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)

Being tourists in Quito

For the last three days we've been guests of two wonderful Ecuadorian families. We met both Ale and Marina when they spent time in Canada as agricultural students a few years ago. They invited us to visit them in Ecuador – 'so that we can show you our beautiful country, the “Middle of the World” ', and they are part of the reason we chose Ecuador as our travel destination this year.

Ale's family has welcomed us into their spacious home in the 'Los Chillos' valley, about forty minutes from downtown Quito (except at rush hour, of course – then it takes more than an hour), and it is nice that we have a safe, quiet place to stay for these first few days.

 

The 'middle of the world' - off by about 250m

 

Marina and her mother and father were our hosts for excursions in and around Quito on Saturday and Sunday, giving us a great range of impressions of this interesting place.

We start out on Saturday by visiting the 'Mitad del Mundo, a kind of theme park based on the idea that at that very place lies the “middle of the world”, according to the (supposedly not quite correct) measurements of a French geodesic team in 1736. Interesting for us here is less the exact location of the equator – everything is close to it here, after all – but the Museo Etnográfico, informing visitors about the many different ethnological indigenous groups in Ecuador, including customs, crafts, dress, weapons, musical instruments and much more. 

 

For lunch, another culinary experience awaits us. Asked if we are interested in trying Ecuadorian specialties we find ourselves confronted with a – for our taste - very unusual meat dish: cuy, roasted guinea pig. The Salazar family love it, thus it is no problem that Johann and I don't manage to eat our full share. The taste, actually, is quite pleasant, and if we didn't know what we are eating we might have even liked it, but there is a certain mental resistance to overcome when eating something that is considered a pet at home. The locro de queso (potato and cheese) soup on the other hand is much easier to swallow, and the drink of choice, chicha, a slightly fermented corn drink, is very refreshing.

 

Our next stop, not far from the Middle of the World, is the viewpoint overlooking the Pululahua crater. Pululahua means "cloud of water" or fog in Quechua, the indigenous language. This huge crater belongs to a volcano that last erupted 2,500 years ago, and, filled with fertile volcanic soil, its bottom is used as farmland. It's an impressive sight, the fields far down surrounded entirely by lava domes. The highest of them is Sincholagua hill at 3,356 m. There is a likely very interesting geobotanical reserve – Pululahua is the oldest National Park in Ecuador, and in fact all of South America, created in 1966 – but on this day we act like "mass tourists" and only walk to the lookout, not far from the parking lot. Long wisps of cloud are suddenly racing upward from the valley floor, slithering over the peaks, and I feel a few drops of rain. Will the weather hold for the next part of the agenda planned by Marina's family for this day?

To get there, Marina's father Manuel has to brave the incredibly dense traffic through the long spine of this city that doesn't seem to have a beginning or an end. After almost an hour of driving we finally pull into a parking lot conveniently close to the historic part of the city.

Here, we make our way to the Plaza Central (or Plaza de la Indepencia), surrounded by a wealth of magnificent colonial buildings, among them the President's Palace, Archbishop's Palace, Municipal Palace and countless churches that surpass each other in their display of incredible wealth. We briefly look into the Cathedral and the Church of the Society of Jesus, almost blended by the gilded walls and ceilings. In both churches mass is being read, and we soon withdraw quietly, a bit relieved to leave this almost oppressive splendour behind. On the church steps toothless old men and women dressed in little more than rags stretch out their hands, while others are hawking anything from candles to be lit in the church to candies to be consumed before or after. A bigger discrepancy on such a small room is hard to imagine.

 

 

 

In the meantime dusk has fallen, and we get in the car again to conclude our day on “la ronda”, a narrow street in old-town Quito that is one of the main attractions for locals and tourists alike. Ornate wooden doors lead into interior courtyards where restaurants offer Ecuadorian and international fare, strains of Salsa and other Andean music further enticing passers-by to come in for a meal, a drink or a cup of coffee.

