World Whispers

It was 2 o’clock already and the sun was still high but it was late. I had violated the lunchtime law: I was rushing. I hurried through the market past the bounty of vegetables and fruit, many without English names, Ecuador’s varieties were vaster, in fact, than the
world’s richest vocabulary. The tall sun skimmed through the sky, winking at me through corrugated roofs and tied tarpaulin as blurs of bananas, naranjillas and babacos teased my peripheral eye.

As I reached the end of the market I heeded great soup pots being tilted for their last drops. It was now quarter past two but I’d be fine. Wiping leftover spills from the plastic tablecloth with the edge of my palm, I ordered the only thing on the menu:

“Un almuerzo, por favor.” One lunch.

The juice of the day was guava. The broth was its usual greenish, grey hue. I scooped up the stubborn quinoa sat at the bottom of my bowl and awaited the main; brown rice and chicken cooked in beer with a generous side of mote. Dessert, arroz con leche, reminded me of homemade rice pudding. England, winter, cold and warm. An echo from home resonated as it soothed my stomach in the afternoon heat.

There was nothing glamorous about this meal yet to me it was haute cuisine. Well-seasoned, well-sourced, well-cooked and well, it wasn’t a slapdash sandwich, soulless snack bar or a speedy cigarette and instant coffee, it was a long, awaited lunch.

In Ibarra, everyone paused for lunch. Market sellers, doctors, taxi drivers, MPs and beggars. Even on-duty policemen would collect their kids from school and find a place to sit for an hour or two.

“$1, por favor,” asked the lady with the ladle.

She supplicated as if she were pleading a favour, tilting her head slightly to the side and burying her hands in her pinafore pocket.

For three courses and a fresh juice it was the standard price. In Ibarra, $1.50 was regarded as steep and unnecessary since everyone ate together at lunch. Each no-matter-who sipped the same soup and equal to the price of any taxi ride, one dollar was only just.

Underneath her apron, the lady wore traditional dress: a frilly, white blouse with wide sleeves, black espadrilles, a modest, pink skirt with tight pleats and bracelets enough to cover both wrists. I must have been admiring her clothes too intently as she explained she was from Otavalo. Her face was round and rosy and she smiled in the local vernacular.

“Bienvenida” - “Welcome!” I beamed.

For a moment, Ibarra was mine to share.