Lost and Found in the Andes

After traveling through Ecuador for a week this past January, my six companions and I arrived in Baños, a dusty hot-springs village in the foothills of Tungurahua, a volcano whose chronic indigestion could be seen -- and heard -- from the outskirts of town.

Baños had been evacuated twice in the past ten years because of "Little Hell," as the Quechua have long called the beast in whose shadow they live. Despite some concerns, the town's 17,000 residents had no plans to leave again -- on their last return, they had found their homes looted and belongings gone.

The morning after our arrival, I opted out of a trip along the Avenue of the Waterfalls, having just made it through the Avenue of the Volcanoes and desperate for a break from the non-stop sights. Alone in the lobby of our Posada del Arte hotel, I heard three men speaking what sounded like Russian. Knowing a few words myself, I barged in on their conversation only to discover a moment later that they were, in fact, speaking Polish. And anyone who knows anything about that faraway part of the world knows that Poles harbor few soft spots for Russians.

But, seeing my embarrassment, and appreciating the few Polish words I quickly flung their way, one took pity on me by switching to English and suggesting that if I had nothing else to do that day -- other than to show off my language skills with complete strangers, he seemed to imply -- I might want to take in a sauna and massage at El Refugio, a "spa garden" on the edge of town.

In my usual impulsive fashion, I hailed a taxi and for a dollar rode a mile out of town to the resort, which consisted of one modest, single-story building with a collection of flowering bushes out front. Treeless, grass-covered mountain slopes rose up in every direction, seeming to overlap each other in shades of green but mostly brown, all around. La Sierra, like the whole country, was in a severe drought -- this, their rainy season, was anything but.

Several women in gray smocks greeted me inside the door, their polite smiles barely masking some mild confusion. "What are you doing here?" their eyes seemed to ask. I tried not to take their nervous stares personally, and soon realized that they had as much skill in English as I did in Spanish. Just about nada.

But somehow -- with the help of a large poster showing each service in big, color close-ups -- I managed to sign up for the baños de cajón, masaje antiestress and limpieza de oidos, or ear-cleaning. All for about forty bucks. I put off a decision on the limpieza intestinal, or intestinal scrubbing, even though the Polish guy back at the hotel had -- while sparing me the details -- highly recommended it.

One of the women directed me to take off my sandals and place them in a plastic box. I waited for her to have me remove the rest of my clothes but instead she gestured for me to follow her outside onto the gravel-strewn parking area. Perplexed, I hopped around on the harsh, pebbly surface in my bare feet until she pointed toward what looked like a cabin perched on a small hill in the far distance.

Smiling wanly as if I were a difficult five-year old, she said "caminar" and made the universal sign for walking -- two fingers pointed down and stiffly waggling back and forth -- before disappearing back into the building.

I stood there in the parking area doing a series of 360s, trying to figure out how this fit into my usual concept of a day at the spa. Alone but for gusts of wind determined to wrench off my hat and blow it far away, I glanced back at the building, half expecting -- and fully hoping -- that the woman would reemerge, and, in so many words, tell me there had been a big mistake, that she had not meant to leave me out there in the harsh midday sun all by myself and that it was time for my seven-dollar "hot bath in a drawer."

Then it occurred to me that the baños de cajón might be in that distant cabin so I headed in its direction, gingerly stepping on the stones and pebbles and other bits of sharp debris that seemed destined to shred my tender soles to bits. It didn't take long for them to start aching and stinging and otherwise not feel in the least bit well.

I gradually followed a series of signs that said "siga," which I figured must mean "follow" or "continue" up along a whole series of rocky paths, with the occasional respite of grass, climbing higher and higher into the mountains and further away from the refuge.

"Some refuge," I thought, wondering with increasing petulance why the spa garden would put their clients through this "little hell." What had that Polish guy been thinking when he recommended this place? What kind of cruel joke was this?

Still, I hiked upwards, holding my hat down tightly against the increasing gusts, and followed the "sigas." I gradually began to notice large wooden plaques with what looked like quotes carved into them and tucked somewhat discreetly into bushes along the path -- here was one by Disraeli and then more by Emerson, Shakespeare, Churchill and others.

