Fuya Fuya

Today we drive two hours to Otavalo, and then do a short climb to Fuya Fuya. Otavalo is home to a sprawling market of countless mobile stalls selling arts and crafts. We park near the market and have an hour to kill, which proves far more than needed. Some vague sense of obligation pushes us through one pass of the market, chased by spirited belt vendors, before we escape out the other side and find a western-style coffee bar. The market would have been a great place to pick up gifts for the family, but the last thing I need on day three of the trip is more stuff to haul around. So gift-buying will wait.

We load up and drive up an old cobblestone road to a lake at the base of Fuya Fuya. People offer wildly different definitions of “Fuya Fuya”, including “cloudy, cloudy” and “fuck yeah”, but I prefer Ossy’s translation of “horn, horn” for the two curved peaks that sit atop its mighty frame. The weather is perfect, perhaps the best of the entire trip.

The climb is short but challenging. The net vertical was only 1.6k feet, but it was insanely steep (exceeding 40 percent in extended stretches), and clumps of desert grass become handholds where four points of contact are required.

A fun rock scramble signals the arrival of the summit. The views are spectacular. Just don’t forget your trekking poles for the descent.

In a delayed reaction to the pothole pummeling on the road from Fuya Fuya, our minibus gets a flat tire less than two miles from our hotel for the night. Our driver changes it as routinely as if filling the tank.

Then we head to Hacienda Pinsaquí, a beautiful estate built in 1790 and an occasional home to South American liberator Simón Bolívar. The hotel staff is waiting, and we’re summoned to the “Equestrian Bar” for a welcome drink: hot sugarcane liquor served in an espresso cup. The bar is empty except for our group, and I join Carl and Jeff at a table awkwardly close to a quartet of local musicians. A large suitcase sits in the small DMZ between band and patrons, its mouth open to display an enormous “TIPS” sign.

Carl loves the performance as much as Jeff hates it. I pause to enjoy the clash between the dancing and the squirming of adjacent seats (and take a picture, of course).

The Mexicans show up late, only after Ossy hunts them down. Then they sit—elbows on widened knees, heads down—staring at their phones as if reading on the john. Carlos can’t take it anymore, and after maybe 45 seconds, he simply stands up and walks out. The band quickly realizes three odd gringos are its only audience, and they focus every ounce of energy on us as they belt out their finale: a cover of La Bamba, punctuated by a rocking pan-flute solo. I guilt Jeff into giving them 20 bucks, as I have no money on me, and he has no tenner on him, and we scurry off to dinner.