Welcome home - and back to Bogota

A light breeze has shaken off the ice crystals a morning fog created on the branches of the poplar trees, and now they are sparkling in the midday sun: we have come home to a winter wonderland. About 35cm of snow fell during our month-long absence, so there is no question that it will be a white Christmas for us. 

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Two days ago at this time we had just said goodbye to our hosts at the ‘Hostal Sayta’, had stuffed our bags in the trunk of a taxi, and were inching towards the Bogotá airport. Traffic in the city was horrendous, and even the taxi driver was getting anxious already, but he visibly relaxed when he found out that our plane was not due to leave until 2 ½ hours later. Once we’d gain the carrera 26, the wide road connecting the city center and the airport 13km away, we’d be fine anyway. 

It was the usual chaos: intersections where cars, trucks and buses are nosing their way into traffic moving at a snail’s pace, motorbikes weaving through impossibly narrow gaps between, bicycles close to the curb, then suddenly a skinny horse pulling a wagon piled high with recyclables like cardboard or plastic bottles at a trot in the middle lane, the driver conversing animatedly with his companion sitting on the coach box beside him: nobody but an outsider like me would find anything extraordinary in this scene. 

Since we are not in a panic I welcome the opportunity to watch by now familiar sights pass by slowly one more time. Here is the ‘Corner Café’ where we had had breakfast earlier that morning and the day before, huevos revueltos – scrambled eggs – with tomato and onion or ham and cheese, bread, a cup of tinto – black coffee – for me, two jugos. These fruit juices are one of the things we’ll miss at home. Made of fruits we either had known only in their incarnation available at supermarkets in Canada, the aroma and taste a distant echo of their true potential, or had never encountered before, they are not like any juice we had tasted. Pineapple, orange, mandarin, mora (blackberry), strawberry, melon – these were the ones we could identify. But how about guanábana, tomate de árbol, lulo (called naranjilla in Ecuador), ubilla? ALL of them are extremely tasty, some sweeter, some a bit more tart, just thrown in a blender, if necessary with a bit of water or ice to make it liquid enough to drink, with the option of adding sugar, which we never found necessary. Sometimes we have been given the choice to add milk instead of water, which would turn it into a kind of milkshake, I guess, but we didn’t try that. 

Further down the hill we pass one joyeria – jewellery store – after the other, mostly displaying emerald jewellery in their windows, Colombia’s most famous precious stone, favoured by pre-Columbian people already. We had only looked at them in passing, running out of time in the end. 

Another change of direction at an intersection, another street: now almost every store features shoes, the next street clothing, another turn brings us to electronic equipment. It seems that in Bogotá people want to have the opportunity to compare products and prices for certain articles without having to walk long distances. One of the more remarkable streets, for me, was one branching off the ‘Plaza Simón Bolívar’, where we found ourselves on the first afternoon of our stay in Bogotá: here, it was military garb that was featured in store after store on that block: camouflage pants and shirts, boots, hats, in different colour combinations, the casual display and sheer amount of clothing suggesting that this was not uniform but fashion. Or do soldiers in Colombia buy their gear in little shops in the street? Admittedly, there are enough people in uniform that it could be possible. 

What all blocks have in common are the food vendors selling empanadas, arepas (a kind of corn pancake), fried bananas, patacones, pancakes made with green plantain (a type of not-so-sweet bananas), tamales – fast food northern South-American style. Little restaurants with tipico (typical) foods offer the soups favoured by Colombians: Ajiaco, made with chicken, different kinds of potatoes, corn, avocado and seasonings, another soup made with milk and corn, and, of course, sopa de mondongo, the tripe soup we encountered on our very first day in Colombia. All are hearty dishes, having given sustenance to the people of the highlands for centuries in often challenging weather conditions.

Still caught in heavy traffic, we inch by shoe shiners – omnipresent in towns and cities all over South and Central America - well-dressed and coiffured women, men in business suits, and here and there the very poor. In passing, I catch a glance of two indigenous women in ragged floral-print dresses, sitting on the pavement, leaning against a house wall, legs outstretched, two infants snuggling between them. One of the women unfastens the top buttons of her dress and offers her breast to her little boy. Such huge contrasts so close together.

Last morning in Bogota

Sayta Hostal

It is seven in the morning, and I have just opened the high, narrow wings of the door to the balcony we had closed last night, more to block out the noise from the street than the light coming in through the window. When this house was built the street noise would have consisted of horses' hooves and iron-rimmed wagon wheels rattling on the cobble stones instead of honking horns and the howling of bus engines a few blocks further down the hill: the Sayta Hostal at the upper end of Calle 12B is a beautiful house from the colonial era, like so many others in La Candelaria, Bogotá's historic district.

