As seen@14…Andean Roses
This is just wrong, this getting up at 3.30AM. No way is this enough sleep…to go anywhere on, let alone PDX airport and then another airport and onto yet another airport somewhere, someplace halfway down the globe. But then I have invited it upon myself as for a few years I have angled for a trip to Quito, especially if it falls during the school year! Delta’s middle seats are no better than awful, especially when the people sitting either side of you ooze both over and under the seat arms and into your already meager space. It really is too bad that at the very last second an alert ticket agent (who, doing the math at five in the morning finds me five months shy of being age enough to take my assigned seat in the exit row…despite my being near six feet tall and far more athletic than the portly sloth now assigned to it). Portland recedes and Atlanta approaches and then comes Quito but only after being treated to a beautiful sunset as we transect the Florida Keys above Islamorada …we can see all the way down to Key West, our eyes picking out the overseas highway as it stitches together the keys floating in a vast silvery ocean. I have heard the stories of the approach into Quito and indeed it does feel like one is going to land in the city and without benefit of a runway but only after collecting hotels and high rises on the wing tips. There is absolutely no doubt that it is exciting and very much a tight fit with the illuminated city screaming off the end of the wings and the undulating wail of the jets doing nothing to diminish the experience.
Immigration into Quito could not be more sour faced or nastier (same on way out) This stands in stark contrast to the kindness and courtesy shown to me by the general population during my trip.What on earth can Ecuadorian Gov’t officials (female) have against a fourteen year old kid from the States who has made a slight error in filling out a form? Fortunately the smiling faces of Esteban Arboleda-Faini and his father are there to very quickly erase the memory of the surly senorita with the dorky hat. Am beat and it is good to be delivered straight to the Dann Carlton for a catch as catch can dinner and the pleasures of soap, shampoo and a flat spot to lie on…and may the morning be an awfully long way off!
Not nearly far enough away as it turns out and before it feels like my eyes were properly shut we are off and running, first to a bakery and then onto the road towards Cayambe. What a different world this is from home in Oregon, short brown people with fine, glossy black hair, tall mountains that constantly seem to pitch and catch cloud forms, cars from China and Korea that are new to me and sights, sounds and smells that while exotic are for the most part not quite otherworldly. City streets quickly turn suburban and in turn to rural as they wind up and down hillsides and across muddy brown rivers. There are people walking and people awaiting buses. There are trucks belching diesel fumes and burden bearing animals breathing them in. Eventually it all turns to high earthen walls, cobbled roads and groves of Eucalyptus through which I glimpse green fields, water running in irrigation courses and hectares of plastic swaddled hillsides. The Rose Farms, astride the equator and breathing deeply at 10,000′ of elevation. We have arrived to start our own heavy breathing!
Security at Rosinvar is very tight and involves armed personnel inspecting the in’s, out’s and the underneath of our car. Collecting and keeping (until exit) our identification and generally giving the third degree to Esteban. The reason, as it is explained to me is to prevent drugs entering the premises that might then be trafficked abroad hidden in rose shipments. This effort at security on this farm is most definitely serious. Once onto the immaculate grounds of the farm I am introduced to the owner and then to a lovely young lady who guides me around and explains the intricacies of rose production. Even though I am bombarded with this stuff during the normal course of hanging with my dad, I am fourteen and have only so much interest when it comes from him. It is way more fun coming from my guide who is short enough to make me seem a giant. We poke in every nook and cranny of the farm including the kitchen and dining hall where I get to sample a fruit juice made from the Maracuya fruit and a fresh Avocado. I am amazed to come across a pile of beautiful roses being unwrapped and tossed into the compost. To me they look perfect but to Rosinvar they are a day too old and therefore not for market. There are indicators of such impeccable and exacting standards wherever I go.
In the greenhouses the rose plants are six feet tall and some quite a bit more, dwarfing the rose harvesters as they pass down barely shoulder width aisles taking those having reached the correct cut point. Placed in boxes they are transported to the packing houses via a zip line and gondola system where they are hydrated and sized by CM of stem length. Like lengths are meticulously bunched in 25’s using corrugated sleeves, skilled hands, a mirror to better see the arrangement of the bud’s and an endless patience. The finished package is a work of art and desirable in its own right. To the untrained eye there is no hint of their being 25 beautiful, healthy and blemish free rose buds in the package. The entire operation distills down to this beautiful package, from hectares of evenly spaced rows, rank upon rank of rose plants and here and there upon them a flower ready to cut. Space and people are sequestered into this very essence of rose. Imagine if you will, rose “bricks” of colors. Vibrant, subtle, lustful even …as you want to carry them away with you.
Rocking and rolling along the cobbled roads and little villages, past the tall slatted windbreaks that protect the farms, huge Agaves, the spaghetti of power lines on concrete posts, drying laundry outside defeated by a wet day with its layers and layers of grey blue cloud through which mountain slopes can be seen. Also getting wet is a huge pile of roses roped atop a Land Cruiser navigating the potholed cobbles. These are commonly known as “Nationals”…product not making the export grade and thus headed for the street vendors of cities where they are sold for mere pennies. Apparently some farms entertain this trade while others do not. For sure is that Quitenos and others get unbeatable rose deals.
