Cocaine, Guinea Pigs, and Volcanoes

About a month prior to our emergency Rescue Mission, Kent began weaving a scheme to by-pass the normal Visa extension channels and instead bus it 5 hours each way to the Colombian border to get the renewal stamp in his passport. Beyond our concerns about the details of the plan itself, we were worried sick with thoughts of a soldier-ridden, cocaine-trading border and the potentials of danger to our 6-foot gringo son. It was not until we arrived in Quito did Kent announce that he was not only going through with the hair-brained adventure, but he wanted us to drive him there. I guess that I was somewhat relieved that he had not gone there alone. His mother, on the other hand, was frozen with fear that the trip would culminate in our imprisonment and, if lucky, we would be exchanged in a Delta Force jungle raid for Pablo Escobar sometime in the distant future. You can just imagine the joyful, talkative, family-bonding drive we had in the crowded SUV that solemn Monday to Colombia. Each hour that passed, Kent’s Mom got snappier and more curt in her responses. By the 3^rd hour on the road and with only 30 minutes until arrival into crackland, things were getting pretty tense among the Benson clan.

At last we saw signs to the border and then the border town and then the border itself. To our surprise, there were no soldiers, no apparent nose candy on sale and no crowds or vehicle line-ups…..just a few shops & restaurants and a lone Ecuadorian policeman waving cars through to Colombia. “Ok” we thought “wait until we get to the other side”. On the other side there was again nothing, I mean nothing to distinguish we were in another country. Believe me when I say that there are twice as many border check-points between North Dakota, USA and Saskatchewan, Canada. So before you knew it we were in Colombia and no FARC guerillas in sight. Now what???? Well, according to Kent’s Einstein plan we had to head back to Ecuador immediately to meet with immigration officials and get that forsaken extension stamp. As dutiful, loving & obedient parents we obliged, I mean we had driven this far, anything was worth a try.

So back to the Ecuador border we drove (only 1000 yards) and parked so that Kent could join a long line of vagrants & immigrants. An hour later, after snacking on cheese puffs and drinking Fanta, we saw Kent emerging from the immigration office. Evidently he needed a Colombian exit stamp in order to process his renewal and, if you follow the logic, Colombia would not issue an exit stamp without an exit stamp from Ecuador. I envisioned the scene from the movie European Vacation when the Griswolds kept driving on a round-about, circling the Tower of London, Parliament Buildings and Big Ben for hours & hours. Anyway the consensus was to return to Otavalo, mission unaccomplished. I must add that Kent has since secured his Visa by following the rules and formally requesting same through the proper authorities. Suffice to say our Colombian adventure, although a failure, was testament to the fact that the journey back is sometimes much more fun than the one getting there.

I should prefix the next chapter by saying that my hip-replaced left-leg was giving me trouble 2-weeks prior to the Ecuador Trip. I had twisted something and walking was a painful experience. On the 4 hour trip back we were much more relaxed and had time to discuss solutions to my discomfort. Beth recommended a hot-water bottle while Kent said I needed a massage. As a passing joke, he further suggested that I see a local witch doctor to cure my ills. Beth, of course said that the resort could phone up a professional masseuse in the morning. Feeling full of abandon I made my choice and asked Kent to take me to the Witch Doctor.

On Tuesday morning we headed into town to see the Yachaj pronounced Yuck Chuck (witch doctor). Kent knew the manager of the Health Clinic which curiously shares space with American-Educated doctors. My well-connected son said that there was a 2 hour wait, but that we would be seen in 25 minutes. Two and a half hours later we were escorted into this dark cavern of a room where a little Oz-looking mountain man invited me to take a seat among the candles, incense & python skins that adorned his wall.

Through translation I explained my situation. Then he wiped snake oil on my wrists and forehead and announced the long-awaited treatment. There I was anticipating a dose of toad’s blood and llama testicles when he declared that I needed to put a hot-water bottle on my leg and get a massage. I was awestruck as he then demanded a $5.00 payment and escorted us out of his examination room. I’m guessing this was a set-up for the next step, as I was then seated on a bench outside to await the Quichewan masseuse in a nearby room. Again, I had come that far, so there was no thought of retreat. The only thing that bothered Beth & myself during the next 45 minutes of waiting, was the constant flow of assistants-in-training carrying guinea pigs by the neck across the courtyard to the head masseuse. More on that later. Regardless, my moment arrived and without hesitation I was told to remove my trousers by this wizened-up mummy-looking reincarnated high priestess.