I had found it online when I looked for a place to stay before we left Canada, and while there were no reviews yet on “trip advisor” (the 'Sayta' has only been in operation since earlier this year) I was so taken by the curved yellow line of its facade, the photos showing the view, that I decided: this is where we'll spend the last few days in Bogotá.

After two days spent in this sprawling city of about 10 million we are now ready to pack our bags one last time before heading home this afternoon.

A bit bleary-eyed, we arrived at the main bus terminal at 6:30 on Tuesday morning after an 18-hour bus ride from Pasto. Since it was still very early to check into our hostel we sat on a bench in the sun not far from the terminal, right beside a fruit stand. Two dark-skinned men were busy preparing and selling fruit to a steady stream of customers on their morning jogging round or walking by in business suits. Fascinated, I watched how they skillfully peeled and sliced one orange-fleshed papaya and golden mango after the other with a huge knife. The fruit, cut neatly into cubes, was sold in plastic cups (plastic forks handed out with each purchase). The men obviously knew many of their customers by name; a few friendly words were exchanged, and several people chose a banana or a papaya from the newspaper-wrapped bundles waiting in wooden crates stacked around the stand.

 

The longer I watched, the more my mouth watered at the sight of the cups with the glowing fruits: could I chance it? Buying food on the street is one of the no-nos in Latin American countries, and it would be really unfortunate if I got sick. But the men wore plastic gloves, and the fruit looked so fresh, and I thought that we ourselves could not handle a mango more carefully if we bought one whole (which was the other alternative) – on the contrary, we'd probably make much more of a mess. Finally, I gave in to the temptation, was greeted with 'Buenas Dias, chica' (which changed into 'gracias, señora' when he took a closer look at me) and, after paying 2,000 COP (about $1,20), returned to Johann waiting on the bench. It was delicious - and of course we didn't get sick! 

(To be continued when time allows) 

 

Welcome back to Colombia!

“... only about three hours away from here by bus ... “

What was I thinking?

It is more than twelve hours later, and we are indeed in Pasto now, have been since about six, in fact. It's been a long day – and yet another bus day.

 

A taxi took us from our hostel in Otavalo to the Panamericana where, our hostel manager had assured us, we would be able to catch a bus that would take us directly to Tulcan, the last town on the way to the border. We had barely set down our packs when we saw a bus approach. “Tulcan” said the sign in the window – great! Timing couldn't have been more perfect. Another backpacker had been waiting with us, and after leaving our big bags with the bus attendant to store them in the baggage compartment the three of us entered the bus. Friendly faces were turning towards us, nodding, smiling – but there were way too many of them! Every single seat was taken, a phenomenon we had never encountered before on the long distance bus tours. Oh well, we'd have to stand, then. No big deal. The attendant actually found a place for me on a box-like seat at the very front, my back to the driver – not very comfortable, but better than standing. By now we had realized that 'standing' might well mean 'standing for the duration of the trip', which would mean 2 1/2 hours at least, since it seemed uncertain if the bus would stop anywhere between Otavalo and Tulcan, and if no passengers got off no seats would become available. 

The bus did stop, however, and after a while a few people left, so that all three of us managed to find a seat. My neighbour was a woman I estimated to be a little younger than me, with a cute little girl. She had pulled the girl on her lap and motioned me to sit down, and since I seemed to have more room than she did I offered to take the girl on my lap instead. This was the start of a somewhat laboured, but partly successful conversation in Spanish. I found out that the woman was the grandmother of the little girl, who was seven years old and whose name was Estefania. They had been up since four a.m. and were on their way to Pasto, though they planned to stop in Tulcan for the night. The woman had some problem with her eyes and was going to see a doctor in Pasto tomorrow. “I have never been past Tulcan”, she said, and I could see that the idea of travelling further, crossing the border and finding her way to the doctor's office in Pasto was scary for her. She had intended to travel by herself, she told me, but her daughter didn't like the idea and took Estefania out of school for four days so that she could accompany her grandmother. I can't quite imagine how a seven-year old could be of much help in this situation, but if nothing else her presence will be comforting.

We talked about farming in Ecuador and Canada, about our travels, the weather, and children and grandchildren, topics spanning countries and cultures, and from time to time she pointed out a feature in the landscape, named a river we crossed or a village we passed through. Estefania leaned back against me as if I was her favourite aunt, shifting once in awhile to get more comfortable. All the while the tv entertained whichever passengers felt the desire to immerse themselves in 'Wrath of the Titans” - and everybody else who didn't feel that desire, too. We had to shout to make ourselves heard, and eventually Estefania was sent to the front to ask the bus driver to turn down the volume, which happened immediately, surprisingly, though didn't last very long.