My eyes are wanting to shut as we head for the late afternoon stop where apparently we are going to negotiate mixed bouquet business. Hidden behind high white walls there is an Aladdin’s cave of greenhouses and shade houses and upstairs in the corporate offices there is bouquet after bouquet in design, under review, being photographed, dissected and critiqued all the while being placed in this vase and that vase. This isn’t looking like an “In and Out” visit! My dad and Esteban seem deeply interested in what they are seeing…distressingly so. While I am offered juice and cookies I have eyes only for the comfortable looking couch and while the endless chatter of stem counts, weight, color and composition swirls about the room in two or three languages… I fall fast asleep.
Startled from wherever Jetlag and hypoxia have taken me I give up the couch in favor of the car seat and but for Esteban’s ignoring of the speed bumps, sleep quite well all the way back to Quito. A good thing because next I know is I am at dinner with extended family in Colonial Quito and the chance of further sleep is postponed by delicious Ecuadorian cuisine and the fun and laughter of Esteban’s father, uncle, sister, brother and others. To arrive here we have passed the beautifully refurbished and floodlight National Theater and just across the street from our table is the presidential palace and government buildings. There are also many churches, some of which I later get to visit and where I see quantities of gold leaf beyond belief. The churches surely knew how to pack the riches and the faithful in!
Ever more short of sleep I am heading for Cayambe again, this time to visit with Alberto Cantillana at his Valle Verde farm from where roses are exported primarily to Russia. My dad knows Alberto and has been on this farm once before but that doesn’t stop Alberto attempting to give serious grief re our running late from Quito. I distinctly recall the Chilean expletive “Juevon” being used! Nothing that a quick wrestle, backslapping and a handshake doesn’t overcome. While the agronomist, Fausto proudly show us about one billion greenhouses full of roses it is readily apparent that Alberto really wants to show me the site of his soccer field to be.
Alberto is now shaping up to be my kind of guy and he seals the deal by taking me to see a pro soccer game in Quito later in the weekend…complete with crazed fans beating on drums and riot police trying to dissuade certain of those fans from displaying banners that are less than complementary towards the coach of Liga’s orientation. True to current form and Alberto’s utter disgust, Liga goes down to defeat but this will not dissuade me from seeking a shirt and wearing it back in Portland! Back to roses and the endless expanses of Valle Verde and its beautiful new facilities . As if it is not enough a casual wave of a hand in an uphill direction indicates where further growth is going to take place. Who knew the Russians needed so many roses! Alberto ascends another notch or two in my opinion as his attention now wanders to the prospect of lunch and it is a subject he pursues relentlessly in the face of others still engaged in admiring the packing house and coolers. Thank heavens he is the boss and can force the issue to the point that we arrive at a lovely little house surrounded by pastured horses, trees and mountain views. Half the house is residence to the proprietors while the other half is given over to a half dozen tables and comfortable furniture in which to lounge before the fire. A child of about two appears from the kitchen and wishes to play as we choose a lunch which is simply delicious. It needs to be as I hear another farm visit is imminent.
This next farm is properly called Inroses but might better be known for its “Rosa Canina” (The Dog Rose) as the two girls that own and run the show adopt the stray curs they encounter on the roadside between their farm and Quito. There are now seventeen or so assorted dogs having the run of the place and their pedigree is all Heinz 57. (The number of dogs can have only increased since I visited) Everywhere you go there are dogs and dog accoutrements and the office walls have a well delineated “racing stripe” along them at the shoulder height of the collective average. It really is quite a sight, as is the rain storm that sweeps the hillsides opposite and the mirror like gleam derived from the hectares of plastic greenhouses courtesy of the rain drops as seen from many miles away. This farm is high and all of us including the girls are breathing heavily as we stride up and down the rows of roses and through the packing sheds. The dogs give no sign of any such respiratory distress!
Speed bumping our way back to Quito it is time to play tourist in gold adorned churches full of little shrines, many graced with shriveled up flowers. As people contemplate and pray we admire the work and artistry and attempt to not make the old wood floors squeak too loudly. Outside there are a few people seeking alms and a smattering of shoe shine boys. Not nearly as many as my dad portrayed in photos dating back to 2000. Along with us are Nicolas and Ignacio with mom and dad, Monica and Pedro. My dad is godfather to Nicolas who is now three years old and a photo or two is naturally required. Our sightseeing continues with Esteban taking us to the Teleferico for a ride up the mountains that tower over Quito. The air is very very thin for us up here and the feeling is not particularly pleasant. Acclimatization is a way off…and much lower down! I think we are at more than 14,000 ft while Quito is around 9000 ft. Unfortunately the intervening elevation fills with cloud and obscures much of the sprawling city.
All other flights back to the US leave in the early morning. Delta’s on the other hand departs late at night and rather than making a beeline for Atlanta it wanders down slope to the pacific coast and Guayaquil where you are forced off the plane to cool your heels and to join the hoards in floppy hats, zip off pants, daypacks and Tevas…some worn with socks. How wrong is that? This I am informed is “The Galapagos Crowd” and I have to seriously question Darwin’s theory of evolution after only a few minutes around them….and there is not a republican bone in my body! The flights back to Atlanta and Portland seem interminable, somewhat sleepless, a good place to add to my senior project work and all of a sudden Ecuador is made to seem like it is at the very nether reaches of the world.
I did enjoy it, I did miss some school AND I have a really really cool soccer shirt to sport along with great new acquaintances.