Chronicle of the City of Cuenca

Georgina ordered lunch while I went to find the outhouse. Finding the can, I found it locked, so I climbed up a wee mountain to get away from the road and found the back of a guy’s house. The spot next to the dog house did just fine. Upon return there was a bowl of soup in front of me. Chicken wing, French fry and egg soup, apparently. Who knew? Damn it was good. What a surprise.

What came as no surprise was the second round: fried trout with all the fixings. This was no bolt from the blue, because only moments earlier Georgina, her husband, her daughter and her sister were with me in the car. Someone asked: “Shall we stop for some trout?” “Sure,” I said.

When we arrived at the trout restaurant, it turned out to be a lake. “Here you go,” said the little girl. She gives me a fishing pole. “Oh, shit, you’re joking.” Yes, in this part of the world you have to work for lunch.

Gaby baited my hook and I launched the fishing pole. This fishing pole is nothing more than a damn stick with some line, a hook, and a sinker attached to it. The bait hits the water, and before I can think, something bites. “Pull it in,” yells Gaby. “How? It’s a damn stick with a line somehow attached?” Huck-Finn had it better. I pull the line, she pulls the line, and sure enough we bag the sucker that I’m holding in my hands as you can see to the right.

Good, that’s one. 4 more mouths to feed.

We celebrated the catch and feast with beer, and a bottle of sprite for the wee one. It was such a laugh that I couldn’t bring myself to rush things along. I missed my flight to Quito.

No regrets. We spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch watching football, drinking hot coffee, and wondering what evil plot the llamas were going to come up with next.