The bus ride took much longer than anticipated, and we finally arrived in Tulcan a little after one, almost 3 1/2 hours after we started (so much for 'about three hours to Pasto' - but I should have remembered that from the trip south, of course).

 

We found a taxi that took us to the Ecuadorian border. When we got there after about ten minutes we were due for the next surprise: a long line of people was waiting in front of the doors to the migration office to leave or enter Ecuador, much longer than when we were here three weeks ago. Weren't there different queues for people entering and leaving, maybe? Did we REALLY have to be in this line-up? Yes. There was no other way. Every ten or fifteen minutes a group of about ten people was ushered into the building, and we could move a few steps ahead. Finally it was our turn: we entered through the magic doors and knew we would not have to wait much longer now. When we had finally made it to the migration officer's window, however, we were sent away once again: we didn't have the Andean card – whatever that might be – and needed to get one from 'la signora a la puerta'. The signora was a signor who handed us a paper where we had to write down name, age, occupation, duration and intent of stay, etc, and, of course, the passport number. Nothing works without that here, and we finally found out why everyone seems to have memorized their passport number: it is necessary for any transaction, from checking into hotels and hostels to buying bus tickets, and heaven knows for what else if you live here. Even we have almost memorized our numbers now. Sometimes, when we checked into hotels and it was too cumbersome to dig out our passports from the depth of the backpack, we became creative and invented one. I'm sure nobody ever checks.

Andean card in hand we now were checked out of Ecuador quickly and without a hitch, and crossed the same bridge on which we had entered the country three weeks ago, walking in the opposite direction. It seems so much longer ago than that! On the other side we faced no line-up at all at the Colombian office, our passports were stamped, and we were sent on our way with a friendly “Welcome to Colombia!” In total, the border formalities took one and a half hours – it was now a quarter past three in the afternoon.

 

The collectivos (small vans used as group taxis) filled up quickly, and once our luggage had been stowed in the back of one already, but we were turned away at the door, fortunately retrieving our luggage before it left without us. The fourth attempt was successful, however, and after a few minutes we arrived in Ipiales, where we found a bus about to leave for Pasto.

The last stretch of today's journey was, for me, the most beautiful of the whole trip, yet I find it incredibly hard to describe it. Its beauty lies not only in the abundance of flowers – fuchsias, dahlias, brown-eyed Susans, Bougainvillea, hibiscus hedges bursting with pink, red and yellow blossoms, wild flowers in many colours spilling down the grassy hillsides, and roses, roses, roses everywhere – but also in the sheer wonder of the physical landscape, the depth, the immeasurable depth of the valleys, the green hillsides ascending from their narrow bottoms on the opposite side, one ridge beside the other, seemingly rising from the very heart of the earth, shelves, some very narrow, others quite wide, with plantings of beans, corn or potatoes interrupting the steep drop of the cliffs, the river glistening deep, deep below, waterfalls scouring the clefts between ridges. It is impossible to give an impression of what it is like with words, and equally impossible to take photos, because the bus hurtles along at top speed, and one beautiful vista gives way to the next with every curve we turn – and there are nothing but curves. It is a landscape to get lost in, a landscape that makes me feel small and insignificant in the face of such magnificence. It is a landscape that makes me want to spread out my wings and fly.

Welcome to Colombia!

All because of a cup of coffee

It's our last morning in Ecuador: in a few hours we will cross the border to Colombia. We are definitely on our way home.

I'm a little behind with my travel report and better finish what I had started a couple of days ago in a place much quieter than Otavalo, where we are now.

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Friday, December 7th, 2012



Chimborazo at sunset

It is seven o'clock in the morning. A sun-filled haze hides the higher mountains in the distance from view: it could be morning fog, or the smoke rising from the small indigenous farm houses around us. At this altitude a fire in the fireplace is almost a necessity.

We are at the Posada La Estación, right across from Urbina, at 3,618m the highest railway station in Ecuador and the tenth-highest in the world, at the foot of mighty Chimborazo, its snow and ice covered peak a favourite destination for mountain climbers. 6,300 m high, it is the highest mountain in Ecuador.

 

In the pasture behind the house the old lama “Inti” (which means “sun” in Kichua language) and his younger, very vigorous Alpaca companion with his beautiful thick white coat are grazing peacefully alongside their females and offspring, a donkey brays nearby, and the green hills across from the house are dotted with grazing cows, and small, simple houses, their corrugated iron roofs glittering now in the slowly emerging sun. Only the traffic noise from the old Panamerican Highway right in front of the house and the dirt road on the other side, part of the Inca Trail, disrupts this pastoral scene: people on their way to work on one of the bigger farms or in one of the small communitites.

