A rat, a fire, "Juan Sanchez" and our stove debacle

A few weeks ago, upon returning to our casita after more than two weeks of traveling, we discovered we had our first rat. Sigh. The rodent had moved in, found himself a delicious bag of feed corn high up on a shelf, pulled insulation material from our oven to make a nest, and left droppings everywhere. Yuck.

We immediately went to work to clean up the mess, grumbling unhappily as we swept and scrubbed and threw things out. Paul was able to locate and purchase some traps, which we then realized were a terrible idea with a free range pet bunny also living in the house. We just had one sighting of the uninvited vermin on our second day back; after that he simply and miraculously disappeared. I guess he realized that it was not as fun to live with us as it had been to housesit.

A few days later, as we were preparing dinner for ourselves and guests, the kitchen stovetop mysteriously caught fire. It was a little surreal --  as fires can be -- with black smoke billowing out of the top of the propane-powered range. Paul scrambled to turn off the gas and locate the source, but it was not until one of the plastic control knobs literally melted off the front of the stovetop, that we could see that the space between the burners and the stovetop had caught fire. Paul doused the inside of the range with water, and voila the fire was out. Thankfully, dinner was just about done cooking, and we relocated our dining table onto the front porch to escape the lingering aroma of burnt plastic.

Later that evening, handy Paul was able to open up the stovetop and locate a partially burnt plastic bag that had clearly been dragged there by our friend, the rat, as part of a second nest. Grrrr. Paul was also able to fix up the range sufficiently that left us with three, albeit tenuous, mostly functional burners.

***

We made do with the partially repaired stovetop for the next few days, and once we bid farewell to our houseguests, we turned our attention to kitchen repair. We concluded that living rurally without our own transport (we do not have a car) and without alternate cooking appliances (we also do not have a microwave, toaster oven, even an electric kettle), getting the range fixed was going to be a bigger deal than it might otherwise be.

I have written previously about the various "goods and services trucks" that roll periodically through town and thought it a brilliant plan that we flag down one of the trucks and arrange for a traveling repair person to fix it. It is not an uncommon refrain in our rural town: "Arreglamos cocinas, arreglamos refris, arreglamos liquadoras" ("We fix stoves, we fix fridges, we fix blenders"). That way we could avoid having to lug the appliance to the city on a rented or borrowed vehicle and also escape having to to figure out how to make food for ourselves for an undetermined length of time.

***

Less than a week later, as I was sitting on the main road chatting with an old friend, one such repairman came through town, driving an old white Lada (think Volvo), proclaiming over a megaphone strapped to his side mirror "Arreglo cocinas! ("I fix stoves!"). I was ecstatic and eagerly recruited him up to our casa to evaluate our oven range.

This is where a little shame begins to sneak in. This is where we started to get beguiled. I, mistakenly, did not verify the man's local street cred before inviting him into our home. And thus, begins a chapter of the story that is, frankly, a little bit embarrassing. Paul and I do realize in retrospect that there were some serious red flags, but, alas hindsight is often 20/20. 

It is, perhaps, important here to note our setting. When we travel in Ecuador, we tend to be cautious and less trusting; we check and double check. We are acutely aware of the possibility of being taken advantage of. But at home in La Josefina, we have our collective guard down. We feel safe and secure.  Life is tranquilo. Our kids run free, we often leave things unattended on our porch. We feel protected.

***

Long story short, the nice man, who introduced himself as "Juan Sanchez", took a quick glimpse at our sick range and gave a convincing, albeit brief, assessment of what needed to be done. He also offered to repair our ailing, sweaty fridge, which we politely declined. In the end, Juan gave us a quote of $80 to repair the kitchen range. While this seemed pretty steep, we figured it was worth a shot, and instead of giving him a small down payment (yes, another red flag), we gave him $60 with a gentleman's agreement that he would return the following day to fix it. 