That’s when the fun began. Deep-tissue is not the term. Abu-ghraib and Guantanimo move over, the interrogators had nothing on this masochist. While I was shouting obcentiies at the woman, my son & wife were laughing their heads off. I asked Kent to tell her it hurt, but something missed in translation and she just pressed & kneading my thigh even harder. After 15 minutes of excruitating pain she suddenly stopped much to my relief and shouted some instruction or other. I asked Kent what she said and he answered “Turn Over”.

So for another less intense 15 minutes she worked the other side. After getting up all I could muster was “Let’s get out of here” Beth tipped her (you have to be kidding) and I escaped the dragon lady’s dungeon with no pride & in lots of pain.

Back to the Guinea Pigs. Evidently local people appear at this woman’s door asking for relief from one ailment or another and, in response, she guides a guinea pig across their bodies to identify the source.

Please don’t ask what the guinea pig does when it finds something suspicious or what happens to the guinea-pig after it finishes it’s investigation. I don’t know !!!Anyway thereafter and within a day I was pain-free.

Go figure.

We continued to have a ball with Kent for the remainder of our stay in Ecuador. And yes, I did try their national dish which is roasted Cuay or guinea pig as we know it (insert picture). From visiting volcano lakes to dining at interesting restaurants (insert pictures) to drinking local beer in front of blazing fireplaces (insert more pictures) it was nothing short of fabulous. Our son toured us around to the clinics where his organization has a bi-annual presence and we met two more of his American friends; Christen, Paul and their two lovely bright-eyed well-mannered daughters. They were a God-send during his first few weeks in the Country.

From mystical mountains, to lush valleys and magically incredible people in traditional dress, the province of Imbabura where Kent lives is something we’ll never forget. He chose his graduate studies retreat with much care and is better for the experience. He found his own piece of paradise and we were fortunate to share the adventure, however briefly. Maybe it’s time that Dad & Mom eat crow or humble pie as they say………….. or better yet, Guinea Pig !!!

Love,
Dad, Mom, and Kent

Paradise: Once Lost, now Found

GUEST BLOG PART 1: Dad

Beth and I heard from Kent by E-mail on Monday, that the night before, following an Ecuador – Brazil World Cup qualifying match, he and 3 friends had been mugged feet away from their hostel in Quito. Our travel plans were immediately revised and by that Thursday night we were in Ecuador hugging our son. Sounds dramatic, but that was the inauspicious start of our early April visit to this land of poverty & thugs (or at least that’s what we thought). The first night was spent in American luxury, as we holed up in the Royal Quito Radisson.

I had been on business to Quito some years before and was not impressed by the dirt, filth and crowded streets or shallow American mimicking culture of the city people, much less the altitude sickness upon arrival.

Ten years later none of my perceptions had changed, including my inability to breathe for the first 3 hours.

A side note – by pure coincidence and on the day of Kent’s departure from Florida in January, I read in the Guinness Book of Records that Ecuador had the highest murder rate on the Continent (Pg.248) 2009 Edition.

Anyway, the next morning we picked up a micro-sized standard SUV (I had ordered a large automatic luxury) and began our trek to the primitive jungle outpost of Otavalo where Kent had been imprisoned by a bunch of Amazons for 3 months. Beth did not talk much as our Suzuki Grand Vitara was stopped & ticketed for crossing a median by a motorcycle-riding policeman, dark glasses & all, 15 minutes into our road-trip

Unbeknown to Kent, we had two prime objectives prior to take-off from Miami. One was to feed and re-clothe our off-spring, not to mention removing his beard and uncut hair, and the second was to kidnap him and return the young man to civilization, as we know it in America. In short, we were definitely on a mission to rescue our son from the dark abyss of cannibals, bad food and loathing living conditions.

It took about 2 hours to reach Otavalto. I must admit that we were impressed with the road, but then not surprised after learning that it was part of the Pan-American Highway and had benefited from international funding. So far so bad.

The arrival at our hacienda in Otlavalo over a pot-holed, narrow, cow laden pathway was not unexpected.

The gates opened and to our surprise we saw something that was much more than first anticipated. A 400 year old luxury resort stuck in the valley of the volcanoes, Ho ! Ho ! Ho!. “Just an anomaly” I thought. It got better. From lush gardens, to 4-star accommodations outfitted with fireplaces, a 16th century tapestry decorated dining room, pub, squash court, games room, well-stocked library and wonderful long ornate balconies; we had reached Shangri-la !!! An Oasis in a land of thin air, mean people and American hippies.



After a few Rum & diet Cokes, Cohiba Cigars, the sight of a genuinely happy son and dozens of hummingbirds whirling around us, our perspective on hell began to change, but only slightly. Kent suggested that we rest, drink and talk, which lasted hours.