We have landed at this beautiful place quite by chance. We left Cuenca two days ago to visit Ingapirca, Ecuador's best known Inca site, and had two days left before we had to be back in the Quito area. For the first night we had chosen Alausí, starting point for the train ride down the famous 'Devil's Nose'. We had briefly entertained the idea to take this train, but after our bus ride to Guayaquil,we felt we had experienced the same thrill without paying $35 and do another totally touristy thing. But Alausí still intrigued us: its location on the precipice is pretty dramatic, and we also thought we might hike a bit in the area to find out how we'd do at over 3000 m. (As we have found out by now, the Lonely Planet erred by about 1000 m: Alausi is not at 3,323m, but 2,300). It is a small town where not much is going on except railroad related business, with a very high percentage of indigenous population, which makes it a colourful place to visit.

The bus dropped us off at a gas station on the highway around 4:30 the day before yesterday, and we shouldered our packs and walked the 1.5 km downhill into town. Again we passed children in school uniforms, a farmer leading two bulls on a rope, a younger calf walking ahead, dragging its tethering rope behind it, nodded to women sitting in front of their small stores. At the bottom of the hill we reached Alausí's main road, the '5 de Junio'. As in many other towns the two lanes were divided by a well-kept center strip with grass, trees, flowers and benches, and the sidewalks were bustling with people in mostly indigenous dress. The 'Hotel Europa', one of the lodgings listed in the Lonely Planet, was the first hotel we passed, and when we walked down the '5 de Junio' we found several more. A few hundred meters further down, where the road curved to the right, we could see the freshly renovated railway station.

None of the few hotels looked any better than the Hotel Europa, so we checked in, dropped off our luggage, and went for a walk along the boulevard to familiarize ourselves with our surroundings. We walked to the railway station where we found one old-fashioned blue railcar – looking more like a bus than a train – and a short modern red train, the latter obviously the one in use now.

A few steps further a sign caught my eye 'Books & Coffee' – what was this un-Ecuadorian looking name all about? The doors were invitingly open, and we stepped into a tiny space where the walls were lined with tightly packed book shelves. How could I resist this invitation, even without the added allure of a cup of coffee? A young woman stood behind the small counter in the corner, and a bearded man in his sixties sat at one of the three tables. He addressed us in almost accent-free English, and it turned out that he was not another customer but the owner of this little gem. There were no other guests, and we soon were engaged in conversation. It turned out that Carlos had opened the small restaurant and book exchange only months before, but had another restaurant with that name in Quito. Here, his customers were mainly tourists who take the train ride down 'Nariz del Diablo', which happens twice in the morning and sometimes in the afternoon as well, so at this time of day not many people walk by anymore. Carlos obviously was happy to have company, and for us it was a lucky coincidence to find someone who spoke English so well and knew so much about the country and the people. I skimmed the well-sorted book shelves: English and Spanish titles took up the biggest part, but there were German, Dutch and a few French books as well, plus a couple of shelves with hard-cover classics, some of them obviously quite old. This latter section, Carlos said, was not for exchange or sale; these were his own books, and customers could enjoy them while they were there, but the others were meant for a book exchange or could be bought at a small fee.

After a pleasant half hour or so we said goodnight to our friendly host and slowly wandered back to our hotel.

Since breakfast was not included at the 'Hotel Europa' the next morning found us wandering along '5 de Junio' in search of something to eat. Nothing really caught our fancy on the way down the street, but Carlos's door was open already, and he suggested a place – 'or you could have a sandwich, coffee and 'jugo' (one of the delicious freshly-made fruit juices served everywhere in Ecuador and Colombia) here'. His employee would be there in five minutes.

Well, this was, of course, the easiest alternative, and soon we were engaged in conversation again. Carlos told us that he guided treks along the Inca Trail, part of the original Incan High Road that connected Cusco and Quito. The guided tour starts about twenty kilometers southeast of Alausi and leads by several small Inca sites, ending in Ingapirca. This, it seemed, was his true passion, since he loved the mountains. With a little more time, or if we had planned a bit differently, we could possibly have done this, too: it sounded like a wonderful experience, though I was a bit doubtful that I could have handled hiking at that altitude: the trail goes up to 4,100 m.

