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REFUGE

In 1994 I found myself divorced and at loose ends living in Ecuador. Due to cultural confines and a woman's role in the society I had made few friends outside of my husband's family.

One of my friends was a veterinarian by the name of Gustavo. Born in Ecuador, but educated in Ohio, Gustavo understood my dilemma. On one of my visits I asked if he had any ideas of what I could do with myself while I decided which path my life would take.

As usual he offered me a job at his clinic but the injured and sometimes maltreated animals plucked at my heart strings. "No, that's not what I am looking for. I spent too long in an office. I want something different now," I said.

He had a new idea, "I have a friend, Steve, who works at a wild animal refuge. I've got his number right here."

That night I called Steve and volunteered my services. He gave me directions to an area called Mazan, just outside the huge nature reserve of Cajas located 20 minutes from Cuenca. We agreed to meet the following morning.

The road was fairly good by Ecuadorian standards. It wound up and up the mountainside through groves of shaggy eucalyptus and spiny penco cactus. Gradually, tiny white adobe houses with red tile roofs replaced the cinder-block citified houses. Early morning smoke curled out from under their eaves. I could picture the farmers eating their first meal of the day, probably rice and sweet black coffee. The marvelously adaptable cows that dotted the hillsides didn't seem to mind that it was over 3000 meters high.

The rutted dirt path angled sharply from the highway and tilted downwards steeply. I found myself squeezed between the lush vegetation that scraped the top of the car and the rocks that scraped her poor bottom. Crossing my fingers, I piloted the car through what I hoped was a shallow stream, only slipping a bit on the glacier-rounded rocks.
The road turned to sand and climbed higher once more. At the top was the rambling old hacienda Steve had described. Two large dogs came bounding out and launched themselves at the car, peering at me menacingly.

Alerted by their barking, Steve came lumbering out with shouts and reassurances. He was a gentle giant of an Englishman with a ready smile and, I soon found, some great stories. Dodging the effervescent dogs I followed him into the dark, cool of the hacienda. Its three-foot thick walls and small windows kept it well insulated.

As we sat at the rough plank table in the kitchen, enjoying a cup of tea from "over home", he told

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