We arrived at the hostel in Otovalo after dark, having taken a taxi from the bus terminal directly to the hostel. We hoped the cab driver would not kidnap us. Having been express kidnapped only a week prior, we were on high alert.
We rang the doorbell, and were buzzed in. The receptionist, Andres, was a man in his early twenties. Peering over the front desk, I saw that Andres was busy playing World of Warcraft. Being a receptionist is not so bad when you can pass the time playing MMORPGs. With our smatterings of Spanish and Andres’s broken English, we managed to book a room.
Hungry, we asked Andres if there was a place to eat nearby. He mentioned a few places, one of the places being a Chinese restaurant, Chifa mi Chifa, just up the street. We insisted he accompany us. Not as a bodyguard. He was slight of build and shorter than me. But as reassurance that it was okay to be out on the streets at this hour. If he was willing to walk the streets, then it was safe enough for us. Still fresh from trauma, going out after dark worried us.
We arrived at the restaurant, a cheap place with plastic chairs, fluorescent lighting and poorly-typeset, stained menus. We invited Andres to join us, telling him we would pay for his meal. This way, he would also walk us back to the hostel. He accepted. The stir-fries we ordered were unremarkable, and the rest of the evening passed without incident.
The next morning, we go to hostel’s breakfast room. Andres was there. As well as being the night receptionist, he was also responsible for breakfast. He brought us toast and jam, and asked if we would like coffee or tea. My brother got tea. Me, coffee. I reasoned that the coffee might be good, as we were in Ecuador, a coffee-producing country. He brought out the two mugs.
I took a sip. It looked like coffee. It did not smell like much. It tasted……. horrible. I cannot even describe how undrinkable it was. Had Andres mixed dirt with water, it would have tasted better. After that one sip, I did not touch that cursed beverage anymore. Whatever it was, it was not coffee.
Maybe Andres was upset with us, for taking him away from his World of Warcraft game. Perhaps he was unimpressed that we were scared to walk the streets at night alone. It could be he felt insulted that we would pay for his meal, as if we believed he does not have the money to pay for himself. Whatever the reason, the coffee tasted like payback for some unknown slight.
My brother has a different view. He thinks I was the one at fault. To this day, my brother talks about that coffee. I do not know how or why it keeps coming up.
“Elliot, you’re so disrespectful. Andres slaved away in the kitchen to provide you with a delicious breakfast. He was so proud to serve you this coffee, for which he sacrificed blood, sweat and tears and you didn’t even have the courtesy to drink the whole cup. You insulted him. He was probably depressed after that for weeks. So inconsiderate.”