We had one more night to spend before we were expected back at the farm by Ale, and since we felt we had exhausted the possibilities Riobamba had to offer we had pretty much, though a bit reluctantly, decided to spend it in Baños, a pretty town about two hours away, much frequented by tourists. Johann asked Carlos if he could suggest a place between Alausí and Quito. 'Hmmm ... my brother, who is also a guide, has a place up in the mountains, a kind of B & B, right outside the entrance to Chimborazo National Park', he said. 'I have to go there anyway to pick something up; if you want, you can come along'. We didn't have to think about that for very long: it sounded a lot more alluring than spending the night in a tourist town.

An hour later we were back at “Books & Coffee” with our packs, ready for what promised to be an interesting day. We piled into Carlos's jeep and were on our way north to Riobamba: there we would pick up Rodrigo, Carlos's brother, who operates the 'Posada la Estación'.

 

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Further reports will have to wait until we are in Colombia: while Pasto, our destination for tonight, is only about three hours away from here by bus, we have the border to cross, and it is never quite predictable how fast it goes. We want to make sure to arrive in Pasto in the daylight.

Strange new world

It's our very first afternoon on the Galapagos Islands. After the first 'briefing' by the guide – a practice that will be a firm part of every day for the duration of the cruise – our group of sixteen has piled into the two dinghies, and we are taken to the shore of North Seymour, a small island just north of Isla Santa Cruz where our plane from Guayaquil landed this morning. Johann, our Galapagos-born guide, explained that we could expect to see not only blue-footed boobies and frigate birds here but also land iguanas and sea lions. We would be excited to see them, he said, eager to take photos, but by the end of the week we'd say, 'oh, sea lions again ...'

 

Seeing a sea lion mother nurse her baby right beside our path, we find it very hard to believe that we could ever not get excited at the sight.

 

Slowly we follow Johann on a well-marked path along the dry, rocky island. He has instructed us to stay between the black and white stakes marking the trail on both sides: anything beyond is off-limits to visitors.

 

Whatever grows here has small leaves and small white or yellow flowers at best; most of the low shrubs look as if they are dead. It is the end of the dry season, and the rains will start shortly, continuing for the next two to three months. Trees will get leaves, and it will get greener, but of course it is much more pleasant to walk on dry paths in the sunshine as we are doing now, and for us the most important thing is watching the animals.

Looking around I realize that the Galapagos Islands are indeed a world in themselves, unlike anything I have seen so far, even anything I imagined, and reading and hearing about it could not have prepared me for what it is like. The animals are everywhere – and they don't pay any attention to our presence! I stand listening to the sucking of the sea lion baby only a few steps away, watch the mother shift in the sand to get more comfortable, head bent back, eyes closed. It is as if we don't exist for them.

It is the same for any other animals we encounter. We have to be careful not to step on them – they don't know anything about paths, of course, and time and again we have to walk around blue-footed boobies, males, females, or youngsters.

 

Under a prickly pear cactus we find our first yellow land iguana and can take our time taking in its features, its scaly front legs and head, its smoother back, its long tail. It has sought out the cactus for the shade it provides, and it is not going anywhere just because a few humans are staring at it.

Suddenly Johann stops us, puts a finger to his lips and points to two birds on a little rise close by. We watch how one of them slowly lifts a bright blue foot, raises his wings, then raises the other one, raising his wings again, a high whistle accompanying each move – we immediately recognize that we are witnessing the mating dance of the blue-footed booby! Johann gave us a demonstration of the dance on the boat earlier: he does an excellent imitation, as we can now confirm.

It is rare to see boobies do their mating ritual on this island at this time of year, so we feel very lucky to be able to witness it. The male continues to dance his slow dance, then stops and picks something up in his beak: a present for his chosen bride. This can be a small stick or a little rock, or whatever else he can find. He places it on the foot of the female, where she inspects it for a moment, deciding if she should accept it or not. If she does, it means that he, too will be accepted. If not, she'll kick off whatever he placed on her foot, and he will have to continue to dance and look for presents. It is the female who decides on her partner, and she might well continue to reject him and wait for another one.

We leave them to their courtship and return to the shore, where Patricio and Renato are already waiting for us with the dinghies to take us back to the 'Guantanamera' a few hundred meters away.

What an awesome start to our Galapagos adventure!

 

 

Watching birds on North Seymour, Galapagos

 

Casa del Rio hostal, Cuenca                             8 am

 

We changed hostels and now have a room with a view of the Tomebamba river that runs through Cuenca, so this morning it's the sound of rushing water instead of crowing roosters that sends us off into the day. We decided to spend another day in this beautiful city before making our way back to Quito.

 

There is still much to tell about the Galapagos Islands, but since I'm a bit short of time right now I will start by posting a few pictures from our first day there.  

