Cotapaxi and Latacunga

When we returned from the mountain the Sunday drunks lay scattered around town. Men of the age to have been working from two to three decades, lying face down, or curled up on the ground. The smell of rancid fruit in the market; meat and fish left in the sun too long; and rubbish on the floor.

A dirty staircase to a dirty room. A murky vase on a wooden table, water stained dark green. Frayed nylon flowers, beads of clear plastic, ingrained with dirt, feigning drops of dew, but failing to hide their true nature, even from a distance. A single fresh flower; petals wilted, dead, and brown.

Two hours ago, on the mountain, the oxygen deficient air had been fresh and cold and dry. The snow had driven horizontally, clouds passed quickly, granting teasing glances of the world below and of the peak above. The town of Latacunga, well hidden, far below.




Loja