We meet up with Ale in one of them, white-washed adobe walls sparsely adorned with local art, heavy dark wooden chairs scraping on the tile floor when we sit down for yet another taste of local food – and a cup of the famed Ecuadorian coffee, claimed to be 'the best in the world – even better than Colombian' by Ale and Marina when they were in Canada. I cannot say if this boast is justified, but it certainly tastes good at the end of this long day. No cuy is served here, but humitas (a kind of corn bread wrapped in corn leaves and then steamed), empanadas (meat or cheese-filled pastry pockets) and tamale (meat and vegetables like carrots, peas, and onion mixed with a corn dough, steamed in achira (canna) or corn leaves). We are encouraged to try it all, and it all tastes delicious!

Marina and her parents say goodnight now: it has been a long day for all of us, and Manuel must be very tired after braving all that traffic, on top of being an excellent and very knowledgeable tour guide whose command of the English language is much, much better than ours of Spanish.

 

 Ale, Johann and I make one more stop at one of Ale's favourite places for a glass of mulled wine and some live music. A well-known local group has just started to play when a Mariachi band marches in and makes its way up the stairs to the first level: a man has ordered music for his girlfriend to surprise her on her birthday. Our musicians simply put down their instruments and sit down at the bar to have a meal first, waiting for the 'competition' to finish. We don't want to wait that long and soon head home to Conocoto in the valley.

                                       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Sunday has just as full a program as Saturday, and again Manuel is our guide. Florcita has stayed home this time; a knee injury makes it difficult for her to go for extended walks. Ale takes us to 'El Panecillo', our first destination, a bread-loaf shaped hill (hence the name!) overlooking Quito, with an excellent view of much of the city and the surrounding mountains, including several snow-capped volcanoes. For the best view we climb into the aluminum body of the huge winged Virgin Mary created by a Spanish artist in 1976. The hill is an ancient sacred place: in pre-Inca times it was the site of a temple dedicated to the sun god.

North meets South

Our next stop is the huge neo-gothic basilica, which was started a hundred years ago and still isn't quite finished. We spend some time admiring the stained-glass windows and climbing the bell tower and one of the other towers for a lookout, although I opt out of the last part of the climb. To reach the last platform, 375 feet high, one has to brave two steep ladder-like stairs, sturdy and secured with cage wire, admittedly, but the open view through the steps at that height is a bit too much for my stomach. After traversing the narrow wooden bridge running the length of the arches above the basilica under the peaked roof I climb one more set of steep stairs but then watch without envy how the rest of our little group ascends the last forty or so steps. To my amazement, local parents even take their babies and toddlers up there.

 

There are quite a few other visitors, and all the while mass is being held below us, people walking in and out. I'm surprised that here, just like yesterday in the two other churches, the music is accompanied not by organ but by guitar. 'To attract more young people', Manuel explains. It seems to work, judging by the number of filled benches.

Old and new

 

What I like best about this church are its unique 'gargoyles'. Here, they have been replaced with statues of Galapagos birds like the frigat bird, pelican, cormorant, blue-footed booby, owl, and a few others – nothing frightening about them!

Floripondio

 

The last stop for today is the botanic garden, especially interesting for me since I always look forward to learning about the flora of a region. It is well done, and we get a good idea of the manifold habitats present in this small, incredibly diversified country. From highland plants to rainforest to coastal vegetation, from the orchid greenhouses to the one containing nothing but carnivorous plants – it is a feast for the eyes, and often for the nose as well. I hope to see many of the plants in the wild once we are on the road again. Soon we will turn our backs on Quito again, ready for new adventures.

 

 

No rules!

Our bus was to leave at four, and we slowly headed back to the terminal after our interesting meal. We had noticed a bakery with nice looking bread on the way, and since we had read in one of the forum entries that food had been scarce during the trip we wanted to make sure that we had something to eat. At a supermarket we stocked up on water, cheese, bananas and cookies – we would not starve, at least.

After retrieving our stored backpack we headed for Salida 1-109, the exit to the gathering area from where we'd board the bus. As in the other Latin American countries where we've travelled police presence was noticeable everywhere, and here at the terminal several policemen with dogs walked the corridors, likely keeping an eye (or a nose) on drugs. Drug trafficking, which was such a problem twenty years ago, is heavily punished, and drug possession is not tolerated either. We had nothing to fear, and neither dogs nor policemen were interested in us.

