Mindo Day 1

On Saturday, we ventured far from Quito for the much anticipated cloud forest spectacles of Mindo. I was ecstatic, because I’d read about this place in the guide book and had heard numerous people sing its praises. Two days before, we’d made a reservation at a hostal recommended in both the guidebook and online. Only $8.50 a night each, and that included breakfast, which we’d read was supposed to be amazing.

 We’d bought our 9 a.m. bus tickets at $2.50 each the day before, after returning from our Mitad del Mundo trip, and so showed up at the bus stop ready to go. We slinked against the concrete building just before the bus port, waiting. A young couple were beside us with a cute but big puppy that clawed hungrily at a bag of dog food. Our bus rolled up and we boarded, me in the window seat and Anthony in the aisle, ready for our comfortable ride to Mindo. The couple with the dog boarded and sat just a few seats behind us. I leaned my head back against the seat, and oh! A child. Standing on his mother’s lap, leaning over the top of my stair. I twisted my head and looked up at him, and he smacked at his gum in my face.

“That kid better not spit his gum in my hair,” I hissed to Anthony, to which he said something about later maybe having to buzz all the hair from my head. A very reassuring fellow, no? I looked back at the kid and with the subtle manipulation of the features of my face tried to execute an expression of warning. 

Soon all the seats were occupied, and the aisle began to fill. Did these people mean to stand all the way to Mindo, we asked ourselves? They did, it appeared as the wheels began to roll, and for only a dollar apiece. Anthony was continuously knocked in the head by elbows and buttocks by a group of young people occupying the aisle in our section of the bus. For the next two-and-a-half hours, the bus careened through the blind corners of the twisty roads, disconcertingly close to the precipices on one side and oncoming traffic on the other. Death fantasies played full force the entire way.

But we made it! Around noon, the bus labored through the muddy streets of little Mindo, and we already began to wonder what we’d gotten ourselves into. We got directions to our hostal from a woman in the tourism “office.” There was a map of Mindo and the surrounding touristy things taped to the wooden counter. In broken English she traced our path to Rubby Hostal, and when we asked if we could have a map just like that one, she said she didn’t have one. Must be why they taped it so securely to its spot.

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We made our way to Rubby to check in and drop our bags. It was easy to find—a little ways off from the town—and we were greeted by Norma and Marcello. Norma asked us for the money for our room, which we’d already wired to her account from Quito. Oh, she said. We left our shoes by the door, and she took us up the slick, narrow stairs—on which Anthony almost broke his neck twice (man down!)—to our room, which looked good enough by all appearances. Two beds, a rack for hanging jackets and towels or whatever, two windos not to be open after six on account of mosquitoes. Just outside our window was the deck and three hammocks, and across the hall the community bathroom.

We dropped our things and headed downstairs to return to the bus station for tickets back home Monday (It was Carnival, and tickets needed to be bought in advance, Norma had told us), and to find the butterfly museum. As we stopped to put our shoes back on, the young people who had been knocking about the head on the bus sauntered in, laughing, and removed their shoes. Here we go.

This was now Saturday afternoon, and we bought our tickets for Monday at 3 p.m. Could’ve gotten them at 6:30 a.m., but we figured that after the adventurous splendors of Mindo, we’d be tired and would want to sleep in a bit and maybe even want time for more activities Monday. So, although we didn’t look at it this way at the time, we were trapped in Mindo until Monday afternoon.

We went back to the tourism “office”, and asked the gal where to find the butterfly farm. She showed us on the last-known map of Mindo, and off we went.

The road was muddy and we constantly moved ourselves to the sides to let cars pass, but the views were beautiful. So this was a cloud forest. It was easy to see the connection between name and reality.

Anthony had been the only to bring his camera, and I annoyed him constantly with, “Oh! That would be a great picture!” and “Anthony, can I see your camera?” etc, etc. Poor guy. He puts up with me with such grace, I must say.

At one point, I yelled “Snake!” and dropped to the ground. He was dead, but a snake, nonetheless. Anthony thought I was weird for wanting a pictures, but I don’t think he understands me thoroughly, yet. Of course, from then on, I was trying to turn any bit of debris in the road into another snake.

“Snake!”

Only a bit of rubber tubing.

“Snake!”

No, no, just a tree root.

We eventually made it to a place with buildings and a parking lot, but the sign for the Mariposia pointed to keep walking. So we did. For about half an hour, before we met a man that told us we’d gone too far, and who wanted to charge us money to go any further. So we retraced our route, and once back to the area of signs and parking lots, refused to commit to the position that we’d been dumb and just hadn’t followed the signs well.

But we’d made it to the butterfly farm. And it was…disappointing. Some caterpillars, a few cocoons, and crazy flying butterflies that would land on you periodically, but just didn’t exist in a variety to keep one occupied for too long.

We walked back to town disappointed, but still enjoying the scenery nonetheless. But what now? It was too late to do anything, but still early. We decided to find a place to eat, even though were weren’t incredibly hungry. We found a great little place called The Nomad, where we ordered pizza (ugh, Americans) and communicated through miming that we would love some playing cards if they had them. The waiter was very friendly and indicated that yes, he had them, and he’d get them right away. He came back with a thing set of cards.

“I don’t think this is a full deck,” I said.

“It doesn’t look like it,” Anthony agreed.

“But we need a full deck to play rummy.”

Hmm. A problem, indeed. Rummy was the only mutual game we had, and it required every single card. We debated over going through the deck and seeing which cards were missing, but then elected just to play, deciding it was better just not to know. After I’d dealt out the first hand, the waiter returned with a small stack of about fifteen cards. Now we were in business!

The pizza was delicious, and the atmosphere of the little restaurant fabulous. We sat in the upper level, with open sides above a small solid railing, and had the whole upstairs to ourselves. Anthony finished his four slices before me, and as I sat picking up and laying down cards, I privately decided what I would say if he reached for the remaining slice. My slice.

I didn’t have to use that strategy, because he left it alone. That final slice sat for about ten minutes before I picked it up and chomped happily, and Anthony almost immediately said, “I like that about you.”

“What?” I said, mouth full.

“That you didn’t offer me the last slice of pizza.”

“Why would I. I paid for it.”

“Yeah, but most girls would be like ‘Oh, you eat it, I don’t want to get fat, blah, blah, blah.’ ”

I said thank you for the compliment, and wondered if he would like this quality of mine so much after ten years and twenty pound’s worth of always eating at least half the pizza.