you be comfortable here?’ Harry takes me aside and frowns down at me, suddenly serious.
‘Yes! It’s lovely.’ I lean up to kiss him lightly on the lips, a feeling of optimism starting to creep its way through me. Okay, so we’re going to stay in Quito for a little while. That doesn’t mean we can’t still go to all the places on my list – we do have three whole months, after all. And I’m already getting the feeling that living with Liza and Roberto could be interesting…
I smile back at Harry sweetly. ‘And it’s only for a month, remember?’
‘Of course, babe.’ As Harry leans in to kiss me again, Liza’s voice interrupts us piercingly from the other side of the terrace, sounding unnervingly like my mother.
‘Come on downstairs, you two, it’s time for a cup of tea!’
***
Liza’s kitchen is chaos. Bulging, waist-high, nylon sacks are spread across the floor in all directions. There is a delicious frying smell coming from one end of the room where Roberto is standing at the hob flipping something in a pan.
A large woman in a garish, lilac-print maxi dress is bent over one of the bags, wrestling with something that looks for all the world like a wooden gargoyle as she tries to get the bag closed around it. Finally she yanks the drawstring closed around its neck, then straightens up, wiping her brow and smiling at us.
‘Marion, this is Harry and Kristie. They’re going to rent the apartment upstairs from us for a while.’ Liza introduces us, and it takes me a few moments to get used to the sound of ‘Harry and Kristie’. Just that slight alteration to my name makes it sound like someone else altogether. I smile at Liza and the woman, Marion, realising I quite like that.
‘Kristie, Harry, Marion works with us in the Alma Libre charity – Gabi probably told you about it.’
Alma Libre – Free Spirit. Gabi really hadn’t told me much, except that Roberto and Liza founded the charity and worked with a handful of other people, all volunteers. Despite being so outgoing about everything else, I’d got the impression she didn’t really want to talk about it until we met Roberto and Liza in person. Now that time has finally come, I can barely wait to hear more.
We all step forward and take it in turns to kiss Marion on the cheek, then smile and make polite noises as she exclaims joyfully about how big Gabi is getting and how well she looks, all in a thick Southern US accent. She looks about mid-fifties, with a round, kindly face and sticking-up curly grey hair.
‘Oh, this darned heat,’ she says, fanning herself. ‘Sorry about the mess, we’re just finishing a batch of handicrafts, ready to take to the shop tomorrow.’ I look around at the bags and realise the gargoyle is actually a giant chess-piece, the king or queen, about a foot high and carved out of wood in the form of a native American warrior. Another bag is falling open and spewing out what looks like a giant red-and-yellow spider’s web.
‘Wow! Is that a… fishing net?’ I ask, trying to wonder what other function it could have.
Marion starts to laugh and tugs the thing out of its bag. ‘No dear, it’s a hammock. Don’t you recognise it from the ones at Casa Hamaca?’ She smiles and holds it out for me to look at. It’s wider than the span of her arms and so long it trails on the floor. I realise it’s made from hundreds of strands of yellow, red and blue material all woven together, the colours of the Ecuadorian flag. ‘The ladies in the Quito prison make them by hand,’ she explains, bending to open another bag. ‘They can also do mosquito nets, blankets, and lately one of the Colombian girls has proved to be very talented with a—’
‘Yes, okay, Marion,’ Liza says sternly. ‘Our guests have a lot on their minds and I really wanted all this to be packed away before I got back down here.’ She frowns pointedly at Roberto. He ignores her and instead indicates for us to sit at the little kitchen table in the corner, loading a plate with the delicious-smelling fried things and putting it on the table.
‘Harry, Kristie, Marion, please sit down. Make yourselves at home, have a cheese empanada. Would you like tea or coffee?’
Before any of us have a chance to answer, Liza looks completely scandalised. ‘Tea, of course!’ she hisses at him impatiently. ‘They’re English, of course they want tea!’
I catch Roberto’s eye and try to speak. ‘Actually, I’d really like a cup of cof—’
‘It’s coming right up, a cup of genuine English breakfast tea, just sit down and have an empanada, dear,’ Liza orders.
God, I thought my mum and Steve were bad… I sit down meekly next to Marion and wonder whether we’ll actually get any more peace and quiet in this place than in Casa Hamaca.
It’s then I realise Harry is still standing in the doorway with Gabi, who has her car keys in her hand.
‘Actually, thank you very much for the offer,’ he addresses our hosts, ‘but I’m going to go back to the hotel with Gabi and pick up our stuff. Kirst, I’ll see you back here in a bit.’
‘Oh, er, okay – do you want me to come with you?’ I ask, widening my eyes meaningfully at him in a look that says please don’t leave me here with these potentially crazy people we’ve only just met.
‘Nah, it’s okay, babe. You stay here and talk about your prisoner stuff.’ He grins back, oblivious. ‘It’s only our two backpacks, let me go get them.’ As Harry says goodbye to the others, Gabi catches my eye and winks, leaning down to whisper quickly in my ear, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be back soon.’
I watch Harry leave, trying not to feel patronised but instead glad to have a boyfriend who is happy to lug my backpack around for me.
‘Tea’ is nothing like any tea I’ve ever drunk before. For a start, there’s no milk. Instead Roberto passes around a plate loaded with slices of fresh lime, and a bowl of powdery dark-brown sugar. I furtively try to copy what Marion does, and end up heaping my little cup of black tea with at least four spoonfuls of sugar and the juice of two limes. I take a sip and try not to wince at the mix of extreme sweet and sharpness. After a few more eye-scrunchingly strong sips, I start to think the flavour isn’t too bad. It’s not coffee, but it’s not too bad. And the cheese empanadas are delicious.
‘So, are these handicrafts actually made inside the prisons?’ I ask, unable to take my eyes off the piles and piles of bags surrounding us in the kitchen, and impatient to find a convenient interlude to ask more about the prison work.
‘These are from the women’s prison,’ Marion explains. ‘Alma Libre, our charity, buys them straight from the women and we take them to sell in a little shop in town. This is a particularly big batch, as we’ve been a bit thin on the ground recently and not able to go and pick them up…’ Marion looks grimly down into her teacup, and I remember Gabi telling me she hasn’t been able to help out much lately due to being so heavily pregnant.
‘And every week there are new arrests, meaning the prisons are getting even more cramped,’ comments Roberto.
I think back to the newsflash I saw when we first arrived at Casa Hamaca, announcing the opening of new prisons and the possible release of many drugs criminals.
‘But… the government is releasing lots of prisoners, right?’ I ask, feeling the shudder of fear again at the memory of the news report.
‘May God will it so,’ Liza says gravely, crossing herself dramatically. Marion and Roberto both nod in solemn agreement.
‘Wait – you want them to be released?’ I can’t keep the disbelief from my voice. If my mum were here, she would be freaking out at this.
Marion sighs. ‘Of course, some people are behind bars because they really, truly deserve to be. Or because they’re a danger to the rest of us.’ She pauses and stirs her tea, looking thoughtful. ‘But so many aren’t. So many of them, especially – I am sad to say – the women, are just victims of circumstance.’