Our tickets were checked and stamped, and we joined the large group of people waiting for their respective busses. But travel is the main means of transportation in Columbia as well as Ecuador, and the travellers range from businessmen in suit and tie carrying laptop bags to indigenous families with cardboard boxes and huge bags wrapped in colourful striped sisal bags.

About fifteen minutes before the departure of the bus we were called outside to where the bus was waiting with open luggage doors. We handed our bag to the driver's assistant, watched it being stowed in the belly of the bus, received a receipt, and boarded. For the next 22 hours or so the two comfortable front seats behind the driver would be our home. We had plenty of leg room, too, which would make the journey much more pleasant.

Johann found what seemed to be a piece of a toy on his seat, and it didn't take long until a little boy on the other front seat called out something to his mom: yes, this belonged to his toy airplane, and he was happy to get it back. It soon turned out that the young woman and the little boy were the wife and son of one of the bus drivers. This was somehow reassuring: who would take their young family along if the trip was really dangerous? I started questioning this again, however, when an employee from the bus company slowly walked along the aisle with a video camera, capturing every single passenger. They obviously wanted to make sure that everyone would be accounted for in case of ... of what? A kidnapping? A bad accident? I didn't feel like spinning out this thought any further, and admired the blooming trees we were passing on our way out of the terminal area instead.

The weather had been nice for the first part of the day, but now a thunderstorm brought a huge downpour, and the roads could hardly contain the amounts of water. Cars drove with their tires half submerged, and still the deluge continued. I was very tired, maybe still an effect from the altitude, and as soon as the bus had left the terminal area I couldn't keep my eyes open, so I didn't see much of the sprawling outskirts of Bogotá. When I woke again we had almost left the city behind, and the rain had let up. The road climbed steadily, and construction made our progress slow on the rough road. Traffic was very heavy, especially big trucks, but many buses and cars as well. This didn't concern our bus driver much, however: he passed one vehicle after the other, honking his horn briefly to warn a driver who didn't make room soon enough for him to slip back in the line. This would be interesting!

After a while the slow stretch ended, and the road got considerably better – for a while. For the first part of the evening we were entertained with movies from two tv screens, one in the front and one in the middle of the bus. We had read that the drivers seem to favour action movies, the more blood the better, and our experience on this trip certainly would confirm that. The volume, of course, was turned up high so that everyone could get in on the action. I looked over to the little boy, who was maybe three or four, wondering how this would affect him. His mom did her best to distract him by pointing out things outside, and after a while he settled down to sleep in her arms.

Around eight we stopped at a restaurant that seemed to cater especially to busses, with a roof, but no outside walls. Here, passengers had a chance to stretch their legs, use the bathrooms, to get something to eat or a cup of coffee. A large-screen tv on the wall was the focus of attention: a soccer game between Columbia and Brazil – and Columbia was leading 1 – 0! Why did the guy from the travel forum arrive in Quito with an empty stomach? This was great, and we needn't have worried. We had, however, been on other long bus rides with little food before, so the precaution had seemed reasonable.

I slept for much of the night, and when I woke it was around 5:30 in the morning. Many people were up and about already, and in the little villages along the road restaurants were open, women were sweeping in front of their houses, and children in school uniforms were waiting by the road for their bus, or were walking in little groups. Once, on an incline, we had a small pick-up in front of us. Eight school children were standing on the covered platform (more wouldn't have fit!) and grinned at us, and almost as many were crowded in the front.

Now, fully awake, I became fully aware of the driving style of our bus driver as well. I noticed, too, that Johann was wearing a seat belt, which he never does on a bus, and if it's not mandatory. Only half of mine was there, so I had to succumb to fate. The bus was supposed to drive at a speed limit of 80 km/h, and a speed indicator on a little screen in the left hand corner above our seat let us keep track. Up to the speed limit the numbers were displayed in yellow, after that they turned red – and they were red a lot! Speed limits were habitually ignored: if it said fifty the bus drove 95, if it said 30 it could easily be 60, and it didn't matter one bit if we were in a town or not. Double solid lines seem non-existent and certainly don't keep anyone from passing. How much paint and signs could be saved - and the money invested in improving the roads!

