It was a crisp morning in 2010, the sleepy stillness of the hour adding to the uneasy anticipation that brewed quietly within us. My husband and I were in Ecuador, awaiting the final leg of our journey home. By 5:30 a.m., we were at the airport, our energy only bolstered by the imminent return to familiar grounds. Little did we know, our adventure was far from over.
After checking in, we found seats near our gate, the quiet murmur of fellow travelers creating a blanket of tentative serenity. It was then that a firm voice cut through the air, calling my name. I looked up to see a stern-looking security officer gesturing for me to come to the desk. I asked if my husband, who was dozing beside me, should accompany me. The officer shook his head. No.
With a growing knot of apprehension in my stomach, I followed him. Our path meandered through a labyrinth of locked doors and winding corridors, only heightening my sense of isolation. I wasn’t alone, though. Two other women were part of this unexpected procession.
One of the women was soon diverted through another doorway, vanishing from sight. Anxiety wrestled with my thoughts. The remaining woman spoke Spanish, while I only knew English. We exchanged worried glances, our strained attempts at communication touching the edges of understanding. Our journey spiraled downwards, literally, leading us beneath the airport itself.
The sight that greeted us there was surreal. Before us stood a large, imposing metal table, our luggage already arrayed on its surface. Nearby, a scent detection dog sifted through the luggage with practiced diligence. The first officer silently departed, leaving us face-to-face with another officer, his machine gun slung menacingly across his chest.
He began sifting through our belongings. The Spanish-speaking woman, her suitcase neatly packed, finished first and was escorted away. My suitcase was another story—crammed with dirty clothes and mementos. An awkward pause filled the air as the officer held up the incense I had bought in Cuenca the day before, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny.
After what felt like an eternity, the initial officer returned, leading us back through the same maze of locked doors. Relief washed over me as I spotted my husband. Yet, his face was a mask of panic. He had been kept in the dark, frantic in his attempts to contact a lawyer we had met earlier. The experience left a lingering chill—a reminder that even in the midst of return, the unexpected can always beckon you into the unknown.