años is a four-hour bus ride from Quito, popular with locals and with tourists because of the mineral springs and waterfalls and volcanoes like Tungurahua, which has been dormant for a century. Except last Wednesday, the volcano erupted. There's no lava, just ash spewing over the small pueblos nearby, covering them in a thick coat of gray powder, killing the corn fields and fruit trees, killing the animals.

Some friends from the school and I head there Friday night. Since Baños lies on the other side of the mountain, it is practically untouched. But every tourist agency is cashing in, giving tours of the active volcano every two hours. Spectacular photos hang outside the agencies -- red lava glowing in the dark, beautiful gray clouds funneling into the sky. They look like they're from National Geographic; they probably are.

We bite. The bus picks us up at 11pm and drops us off in a dark, empty lot on the side of a hill. It is a total bust, not a tour of the volcano at all but an excuse for the guide's two boys, about 10 and 15, to give a flamethrowing performance for the crowd and collect tips. It's not a bad show, to be honest, probably what we deserve for flocking to an active volcano. I can't stop laughing. But the crowd, mostly drunk already, wants their $2 back.

They only settle down when the volcano erupts in the distance.

"Shh, listen," the guide shouts.

It sounds like a giant with a stomach ache.

The next day we go white water rafting and, giddy and soaking wet, head to the nearest restaurant. It's a pizza place called Caesar's, and I am in love with the little nine-year-old boy with big ears and a shy smile who brings our food. But when my friend goes to the kitchen to ask about her order, she comes back white-faced.

"It's all little kids cooking in there," she says.

Later, we're sick. Monday morning, I wake up cramped and nauseous and stay in bed all day. I tell Magdalena about the pizza place, about the little kids cooking in the kitchen. She shakes her head and touches her hand to her chest. She never wanted me to go to Baños in the first place.

Unlike Volcano Tungurahua, I only erupt once, and then spend the rest of the day in and out of consciousness. It could be the pizza. But it could be anything. It could be the water that sprayed into my mouth rafting, or the roll I bought at the train station, or the tea I drank that evening. Later, as I am trying to shove down a small plate of rice for dinner, Magdalena tells me about a news report she heard, how little kids near the volcano are sick from all the gases in the air; they have headaches all the time, and they keep throwing
up.