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 3rd 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.
Love,
Dad, Mom, and Kent
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