 

Blue-footed booby - my favourite bird in Galapagos

 

Male frigate birds at mating time


 

Monday morning in Cuenca

Courtyard at the Hostal Macondo

Hostal Macondo, Cuenca 6:30 am

A rooster has been crowing incessantly for the last half hour, joined by a multitude of bird voices, but otherwise it is very quiet: it's hard to believe that we are in the middle of a city of about 350,000.

It's hard to believe that we are here, too, on firm ground, at 2500 m altitude: yesterday morning at this time we were sitting in the dinghy, the ocean smooth as silk, surrounded by red mangroves. The absolute stillness, a very different kind of silence than this morning, was broken only by the occasional splash of a sea creature.

It was our last morning on the 'Guantanamera', the 16-passenger cruise boat that was our home for a whole week. Instead of starting the day with breakfast at 7 we were ready to go out in the dinghy by six for a special treat to conclude our Galapagos adventure. As every other morning before the sky was overcast, but the temperature was pleasant, and not the slightest breeze stirred the water.

Once again we put on our life jackets and took our place in the boat, every step of the procedure routine by now. The 'Guantanamera' was anchored a few hundred meters from shore, and we quickly covered the distance. When we neared the mangrove forest Renato slowed down the engine and skillfully manoeuvered us slowly along the shore.

Mangroves

There! Xavier, our guide for the second part of the week, pointed out a black shape: the first sea turtle. We had seen many sea turtles during our trip, even swam with them when we snorkeled. Today, however, they were more numerous than we had ever seen them in one spot: it was mating time. It wasn't long before we found the first couple, the male's shell rising out of the water, every once in a while both heads showing. This would go on for a long time, our guides had told us, and could take up to three hours. Other males were waiting nearby, ready to take their turn: a female can be engaged in the mating process with different males for three days. By then, of course, she is totally exhausted.

Sea turtle

 

They didn't pay attention to us, just like all the other many animals we encountered this week: it was as if we didn't even exist. We watched for a while and slowly tuckered into the next little bay, where we found more turtles. Now, however, we entered deeper into the mangrove cove, had to duck to evade low branches. Almost enclosed by the trees we were in a very small, shallow pool. Renato had cut the engine, and he and Xavier were using paddles to propel us slowly. Excitedly Xavier pointed at something moving below us: a large group of white-tipped reef sharks! At about 1.5 m length they are not among the largest sharks, nor are they aggressive. On the contrary, they are usually shy, and when we encountered them – singly – during our snorkeling expeditions they were scared of us and swam off. Here, however, we could watch them in the clear, shallow water, their sleek bodies moving in a tight group. Nocturnal hunters, they come here to rest during the day.

On the way out of the cove, finally, we had the last marvellous encounter: a sting ray and several eagle rays. Both we had seen while we were snorkeling as well.

What a wonderful way to say good-bye to these islands that had amazed us time and again in the last week!



Good-bye, Guantanamera

Another bus day

Thursday evening.

 

I fell asleep to the sounds of 'I'm sexy', rows of red, blue and green lights along the overhead baggage compartment blinking rhythmically, and wake up to the same pounding rhythm, this time accompanying Spanish words. Does this mean I slept for a long time, or just a few minutes? I'm not sure: it was dark already when I drifted off, and all I see when I look out is my image reflected in the window, and from time to time faint lights in passing. We must be getting close to Riobamba now, only about 3 1/2 hours south of Quito on the Panamericana.

It's been another 'bus day', and a long one, even though we didn't cover a lot of ground. We left our hospitable temporary home this morning at 7:30, Johann carrying the big backpack with our clothes, I the smaller one with the laptop, books, the camera, sunscreen, binoculars, a bottle of water and a bag of peanuts, our tried and true emergency ration.

 

Ale's mother has a meeting at nine and is taking the same busses we will have to take to get into Quito where we'll try to finalize our plans for the Galapagos Islands. The bus system in Quito, while well organized for the initiated, is rather complicated for someone who is not familiar with it, and we are really glad to have Lilia to guide us.

The first bus leaves only a few metres from their front door, fortunately not so full yet that we can't find a spot to put the backpack, but the seats are all taken, and with every stop more people enter the bus, very few leave. The passengers consist of mostly well-dressed men and women of every age group, many on their way to work, I suspect, with a few older and visibly poorer people here and there. Once, a young man in dirty, torn jeans comes in, heavily leaning on a cane: his one foot is crippled, and he says something to the other passengers – obviously he is asking for money. Since we stand in the very front, facing the rest of the bus, I can observe the reaction of my fellow passengers. Most of them avert their eyes, look a bit embarrassed, but I notice that several of the more shabbily dressed people pull out their purses and drop a coin into his hand. He gets out at the next stop. Marina told us that it is actually illegal to give money to beggars now because the government is paying a certain amount to everyone who needs help – if this is true I don't know. Unemployment is at 10%, and it can't be easy for someone without an education who would have to rely on doing manual labour, like this young man, to earn a living.

