I got up early at Hostal Macondo, ready for their breakfast offerings as soon as the kitchen opened at 7 a.m. The dining area was tiled, bright, and spotless. The following were offered and included in the price of my room: eggs, cereal, juice (today’s juice was watermelon [sandia]), fresh fruit (papaya), homemade cinnamon bread, tea, coffee, and milk. Very good.
I left my laundry at the desk and sat down for a minute in the lobby under a large old glass skylight. A woman of approximately my own age was also there, working on her laptop. We were soon engaged in a bit of conversation.
The woman’s name was Teresa. She was an American from Taos, New Mexico. She’d been staying at the hostal since January, teaching English as a Second Language at a school that was somehow affiliated with Hostal Macondo. (Later, I asked at the desk if the affiliated school needed English teachers: the answer was a resounding ‘yes.’ Just contact them via their website.) She provided me with some information on where I might walk this morning in order to see the city’s notable architecture. Cuenca, like Lima and Quito, has been designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in recognition of its cultural and architectural values.
Street scenes, Cuenca
I started walking south on Calle Tarqui, towards Rio Tomebamba. A couple of blocks from Hostal Macondo I saw the storefront of Casa del Sombrero (Tarqui 6-91), one of the makers of Panama hats for which Cuenca is renowned. An old man stood in the doorway of the shop gesturing for me to come across the street. No, I gestured, I didn’t want to buy a hat. He kept waving at me to cross the street. OK, I would come over, but only to take some pictures.
The old man’s hands were dusty white from something used in the hat-making process. I peeked into the shop where a younger man, perhaps 50 years old, his hands also white, was working to shape a sombrero (hat) to an ancient mold.
It didn’t matter that I still didn’t want to buy a hat. I was soon being guided into another doorway adjacent to the shop that led upstairs. The old man was as affable as he could be, but he did not seem to be able to speak. He could only make guttural sounds. Was this condition the result of years working with toxic materials? Who knows.
We went up the stairs, into a showroom of sorts above the shop down below at street level. Many women’s hats were displayed along with the typical men’s Panamas. Some of the men’s hats retailed for as much as $200. Others seemed to start out at $50 or less.
OK, even if I did want a hat, I wasn’t going to hassle with a wide-brimmed Panama hat all the way from Cuenca, Ecuador, to Wichita, Kansas, for crying out loud. As if he was reading my mind, the old man took a hat, rolled it up and folded it, then shook it out and put it on my head, showing me how the hat could stand up to the abuse of packing and travel and look none-the-worse for wear.
I had started to take a shine to this guy. I learned that the man’s name was Alberto Pulla. He showed me an old airline magazine, American Way, with a picture of himself on its cover. A framed newspaper article about him and his craft was on the wall.
Well, I began to think, let’s just try on a few of these hats. One of them felt just right. Maybe, if I could negotiate an acceptable price, maybe I would buy one. Amicably enough, he agreed to sell me a hat that was marked $50 for a price of $35.
I took a lot of photographs upstairs. Alberto was delighted when I showed them to him, and he indicated that I should send them to him at his e-mail address. Then we went downstairs where his son stopped working, shook my hand, posed with his father, and pointed with pleasure at the images on my camera’s display. Then the son took a picture of me and his father in the shop.
The perfect souvenir of my trip had found me. I left the shop wearing my new hat, feeling as though I had encountered an Ecuadoran treasure, like an ancient cigar maker in Havana.
You could not walk the streets of Cuenca and not be aware of the bakeries that abounded there. And I could not be aware of them and not try some of their delicious pastries. It was impossible to pass them by without pointing at something that looked good and giving it a try. Win-win, I’d say.
I continued down Calle Tarqui until I reached Rio Tomebamba, the river that separates the old city to the north from the rest of this thriving city of 340,000. The river is a rushing stream tumbling over a rocky bed. At least two other rivers of similar size and mountain-stream nature flow through Cuenca.
I turned east and walked past the bustling indoor Mercado 10 de Agusto. The products available there were similar to those in Belen, Peru; but in its size and sensory impact, it made perhaps one-tenth the impression of the great Mercado de Belen.
I stepped into an Internet site a block from Parque Abdon Calderon, the center of old Cuenca. I responded to some e-mail and chipped away at the intimidating backlog of journal entries that needed to be made.
