Our entry into the city was up a steep, winding city street named the Avenue of the Conquistadors. I felt like a bit of a conqueror climbing this road with my loaded bike. Quito is one of the highest country capitals in the world with parts of the city reaching elevations of 3000 meters. Guayasamin, Quito’s homegrown artist, depicted the city well in expressionist murals where mountains loom above and surround the sprawling, wiggly, and colorfully concentrated neighborhoods climbing up and falling down the hillsides.
Our tour of this city was like the image of the masks of comedy and tragedy. Our focus was on its architecture, from the colonial churches and government structures, to the gothic Basilica, to Guayasamin’s modern Capilla del Hombre. At the Basilica we were able to wander behind and on top of the structure…literally walking on top of the arched ceiling of the church and climbing the steeples. David stood outside the very top of one steeple. I had no need to do this…there were no guardrails or concerned guards. He took wonderful photos as there was great lighting. This could have been our insight into the glories and the dangers of Quito as it was after we left the Basilica and wandered to another tourist site we were robbed.
Walking up the steps to an overlook, just past the view of the policeman at the bottom, four men grabbed us. Two, dressed alike in pink shirts with smart looking haircuts, one holding a fake looking knife, fished hurriedly in my pants pockets. I said, “I have money, but don’t take my glasses,” and I threw them the two 20 dollar bills I had. They took my money, left the glasses and with the other two men, who had grabbed David, ran up the steps, all within the space of maybe 10 seconds. Three seconds later, realizing that his camera was gone along with his decoy wallet David was chasing after them, yelling, “I want my camera! Cien dolaras por mi camera!”
“Let the camera go!” I yelled as I watched him fly up the steps. Then I was alone, waiting. I did not think it was a good idea for me to follow up those steps. More than a few minutes passed and no David. A man with his poodle came to his front gate that was next to where I was standing. Four shabbily dressed children were now walking up the steps. They looked at me and the boys picked up broken shards of glass laying off to the side. I greeted the man with the poodle who unlocked his gate and came outside. I stood next to him as the children walked by. I realized I did not belong on those steps and I remembered the policeman at the bottom. I thanked the man for his security and walked down to talk with the policeman. He walked back up with me to find David. At this point I had had time to imagine several different scenarios of what happened to David, some not so great. Thank goodness, soon after we passed the spot where we were robbed David appeared, intact and healthy. The thieves never stopped to negotiate with him, which, to my thinking, was just fine. We were both okay.
The next day David went off to the black market to see if he might find his camera, and I went, by taxi, to see La Capilla del Hombre, Guayasamin’s museum. Guayasamin said that much of his art was like screaming and indeed this chapel-like museum housed enormous paintings that screamed the pain of the common man. My thoughts centered on the little I knew of the history and politics of Ecuador and Latin America, the relatively wealthy pension of a common truck driver in the US, and the violation I felt in being robbed. No revelations, solutions or salves, but I took comfort in making connections.
Julie returns to the scene of the crime