We had, of course, prime seats, with a view not only to the side but also to the front, which didn't contribute to our peace of mind. Time after time we passed vehicles – other busses, trucks, cars, motorcycles, bicycles – with only centimetres to spare. We passed uphill, with double solid lines, curves making it impossible to see oncoming traffic – and yet it all worked out. Everyone pays attention to what the others are doing, making room for a passing vehicle to slip back in line should an oncoming vehicle make it impossible to complete the passing process, braking when necessary, not insisting on right of way. Everyone gets their turn. Honking horns is used to communicate an intention or to warn, not to express anger, and we never saw the bus driver lose his calm when he was forced to make room for an oncoming vehicle where he would have had right of way in the traffic we are familiar with. Scary as it looks to the uninitiated, it is a system all traffic participants are familiar with and adhere to, and on the whole trip from Bogota to Quito we saw only two accidents: one minor one involving two motorcycles, and one more serious looking where a truck had overturned.

 

 

Meanwhile the landscape we drove through was absolutely stunning. We had read about 'breathtaking scenery', and the array of green mountains stretching out from the deep valley above which much of the road led us seemed endless. It was hard to believe that much of this trip took place between 2,500 and almost 3,000 m altitude: fields with beans and corn, onions and melons, potatoes and other crops we couldn't identify so quickly reached up the mountains, divided by lines of trees to prevent erosion. The rich volcanic soil, sometimes brick red, sometimes dark, was almost free of rocks, and every little corner had been planted with something. Once again we asked ourselves how people could work on these steep slopes. Some fields, even high up, looked as if they had been cultivated, yet no tractor could scale those slopes. Sometimes we saw a group of people working with their wide hoes. The grassy edges of the road were neatly trimmed as well, but unlike in Guatemala we saw relatively few horses and cows tied up; most of them were kept closer to the often small, poor houses. Pigs were tethered as well, and chickens, turkeys and geese were foraging in the gardens. A few times we passed groups of workers with reflective clothing with weed whackers, rakes and shovels: that's how the grass on the side of the road was kept short! It seems a daunting task, but it certainly works.

After about 22 hours we arrived in Pasto, glad to stretch our legs and take a break. We hadn't made any arrangements where to stay, but since Pasto has not a whole lot to offer it was pretty safe to assume that it wouldn't be overrun by tourists. We decided to try our luck at the 'backpackers' choice' (according to the Lonely Planet), the 'Koala Inn'. A taxi driver took us downtown and invited the anger of a long line of drivers behind him by stopping right in front of the hostel – on a narrow one-way street in very heavy traffic. Again we found not a single English speaking person, even in the hostel with a name that suggested an Australian connection. We must not have seemed like the kind of guests interested in a dorm, but were offered the choice between baňo privado (private bath) and baňo compartido (shared bath) with our private room. After so many hours on the bus we figured we had earned a private bath. The room didn't offer much in the way of luxury, but it was clean, as was the bathroom, and the shower had plenty of hot water. Even toilet paper and towels were supplied, not always a given in hostels or lower-end hotels.

We used our time to rest up a little, and at 6:30 on Friday morning we boarded the small bus that would take us  the two hours to Ipiales, only about two kilometres from the Colombian border. The bus was smaller and older than the one we had taken before, and the elderly driver looked quite mild, but his driving style was no different than that of his colleagues. Again we sailed at high speed around curves, passing where it seemed impossible to do so, watched the abyss right beside us with apprehension and took in the deep valleys and green backs of the mountains with awe at the magnificence of the landscape.

 

We found a 'collectivo' (small van) waiting to fill up on the curb. These are a common means of transportation here, cheaper than taxis since they usually wait until all seats are taken before they leave for their destination. This collectivo would have been full with Johann, who got in first, but the driver waved me in as well and made me sit on a ledge beside the sliding door, facing the rear. Thank goodness it was only for two kilometres!