Considering my circumstances, I hardly had the time to try and translate them, even when I did notice words like "amor" and "vida." The cabin was still far away, the sun had no mercy and the ever-colder wind seemed increasingly determined to blow my brains out through my dirty ears. I was getting thirsty. Why didn't I bring my water bottle? And now my feet were truly on fire -- burning and crying out for leather, plastic, anything but this.

I looked in every direction -- not a person, a house nor even a llama in sight. I was part terrified, part exhilarated to find myself alone in this wild part of the Ecuadorian Andes but...should I turn back? It wasn't too late. It couldn't be too late.

As I finally approached the cabin, it occurred to me that someone somewhere was having a good laugh over this -- the place was locked and abandoned. I knocked then banged on the door but no answer. No bath, no friendly welcome, no water, no relief. I looked down the barren, virtually lifeless mountain and wondered how I had let myself fall for this.

That was when I noticed a "siga" sign on the edge of a narrow tree-lined trail leading past the cabin, further into the mountains -- despite my misgivings, I kept going, slowly moving up and over the next peak. I was losing track of the time; had I been climbing for five minutes or an hour? How many miles had I covered? And when, I wondered, would I reach a point of no return?

I began to imagine the headlines: "American Woman Disappears in Andes: Thought She Was Heading to a Sauna." "American Woman Found Delirious in Andes: Bloodied Feet Amputated." "American Woman Survives Month in Andes: Vows Never to Return."

Some time later, I came upon a sign saying "El Muro de la Reflexión," and a seating circle of huge stones overlooking the next valley. Nice, I said sarcastically, glancing over the cliff and into another valley below -- a wall of reflection. I briefly reflected on whether I would ever get out of this mess then continued up the path until I arrived at another stone circle with a sign "El Muro del Perdón." Hmm. They were asking a lot. If I ever did see civilization again, I thought, I might see my way to pardoning these women but, for the moment, forgiveness was not on the tip of my tongue.

Just below that spot, I saw a tranquil and inviting orchard sloping down in the general direction -- it seemed -- of the refuge. Best of all, the fruit trees were carpeted with thick, fluorescent-green grass -- I all but ran, singing, into the lush valley.

That soft carpet carried me past more quote plaques, some outbuildings and piles of trash and rubble, all the way back to where I had begun my journey, to the gravelly parking lot which my happy soles now flew right over, barely noticing the slings and arrows of misfortune right beneath them. I had come full circle.

As I limped into the refugio, the same women greeted me at the door, this time with smiles that hinted that they knew what I had just been through.

"Okay?" One asked timidly. "Está bien?"

"Si," I said, mustering a grateful smile. "Muy bien."

They led me to a changing stall where I put on my bathing suit and headed for a room lined with about ten large wooden boxes -- three had live human heads sitting on top. I stifled a laugh. Each head had a small white towel wrapped loosely around its neck -- the eyes watched me silently as I dragged myself into a neighboring box. When I collapsed onto the narrow wooden bench inside, the attendant closed its door behind me.

As eucalyptus vapor rose up around me exposed head, I smiled at my three now giggling and Spanish-speaking companions and saw through the window the mountain I had just climbed. My feet, I think, smiled with me. That was when the final quote I had seen came back to me, the one I had noticed just as I completed that final lap:

"Just because you've died doesn't mean you ever lived." -- Stanislaw Lec (1909-1966)

I closed my eyes. Maybe those Poles -- this poet and the guy back at the hotel -- were onto something. I could only guess that the barefoot hike, punctuated with pithy thoughts from history's greatest thinkers, was meant to spiritually, emotionally and even physically prepare the fresh client for the pleasures to come. And that the lack of shoes was meant to connect our bodies and minds more directly to the Earth. It was not, I concluded, an exercise in S & M.

Note to self: Nail down more Spanish back home. Drop Russian.

Tungurahua suddenly belched in the distance. The other women seemed also to sense that low rumble and, with eyebrows slightly raised, we glanced at one another from our steamy cabinets. But none of us raced for the exit.

At some point, the attendant had me leave my box and plunge into an icy cold bath. The other women laughed as I shrieked and sputtered then stumbled back to my box for another round of delicious hot steam. It was their turn next.

I began to look forward to that massage. And I decided to get that intestinal cleaning after all. Could anyone say they had fully lived if their personal plumbing had never been scrubbed?

Rumble on, volcano, I thought. Rumble on.