The big plan for Saturday was to visit the Animal Market, an adventure that Beth prior-dreaded. By 9am we were in the midst of hundreds of pigmies with their chickens, goats, pigs, llamas and cows. You can imagine the minefield at our feet.

It was a curious undertaking being the only gringos in sight. At 6ft 6ins, I definitely felt like Charlton Heston in the land of the apes. Beth looked so out of place wandering behind us in shock & awe.

That was our first interaction with these funny-dressed little people of unknown language – I mean who’s ever heard of Quechuan! – Later I was to learn of their centuries-old culture and enslavement by the Incans & Spanish.

Then it was on to the World Famous Craft Market (Sure !!!). We parked and began strolling and, to our amazement, were witness to some of the best artisan productions & presentations I have ever seen.

We could have bought the whole expansive market – yes, it was huge. Colorful, well-made unique blankets, exquisite embroidery, wood carvings, leather belts, jewelry and so much more probably not available in any other corner of the Earth, surrounded us.


Again, to our surprise, the stall owners were not aggressive or pushy. They just smiled and said Buenos Dias a hundred times.

I thought to myself, these guys need a crash course from Jamaican hagglers who accost you at sight until surrender. Regardless, we spent a relaxing time strolling and buying Quechuan treasures from these delightful leprechauns.

The market visit was our first insight into Kent’s Spanish speaking proficiency. There he was, as relaxed as ever, bantering and bargaining with the vendors. And make no mistake, Kent is a mean negotiator. If someone quoted a price, Kent would offer 80% less and each time I would walk away red-faced and embarrassed. At one point our capitalistic son threw out a $10 bid on a Llama blanket that would easaily fetch $150 here in the U.S. When the vendor agreed it was more than I could take, so we out-bid Kent and paid double the amount. I just could not stomach ripping off someone to that extent, although we ended up with one bargain after another.

Late afternoon Kent, Beth & I returned for a siesta, but only after Beth spent an hour cleaning her shoes from the morning’s Animal Market experience.

That evening we met the Owner of the Hacienda Cusin who invited us to join him for dinner.

He believes himself a John Cleese eccentric clone, but other than being of English extraction, there is no real resemblance in look or management style to the Fawlty Towers star. Nik Milhouse is gracious, quick-witted and loves being the center of attention. Even Kent’s loud & gregarious Father met his match that night. I’m sure I never got a word in edgewise. In appreciation for his kindness to our son, we presented Nik with a 50-year old Benson manufactured mantle clock (another family story), which prompted but a moment’s pause of silence from Nik, then it was back to his disjointed conversation, that lasted for an hour or more. The food was excellent, as was his beration of a terribly boring French couple seated at the same table.

Lauren joined us for the “Milhouse Dinner-show”. She works for Anna’s health organization part-time and is an English-language teacher the other part of the time. An American from Hawaii who came to Ecuador a couple of months after Kent, she can endure Benson teasing for more than a day & that is to be much admired. Easy to smile, Lauren is delightful lady in every way.

The next morning it was off to meet Kent’s adoptive parents and an inspection of his accommodations. To get there you head for some mystical banyan tree on the top of a mini-mountain (not my invention) overlooking the 50,000 person city of Otavalo. The uphill road was blocked because there were mountain biker’s racers going at break-neck speeds down the main path. Never thought the excuse we drove for an SUV would make it, even if we were to use the reverse gear up the precipice, but we did.

Upon arrival at this half-built 2-story compound,


we were greeted by a bunch of smiling munchkins, all of which Kent described as his “family”. The differences between my blond haired blue-eyed son and these black haired pig-tailed dwarfs could not be more of a contrast, but I sure thousands in Ecuador believe Kent’s fantasy kinship story. I honestly could not distinguish ‘Cousin It’ on the left from ‘Bert or Ernie’ on the right – a tribal outburst of color and smiling teeth. The Gringo parents had arrived. Ducking under the doorway, I entered the incomplete concrete-walled enclave. But these were delightful people whose affection for Kent was open and obvious.

Immediately I removed the image of savages from my mind and cuddled into their warmth and conversation. Before long guitars and flutes were out with Quechuan folk songs ablazing. Even Beth got into the act and was soon singing “This Land is my Land” (Canadian version).

Like a visiting Earl or Duke from afar, I was clapping and talking up a storm in English with Kent rapidly translating in the background. Anna Taft, who heads up the health organization where Kent volunteers, arrived minutes later.

Anna is so nice and fit in like a glove. Her demure, presence and intelligence, not to mention her Denise Richards smile, are to be admired.