At the Colombian border checkpoint we had our passports stamped, walked about 200 m across a bridge and were in Ecuador. Here, the line-up at the border station was much longer, and it took about an hour until we finally were officially admitted (and welcomed with a Bienvenido a Ecuador). The border guard was the first person to speak a bit of English since the taxi driver from the hotel in Bogotá.

Again we took a taxi, this time to Tulcan, the first town on the Ecuadorian side, from where the busses leave for Quito. This time we paid in American dollars, the Ecuadorian currency. Now handling money was a bit easier again: in Colombia, one Canadian dollar is equal to about 1,800 COP. It's a strange thing to hold a bank note with a face value of 20,000 in your hands!

Sign on Ecuadorian bus. Note the one on the left.

 

From Tulcan, at first sight a much nicer looking place than Pasto or Ipiales, we took the last bus on this epic journey. Driving wasn't much different than before, but the roads seemed definitely in better shape. The landscape, too, didn't change a whole lot until about two hours north of Quito where the road moved further away from the precipices, and the fields were not quite as steep and maybe a bit bigger than before. What almost looked like expanses of water glittering in the sun in the distance turned out to be massive areas of greenhouses. Did they, like the ones close to Bogotá, contain roses? By now we know that they do, and also other cut flowers for export.

We arrived in Quito at five, as promised, but it took us another hour to negotiate the city. Quito has about 1,8 mio. people, but it stretches along the valley forever. It was obviously not the best time of day to arrive, but by seven pm we were reunited with our friend Ale, and after another hour or so were finally at her home, which will be ours for the next few days.

While we were a bit weary from the long journey there is no question that we would do it again anytime – and in fact will, about three weeks from now. Our flight home leaves from Bogotá as well, and on the way back we plan to take a bit more time and see more of Colombia in the daytime. It was a great experience, and one I would not want to miss!

How (not) to prepare for a long bus ride

“No rules” were the words our friendly taxi driver Giovanni used to describe traffic in Colombia. We were on our way from the hotel to the bus terminal yesterday, and even in non-rush-hour traffic driving was a challenge. I wish I had had a camera to capture the moment when three vehicles – one of them our taxi – were locked in a battle to determine who would get to thread into the flow of traffic first. It seems that it will always fall to the most reckless, inconsiderate of the drivers.

Giovanni, who is employed by “Hotel Aloft”, spoke excellent English and took pride in advertising his city and his country (and probably overcharged us heftily). He, at least, knew where to find the bus terminal: the employees at the hotel had no idea where it was, nor why anyone would choose to go from Bogotá to Quito by bus if they could go by plane. “Good luck”, the bartender had wished us the night before, rubbing his behind.

'Good luck' – those words echoed in our minds, not reassuringly, when we got back to our room and looked at the available options one more time. Some of the contributions in the travel forums we had consulted were hair-raising, definitely warning against embarking on this trip. We started to doubt the wisdom of our decision, knowing we still could take the easy way out and book a flight. But then I found another set of contributions, these written as recently as last year, compared to the dark, ominous ones from 2007 and 2008. Newer reviews left no doubt that the situation has improved enormously, and a similar sentiment is expressed in the Lonely Planet, who calls Colombia the “Comeback Kid” in its newest edition, safer than its neighbouring countries. Well, then, we would do what we had set out to do, with the one precaution of avoiding to travel the stretch from Popayan to Pasto by night.

Giovanni had dropped us off at the entrance to the part of the terminal that serves southern Colombian destinations, but we were unsure which bus company to approach and decided to enquire at the 'Tourist Information' in the terminal. We found a very eager employee who did, however, not speak a word of English. He dropped everything he was doing and waved us to follow him, making sure that we landed in front of the right window at the 'Bolivariano' bus company. Here, too, we had to dig into our rudimentary Spanish, but managed to get across what we wanted: two tickets to Pasto, mid-afternoon. For both of us together it cost 192,000 Colombian Pesos – just over $50 per person for a 22-hour ride.

We checked our heavy backpack – containing all of our clothes and a few other essentials – at a luggage storage service, to be unencumbered for the three remaining hours before the departure of the bus, and went for a stroll in the surroundings of the terminal. It is not the most beautiful part of town – bus terminals rarely can be found there – but the business district was close by, and business buildings and shopping centres didn't look much different than at home. We walked slowly, noticing once again a slight impediment from the altitude which dissipated soon enough.