I did, at one point in the conversation, feel suspicious enough to ask him outright how he would guarantee his return. He smiled broadly and assured me confidently that "these were his people, this was his place" and that he would be back without fail. We tried to exchange phone numbers, but alas, the electricity was off, the internet down, and he unable to give us his number directly because he said he did not know it. 

And so we sent Juan off with a handshake and his kind assurances that we would see him the next day. "Juan Sanchez," he said with a wide grin, "The name is Juan Sanchez, and I'll see you tomorrow!" At this point, Paul's suspicion was also mounting, enough that he surreptitiously snapped a picture of the man's license plate. And still, we both thought, he will come. We had no reason to believe otherwise.

***

The next day, of course, he did not come.

The following day, when we went out swimming in the river, I left a note on the door.  Again, no sign of Juan. 

Call us naïve, but we were still hopeful. Sometimes time works differently in Latin America, and one must be patient. However, after more than a few days passed without any contact and no sign of Juan, we knew we had been had.

Of course, Paul and I now feel very dumb about all the warning signs we did not heed. Why did he not know his own phone number? Why didn't he want Paul to take the top off so he could properly investigate? Why did he insist on such a large proportion of the money upfront? Why? Why? Why?

***

More than two weeks later, we welcomed our next set of guests. Feeling somewhat ashamed about getting duped, we did not widely share the kitchen situation with local friends. And so it was that we found ourselves stuck: still with a semi-functioning kitchen, no plan with how to repair it, now out $60.  

That Friday afternoon, about twelve of us, including our three visitors, head out of town in a friend's truck for an afternoon of lychee picking and river swimming. As we rounded the corner one town over, I looked up and instantly recognized Juan Sanchez' white car. It is one of those cars that is hard to forget.

"Paul," I said, as I turned to him in the backseat, "That's the car. That is Juan Sanchez' car."                                                                   

Practically before I could finish my sentence, Paul saw what I was seeing and sternly ordered our friend Washo to stop his truck. Without further ado, Paul leapt from the backseat, slamming the passenger door behind him and hurrying across the street to the nearby parked car. He slammed the truck door so hard that everyone in the vehicle was immediately made aware that he was upset. And they were worried, so worried, in fact, that one of the young men in the back bounded from the truck bed in hopes of holding him back. Or maybe preventing a fist fight?

The next few moments are a bit of a blur, but within seconds, Paul had opened up the passenger door of Juan Sanchez' car and leaned inside. (He later explained that his intention had been to sit down in the passenger seat to prevent him from driving away).  Instead, Paul conveniently noticed a cellphone charging in the front panel of the car; he grabbed Juan's phone, slammed the passenger door shut, and walked assuredly toward our truck, yelling (in Spanish): "Why have you not come back to fix my cocina!?" 

Juan Sanchez, perhaps surprisingly, did not get angry, and did not leave his vehicle. He fumbled through some words, "I was JUST coming today to fix your kitchen," he said loudly, with a nervous smile. "I just haven't made it there yet!"

"Mentira!" Paul yelled, now sitting safely back in our truck, cellphone in hand. "Come bring me back my money, and then you can have your phone!"

"When?" Juan asked somewhat desperately. "When shall I come?" 

Paul yelled back, again in Spanish, "This afternoon!" He shouted, "Come this afternoon!"

"But I cannot," supplied Juan, "It will be too late."

"Then tomorrow!" bellowed Paul, "Come tomorrow! We will be home tomorrow!"

"But please give me back my phone!?" Juan now begged.

"Oh, I will, when you come tomorrow," Paul said confidently. "Washo, let's go!" And we drove off, our friends now chuckling. With Juan's phone.

***

I wish I could tell you all's well that ends well. But it has now been four weeks since our encounter. We still have the phone. We still have a broken range.  There's still a note on our door, with "Juan Sanchez" in quotes, and Paul's phone number.  Perhaps he's too nervous to show up, unsure what the crazy gringos will do next?  But probably we'll spot him again over the next couple of months. Paul hopes he has either $60 on him, or a better phone -- people here aren't sure the one we have is worth that much.