A native feast of chicken, rice, & vegetables was served, which although uninspiring, was much enhanced when doused with loads of seasoned pepper sauce. It was the thought that counted and rarely have we encountered such generosity and hospitality. These were wonderful parents to their biological children and to their adoptive son. Our stress level was fast disappearing as I thought to myself, “Wow, what a Country, what a people – my boy is in good hands !”

We took pictures of Kent’s Fraggle Rock Cave room,

noted the chicken coups just a few feet away INSIDE the house and exchanged gifts before taking a picture of the Gulliver Bensons among Quechuan midgets.

Love,
Dad (and Kent) (and Mom)

Ecua Friends and Family

Dear All,

So you may be wondering what life is like now that I have actually settled into life in Otavalo. My family is really crazy, laid-back, loving, and tons of fun. The most routine activities end up being memorable, or at least laughable, experiences. They get a huge kick out of me, and I am definitely entertained by them, particularly my brother and sister (Kami age 5, Kuri age 12).

Sometimes they attack me and it is a 4 on 1 tickle fight.

They love to randomly take pictures of whatever we are doing, sort of a Japanese obsession.

The kids are constantly full of energy, which can occasionally wear me down but is more often refreshing to come home to.

Their cooking and preparation of food is a constant source of intrigue. Here is my aunt's pig head being "prepared" to be deep fried and transformed into a popular dish called 'fritada.'

Meanwhile, Kuri decided to camp out and watch from a few feet away.

That night I got my chance to eat it. Yum...

Here is my first exposure to Chicha, an alcohol made from grains. Not everyone's cup of tea, but I was a fan. And it was made that much more authentic by the fact that I drank it out of a coconut shell.

One morning we woke up at 515 in the morning to hike up to a sacred Kichwa site called El Lechero. It's a sacred tree and is accompanied by a folk tale. Supposedly the tree is more than 800 years old. Regardless, it is a gorgeous spot overlooking 4 volcanoes and a lake.

Afterwards we were rewarded by "Mom" with a special breakfast of sausage, potato pancakes and fresh juice and milk.

Another day we visited the guinea pig lake (see "The Calm Before the Storm"). Kami had a great time and the weather cooperated well.




Most of the time when we hang out, we chat, joke, act a little weird...

Or shell peas.

Lauren and I decided to cook an "American" meal for my family one night. We prepared honey-roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and steamed veggies. It was a big hit. I even got a picture of my non-drinking Mom hitting the sauce (I'm the son with the bad influence...).

Paul and Kristen (friends from Oregon living in Otavalo, see post “Northwestern Hospitality” or several others for more info) asked Lauren and I if we would be willing to come over for dinner one night to watch their girls (Rosie age 8, Ally age 12) so they could have some time to themselves. We agreed and decided to make it a fun “American” night for them by making mac and cheese and chocolate chip cookies. We ended up having an awesome time, jamming on their many string instruments, having a dance party, destroying the kitchen in the process of preparing cookies and dinner, and just being kids.

Kristen and Lauren decided to take the Ecuadorian intercambio to another level when they joined a local indigenous girl’s soccer team. The team entered a tournament in a nearby village. Everything was just about as Ecuadorian as we expected, meaning that the games absolutely never started on time, dogs and kids randomly ran across the field in the middle of play, almost half of the games were forfeit by opposing teams because they forgot to show up, and the best most authentic thing of all was the prize. A bull for the winning team and a pig for the runner’s up.

I tried to be the biggest fan, and would often hang out with whoever else showed up on the sidelines, in one case 3 of Lauren's sisters.

Sometimes the opposing team showed up in less than conventional transport.



The girls ended up in second place after a hard-fought final. That meant a pig!

The party was great. Lots of typical Kichwa dancing (walking in a circle) and of course drinking. Here's the coach Gladys and I with some Canela (hot liquor).



Next weekend, we slaughtered the prize, cooked him, and of course danced more.

Even if my family is occupied or I am elsewhere, some Ecuadorian family always seems to take me in and allow me to take part in their lives and daily routine. For Easter, I was invited to join Lauren’s family of 10 to prepare and eat the traditional holiday cuisine, Fanesca.

It is a celebration of life and harvest. 12 different grains are mixed together into the most delicious hardy soup you could imagine. The preparation is extremely labor-intensive but worth the effort. Every bean must be removed by hand and often the entire process takes more than 24 hours.

I kept getting distracted by animals....I couldn't help it with all of these kittens and chicks running around.

Anyways, that's all for now. I hoping to post again before Wednesday. Lots of hugs and kisses from a crazy nation.

Love
Kent

PS - Ecuador had it's elections today. Be sure to take a look at the news.