Hungry, we had started to look for a restaurant, not quite sure what we wanted to eat. We had waved off one guy already who had wanted to entice us to come to a small restaurant, and had stopped in front of another, where we tried to make sense of the menu. The manager must have noticed our indecision, came out and told us that the meal of the day was a Colombian specialty: Sopa de Mondongo. Soup – that sounded good. What else did the meal entail? Oh, rice, fried plantain, avocado, and a fruit juice. Sure, we'd try it: we wanted to get to know Colombia, after all, and its food is most certainly a part of it.

The restaurant was tiny, four tables along the wall with two chairs facing each other, with hardly enough room to use fork and knife, and a few seats at the counter. Our soup arrived right away, nice and hot, but with, we thought, a slight burnt smell to it. Johann tried first: yes, it tasted a bit burnt, too – didn't I think so as well? Hmmm, yes, it did. There were potatoes, peas, carrots, and something we couldn't quite identify at first, not looking like anything either of us had ever eaten before. Bravely, we dug in, sticking with the parts of the soup we knew, carefully tasting a piece of the unknown thin, pale slices that had a slightly ridged appearance. When the waitress came by to bring us the rest of the meal I asked her about the meat. I could see that she tried to suppress a smile. All I understood was 'vaca' – cow – and her gesture, pointing to her stomach. Great! We were eating tripe soup on the very first day of our stay, about to embark on a 22 hour bus ride! Not convinced of the fact that this was indeed a delicacy we ate as much of the rest of the soup as we could, leaving most of the sliced cow stomach behind. Maybe one has to grow up with it to truly appreciate it. The rice, avocado, fried plantain and arepas (fried corn cakes) were just fine, and the juice – mango with watermelon, as far as we could determine – was delicious.

It's hard to imagine that anything will make us sick now after this experience, and while we will use the necessary precautions like washing our hands frequently and not drinking tap water (though it's deemed to be safe in the big cities in Colombia) we will not be paranoid – but neither will we eat Morongo soup again!

After 21 hours on the bus we are now in Pasto and will leave for Ipiales tomorrow morning. From there it is only a short distance to the border to Ecuador, and we hope to be in Quito by tomorrow night.

 

The bus ride, so far, has been the adventure it promised to be, and I will write about it once we have arrived in Quito.

Resting up in Bogota

Already winter seems far behind: we arrived in Bogota yesterday, and although it is a bit overcast it fels like a mild summer day at home.

All went well on the way here. At the airport in Toronto yesterday morning we had a nice encounter with a young woman from Ecuador, tiny with two big suitcases. We offered to help her carry a bag that looked much too big for her and started talking. She reminded me a lot of the two young women we're going to visit in Quito, and we have a new contact for our travels, this one on the coast.

The flight was unremarkable, and we landed very much on time at shortly after 2:00. After that came the unavoidable line-up at immigration, which did move reasonably fast, however. No problem at all there; we were sent on our way with a stamped passport and a friendly 'bienvenidos'.

Since we had booked a hotel with otherwise hard to use Aeroplan miles we didn't have to find a taxi, bus or minivan but could wait for the hotel's shuttle. Waiting, we encountered the first money-making scheme of our journey: a man in suit and tie was very interested to find out the name of our hotel, and proceeded to call the shuttle 'for us' - not that we weren't quite sure that it would show up no matter what. But then, one never knows, of course. Anyway, he had made this un-asked-for phone call, chatted a bit, and then asked for money; $20 would be adequate, he thought. Right! We didn't, and since he wasn't too happy that we gave him American coins instead of notes he pretty soon honed in on another hapless victim. No harm done, but I better get my Spanish a bit more in order so that I can communicate with more confidence.

The hotel, on the outskirts of the city and very close to the airport, could be anywhere in the world (well, except for the trees, the climate, the darker skinned employees and most of the guests); it is modern and ugly from the outside, but nice and clean and quiet enough in our room.

