They are protected in Ecological Reserve,” he said hurriedly without looking up.
I contorted my body to extract my phone from my jeans pocket. I wished the photo could express the contrast between the two giants.
Tungurahua came into view three silent, long hours later as we neared a city called Ambato.
Maria, who had not spoken since the outskirts of Quito — not even to her husband — pointed to the giant volcano. “We arrive Baños less hour.”
José translated, “She say we arrive to Baños in less than hour.”
That got Maria talking. I could only guess she was mad at him for translating her English when I had understood her just fine. The tongue-lashing José received left no doubt in my mind as to who the boss was in that family. When he tried to ignore her, she smacked the iPad out of his hands.
I ignored the ensuing brawl between the loving couple to appreciate the active volcano I would be living at the base of for a month. It didn’t look too scary from here. Half of it was dusted with snow, but the other half broke off into a jagged crater. It reminded me of the Batman villain, Two-Face. Raising my camera, I clicked between the enthusiastic gestures exchanged between the occupants of the front seat just as a puff of black smoke rose from the ugly side of the volcano. My heart leapt up into my throat and I couldn’t have breathed had I remembered how.
Chapter 3
Interrupting the irate verbal battle going on in the front seat, I slapped José on the shoulder and pointed. The dark cloud rose, pushing its way through the puffy, white clouds like a bully. “Is that normal?” I squeaked.
The bickering stopped long enough for him to dismiss my concern with a casual wave of his hand. “It happen all the time. No big deal.”
“You’re sure?” I insisted. It didn’t look like no big deal to me. It looked like ash.
“You think we live in Baños if it not safe? We not stupid,” he snapped, speaking to me in the same tone he used on his equally incensed wife.
Whatever. I left them to continue their verbal assault against each other and watched the volcano. Was it a prophetic symbol of how my vacation would be?
Why was I here anyway? I patted around my coat pockets until I heard the crinkle of the paper I searched for. Pulling out the first sheet my fingers touched, I heard Mammy’s voice in my head as I re-read her letter.
Dearest Jess,
I’ll have to keep myself busy while you’re gone or I’ll miss you too much. Don’t tell your sisters, but you’ve always been my favorite grandchild.
You know it was your mother, Lord love her, who planned this ‘grand adventure.’ She did it because she loves you and she doesn’t understand that not everyone feels the need to change the world and leave their mark as she and your sisters do.
You’re just like your father. He finds happiness in the smaller details of life. For his sake, I’m thrilled you agreed to this trip. The guilt he feels because of how you were affected when his twin disappeared… I still can’t think about it without feeling a tremendous loss. Just like him, I don’t suppose I’ll ever accept it. But we all agree that you suffered the most. This is our attempt to make it better. You take care of everyone, sweet pea. Now, it’s time for you to have some fun. Act like the young, beautiful girl you are.
I included some of my best recipes in case you need a taste of home. From what I hear, you’ll need them.
Now, I’d better get going or I’ll be late for my hip hop dance class. I’m finally getting the hang of the pop and lock.
I love you, honey,
Mammy
I put Mammy’s letter back with the rest and patted my pocket, trying not to think of the day Dad got the phone call. I had been home with him, being too little for school and too old to want to go with my mom and baby sister to the boring grocery store when I could stay home and watch Pinky and the Brain with my dad. I’m glad he hadn’t been alone.
Shrugging off my melancholy, I looked out the window I was squished against. The climate grew warmer and the vegetation thicker as we drove down the mountains. I peeled off my coat and put it inside the empty cooler on my lap. My eyelids drooped under the weight of exhaustion and my head bobbed before I rested it against the soft pillow of a duffel bag.
I woke with a start, flinging my arms out blindly. My nose smashed against the back of José’s seat as I rammed into it. Maria flung her door open, charging the few steps to the intersection blocked by a beat up taxi. Horns honked all around us and voices shouted.
Where were we?
José pulled his bags onto the sidewalk and pried my squished carry-on out from the backseat. “Welcome to Baños!” He opened his arms and waved them around him.
My vision was still blurry with
sleep and the knock to the head I’d taken. Cooler in tow, I climbed out of the car to stand by my bag.
Maria was in a shouting match with the taxi driver blocking the one-way street. He had a badly done tiger tattoo on his forearm. I doubted any man would want his tough tiger to look more like the Pink Panther.
A tall, lanky dude wearing a white undershirt and thick, gold chain joined Bad Tat Man. José frowned at the scene.
“What’s going on?” I asked through my daze.
“Christian is looking for trouble. Nobody win against Maria.” José sounded like he spoke from experience.
José shoved his bags back into the car and shouted for Maria to join him.
Still a bit disoriented, I asked, “Are we at Sylvia’s?”
We were parked in a narrow street. On one side was a park bursting with bougainvillea, puffy trees with curly leaves and red blossoms, giant palm trees, and all sorts of colorful flowers.
On the side of the walk we stood on was a row of businesses selling alpaca teddy bears, brightly woven purses and hammocks, ice cream, and food. The warm breeze smelled like sweet pineapple. Or maybe that was the orange Fanta I’d spilled on my shirt.
“Is here,” he pointed to the two-story building with a red and white striped awning under a painted sign which read, Abuelita’s Kitchen. He yelled again at Maria, and when she showed no signs of budging, he pulled her away, practically pushing her into the car.
Maria honked her horn at the battered taxi blocking our way, adding to the loud melee and making my head pound at the noise. As if she hadn’t needed to stop in the middle of the street to let me out anyway. I held onto my carry-on with one hand and tried to cover at least one ear with the other.
The beaten up taxi took off with both of the men inside, its trunk popping open and a plastic bag flying out of it. Oh, my backpack was still in Maria’s trunk!
Maria and José didn’t hear me shout for them to stop over the noise of passing tourists and honking horns. Gunning the engine, Maria lurched forward and sped away.