By the time we enter Quito proper the bus is full. Traffic is very slow now, probably because of construction, or maybe an accident, and it is obvious that Lilia won't make it in time for her appointment at nine. When I ask her about it she shrugs, and says she'll blame the bus for it. Finally we are at the point where we change busses. Now, we enter the 'Metro' system, one of three fast lanes traversing the city on the north/south axis. These busses travel in lanes reserved for them, and no traffic can interfere now with our progress. It is not so full anymore either – much more relaxing. After maybe fifteen minutes we get out at 'Colón'. From now on we will be on our own, Lilia heading in the opposite direction from where we need to go. We have our instructions, however, and the weather is nice – we will be fine.

On Monday night we came into this part of town with Ale, who is taking Salsa lessons after work, and tried to find the “Happy Gringo” travel agency. Not having a city map of Quito, only small sections of it in the Lonely Planet, and Ale's verbal instructions, we walked for many, many blocks – and never found the right place. We had assumed that Quito had been built relying on a grid system like most of the other big cities in South and Central America we had visited; it is not difficult to find your way then. Here, however, it is wrong to rely on the idea that a big avenida or calle will continue in a straight line. Turning after so many blocks might not ever get you where you intended to go. Later, looking at a map, it became clear: Quito is almost like a spider's web, having grown from the inside out. That night, we finally turned around and retraced our trek along the '10 de Agosto', happy to be back at the pickup in the parking lot at the 'Casa de la Cultura'.

This morning, we find our way easily, and first stop at the 'TAME' building. TAME is Ecuador's national airline. We learned that there were plenty of flights from Guayaquil to Baltra, the airport on Santa Cruz, one of the two islands with airports (the other is San Cristobal), and also that there were no special offers at the moment, or rather none for non-Ecuadorians: we had seen advertisements for $199 for a return flight, which would have been about $250 to $300 cheaper than the regular flights.

Armed with this information we now seek out the 'Happy Gringo' travel agency we had tried to find in vain two days earlier. Ale had driven by with us later on the way home, and we knew what the area and the place looked like.

Here, we get all the professional advice we need, and finally decide not to free-wheel it but go with an eight-day cruise boat tour after all. We had, for a little while, entertained the idea of just flying to Santa Cruz and organizing things ourselves, but I was worried that we might not get to see enough – and this is, after all, a once-in-a-lifetime undertaking. It would be really sad if we had come all this way and didn't see what we came for. At about 1:30 all hurdles are cleared, and we shoulder our packs once again to make our way to the 'trole' bus station nearest to the Happy Gringo. Following the advice of Marcelo from the travel agency we opt for a taxi to cover the distance: a thin rain has just started to fall, the first since our arrival in Ecuador.

We get dropped off right at the 'trole' station – the 'trole' is one of the three fast bus lines I mentioned earlier -, get our tickets at 25 cents each and wait for the bus that will take us to Quitumbe, the big modern bus terminal at the very southern tip of the city. Ale had warned us to make sure that we take the right bus here: even though the sign in the window might say 'Quitumbe' the bus might not go there. We ask two bus company employees close by about the right bus, and for the first two they say 'no', but when the third one arrives, and I ask again if this is the bus to Quitumbe, they say yes, so we get on, even find seats this time – great. Now we can relax and enjoy the drive. Passing through, we recognize several of the grand buildings in the historical part of Quito where we walked on Saturday, see again the basilica with its three distinctive towers and El Panecillo, pleased to have some reference points now.

Suddenly the bus veers off its relatively straight course and takes a sharp left turn, then stops beside a big plaza. This is weird! I walk to the front and ask the driver (still in my rudimentary Spanish, of course), 'Quitumbe'? He shakes his head and points to a station across the plaza. We gather our bags and quickly step onto the platform: busses stop only as long as they absolutely have to, and it's wise not to dawdle.

We walk across the plaza to the station the driver pointed out to us, 'Il Domingo', get the next set of tickets for twenty-five cents each and settle down to wait with a growing number of other people. It's well after two now, and school kids in different uniforms start to crowd into the station. Most kids here wear uniforms, the girls skirts, often plaid, with white blouses and dark jackets, knee-length socks or leotards, the boys dark suits and ties and white shirts, and always black shoes. Like teenagers at home they wield their cellphones, the girls wear make-up, couples hold hands or make out. We look out for a bus with the 'Quitumbe' sign in the window, but it seems that the only busses coming by here are those marked 'El Recreo' and 'Estacion Y”. When will we finally be able to continue? We study the diagram on the wall of the station, but come to no clear conclusion which line goes where. It does seem possible, however, that the Quitumbe line doesn't come by here, but bypasses this main corridor. Finally we decide that we need to go to El Recreo; it will at least be in the right direction, and we can't wait here forever: we need to catch a bus south, after all, and don't want to arrive in Riobamba too late in the evening.