Bogota is at 2,640m altitude (8,660 feet), and when we stepped out of the plane we both felt a little weird. My heart seemed to be beating a little fast and I might have been slightly out of breath. But we noticed that everyone walked a little slower than in Toronto, and once we had waited in line at immigration for a while, the feeling went away. In fact, the weather felt really nice, around 19 degrees when we landed - warm enough, with a refreshing breeze.

In a few minutes we'll check out and will make our way to the bus terminal by taxi to find a suitable bus to take us towards Quito. We are not quite sure yet where we'll spend the night; one stretch of road towards the border is not recommended for night travel. We'll probably start out later in the afternoon, 5:00 or 6:00 maybe, and will ride overnight to Pasto or Ipayan. Ipayan is the town closest to the border, and after the border crossing it should only take another four or five hours to Quito. 

I'm glad we will come back to Bogota on the way home: we haven't really seen anything of the city. Then, we will not be on the outskirts anymore, but find a hostel right in the beautiful old core of the city. What stories might we have to tell by the time we are back here?

Another change of scenery

The month I had asked for in my last posting is almost over, but the grace period didn’t last until now. Winter, after it gave us a taste of what it is capable of four weeks ago, kept coming back for little visits, almost as if it wanted to tease us. The snow melted, it was beautiful for a few days, so warm that I sat on the deck in the late afternoon sun for my cup of tea. The next day we’d see flakes swirling madly again, settling on the trees, slowly covering the – amazingly – still-green lawn. Until the beginning of this week even some geese seemed to remain hopeful, gathering in groups around small lakes with a bit of open water, huddling close in the ever-decreasing space. Now they, like the ducks and gulls that hung around still as well, have left. 

The black and white of the landscape is matched by the black and white of birds: instead of robins shaking out their wings at the very top of the highest spruce tree in the bush across from the house I see magpies gathering now, their beautiful metallic blue and teal feathers dulled to charcoal in the distance. Crows and ravens join them sporadically, raiding the dog dish or cleaning up what the hunters left behind. November is hunting season, and pickup traffic has increased considerably on country roads, especially in late afternoon, guys – mostly guys, anyway - scouting for white tail or mule deer, moose or elk. It gets dark so early, now that we have changed back to standard time: on overcast days dusk seems to start around 4:30 already.

There was still some hope that a few warm days might bring open weather again, but since Wednesday this possibility seems to be rather remote: a storm dumped anywhere between 15 and 35 cm of snow in the area, aided by strong winds, and traffic turned into a nightmare on highways as well as in the city. Since temperatures plummeted as well, with lows around -20 Celsius last night and highs not much more than -15 road conditions have remained poor, a thick bumpy layer of hard packed snow-turned-to-ice not likely to disappear unless it warms up considerably.

Many retirees pack up and move south around this time of year, exchanging the bleakness of the snow covered prairies for the much warmer climes of Arizona, California, or Florida. We are not yet retired, but we, too, have discovered the allure of shortening the long winter a bit. 

After exploring some of Argentina, Chile, Mexico, Guatemala, and Costa Rica in the last few years we have chosen Ecuador as this year’s destination. We are leaving on Monday and will arrive in Bogotá, Colombia on Tuesday. From there we plan to take the bus to Quito, the capital of Ecuador, like other long bus rides we have taken in South and Central America at the very least an interesting experience, with the possibility of real adventure. We will meet up with Ecuadorian friends in Quito before we’ll be on our way to other parts of the country, with a trip to the Galapagos Islands most certainly one of the highlights. Other than that, our schedule is wide open, and we’ll let things unfold as they may. 

What might expect us this time? A beautiful country, an amazing wealth of plants and birds, an ancient culture – that much is for certain. As for the encounters, the people and things that will touch me, I will try to travel with open eyes and an open mind and heart, knowing that I will return home richer than I left.

Thus “Musings from the Farm” will once again turn into “Musings from a Journey”. I will try to send updates when I can.

As for the farm: it is safely put to bed for the winter, sleeping under its blanket of snow. On days like today, sun sparkling on the tiny scales of hoarfrost fallen from the trees, staying home doesn’t seem like such a bad alternative, but the forecast is calling for more snow around the middle of the week, so we better be on our way.