We noticed that the busses were getting continually more crowded as the afternoon progresses, and now can hardly get in. Johann puts down his pack right beside the door, but I am carried a bit further by the mass of bodies pressing in behind me, and have trouble to stay close enough to the front that I feel able to get out quickly. I am wedged in so tightly that I feel I can hardly breathe, trying to avoid standing on my neighbours' feet, trying, too, to keep an eye on my pack and hang on to it tightly. Busses, after all, are supposed to be prime ground for pickpockets and backpack slashers. Surrounded mainly by well-mannered schoolgirls, however, I feel reasonably safe.

It turns out that our assumption regarding El Recreo is correct: it is a switch-over station, and our bus ends there. Everyone has to get off and now joins an even bigger line-up than before for the last stretch to Quitumbe. Several busses pass, full to overflowing, but finally one stops, and the long line of people ahead of us gets rapidly shorter. It's almost time for us to board – but will we fit?? Johann pushes ahead and I follow, but am stuck right in the door, together with several other people. I try to move in further, but can't: the wall of bodies in front of me seems immovable, impenetrable. Scared that I'll be squeezed in by the closing doors I jump back at the last moment, to my big relief followed by Johann. The thought of being separated right here doesn't appeal to me at all.

Again we join the line-up, but are getting a bit anxious. Who knows when we'll be able continue if conditions are like this? Finally we decide to hail a taxi for the rest of the way – it can't be very far anymore, after all. I tell the taxi driver where we want to go, and ask him how much it will cost: we have read that it is smart to do that if you want to avoid being overcharged heavily. It is much further yet to the terminal than we thought, and we realize that our $4 are well spent. The driver sticks to his price, giving me the right change: taxi drivers don't usually receive tips here.

Relieved to finally have made it we find the bus company going to Riobamba, the destination we had chosen as doable in the morning. The 'Patria' clerk takes our $8 and tells us to go to 'Salida 29'. I check the ticket: 3:30 pm - that's only five minutes from now! Almost at a run we arrive at the bus stop just in time for the driver's assistant to stow our bag in the cave-like belly of the bus, and a few minutes later we're on our way.

Ecuadorian folk music streams from the loudspeakers as we start making our way south. I don't think I could ever tire of this music, and so far it seems to have been the music of choice for every bus driver on the way.

 

The fertile valley is opening up now, fields spread out to the left and right, and small herds of Holstein cows graze in lush green pastures. It is milking time, and often we see women squatting behind or beside a cow whose hind legs have been tied together, more pails waiting a few metres away. It is a pastoral scene, one we are not likely to encounter anywhere in Canada or Germany anymore.

 

I am glad for the beautiful landscape outside, because by now the driver's assistant has started one of the gory movies, and it's quite enough not to be able to escape the sound. At least this way I can avert my eyes and, immersed enough in what I see, I sometimes even manage to ignore the sounds of shooting, grunts, and fists connecting with heads and other body parts. Finally it gets too dark to see anything outside, and I catch the credits of the movie: Sylvester Stallone, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Arnold Schwarzenegger – quite the collection! I look forward to the change in mood when the music starts up again, but this bus driver seems to have a much different taste than his colleagues. Instead of pan flute and guitar there is “I'm sexy, I'm sexy and I know it ...”. Thank goodness that this bus ride won't last 22 hours ...

We arrive in Riobamba shortly after seven, hire a taxi that takes us to the hotel “Tren Dorado” which we found in the Lonely Planet, and have no trouble getting a room for the next two nights – Riobamba, while a fair-sized city, is no tourist destination like Baňos, for example. Its most sought-after attraction is its proximity to Chimborazo, Ecuador's highest (and still active, though not recently) volcano, on clear days a beautiful sight right from the roof-top terrace of our hotel, and a favoured destination for mountain climbers.

A local delicacy

We only chose it because it was conveniently on the way, we needed a place where we could stay long enough to do our laundry, and wanted to see a town where indigenous people are just as much part of the picture as non-indigenous ones.

Tomorrow we will be on our way again, this time to Guayaquil, 4 1/2 hours away by bus. One more night there, and our Galapagos adventure will begin!

View from the "Tren Dorado" (this is not Chimborazo, however)