I had allowed time to return to Hostal Macondo to shower and shave, do some semi-final packing, and return to centro Cuenca to catch a guided bus tour that would begin at 11:15 a.m. The tour, operated by a company called Cordova Cadillo Jaime Bolivar, cost $5.
Indigenous woman washing clothes, Rio Tomebamba, Cuenca, Ecuador
Two hours in length, conducted in a semblance of English on a modern, red, ride-on-top bus, the tour was well worth doing for its orientation value. On foot, I would have never gotten to the various rivers in the city, crossed into the new portion of Cuenca, or climbed the hill north of the old city where there was an old church and a fine view of the city spread out below.
Guess who I found riding the tour bus? Mark from Los Angeles, a solo traveler who had been seated next to me on the train ride from Riobamba yesterday. It turns out that he had been one of those passengers taken to a nearby town for medical attention after the train we rode atop hurtled through a fallen tree. Except for his torn jacket, I think Mark was fine, though not overwhelmed by the medical services available in rural Ecuador.
The Old Cathedral, Cuenca
After the bus tour I found that Cuenca’s old cathedral, La Iglesia Del Sagrario, begun in 1557, would not be open for tours or visiting in the afternoon. That presented me a gift of time that I could spend at Cafe Austria (Benigno Malo y Juan Jaramillo), a restaurant that had caught my eye earlier this morning. I had made a mental note to return for a snack if I had time before leaving Cuenca.
Cafe Austria is a great old bistro located a couple of blocks south of Ceuenca’s main square, Parque Calderon. Large windows provided views of the passing street scene. Inside, the impression is of polished wood floors, tables and bar. Muted jazz recordings played in the background, complementing the iconic Herman Leonard black-and-white photos of jazz greats that graced the walls. I was only snacking, but the guacamole and Tostitos—beautifully garnished with tomatoes and parsley—and limonada natural were terrific.
Inside Cafe Austria, Cuenca
I paid my check and started walking towards my hostal. Earlier I had seen some local promotional materials that gave an office address in Cuenca for Continental Airlines. I was dubious: why would Continental staff an office in a city at least 100 miles from the nearest airport that it served? It did, though, and it was staffed by Continental employees. I stepped into the office, only a couple of blocks from my hostal, to confirm that I was indeed listed for tonight’s flight from Guayaquil (GYE) to Houston (IAH), and then on to Wichita tomorrow.
If I’d had my passport and tickets with me, I could have checked-in for the flights and picked up my boarding passes. The agent told me that there were plenty of seats available for the flight out of GYE, so I saw no point in returning for an early check-in.
Back at Hostal Macondo I claimed my left luggage and laundry, and then changed into my traveling clothes. I stuffed my old traveling friend, a wheeled piece of luggage that can convert into a backpack, for what I feared would be its last journey. The zipper on a large exterior compartment had separated on this trip, and now a lengthy section was secured with a series of safety pins and two stout bungee cords that encircled the entire exterior of the bag. Patches from Patagonia (Chile), Peru (2), Bolivia, Argentina, and Italy attest to its international trips. It didn’t look like a new Ecuador patch would be joining the others on this bag.
I took a taxi from the hostal to Terminal Terrestre where I would catch a bus to Guayaquil. I arrived at the bus terminal at 3:10 p.m., found the office for the San Luis line, bought a ticket ($6), boarded the bus, and departed right on time at 3:30 p.m.
I had read that the trip from Cuenca to Guayaquil via Parque Nacional Caja was scenic. I had no idea!
Near Parque Nacional Caja on the highway, Cuenca to Guayaquil
The road climbs out of Cuenca in a northwesterly direction, following a stream at the base of a verdant valley. As we climbed, the terrain opened up, providing grand vistas with each turn of the road. I was reminded of the high country of Glacier National Park. It seemed that we climbed with every meter that we drove. Finally, at 4:40 p.m.—a little more than an hour after we departed Cuenca—we reached the top of the pass (GPS: 02 46.631S / 79 14.537W). My GPS indicated an altitude of 13,616 feet, almost exactly a mile higher than the city of Cuenca, and nearly as high as the highest point in the lower 48 of the United States. The city of Guayaquil, our destination, is situated at sea level and so, from the top of the pass, more than 2-1/2 miles of elevation had to be given back in a relatively short distance.
When we reached the top of the pass from the east, a cloud deck could be seen trapped against the western slope of the mountain range, nearly reaching to the top. We entered the dense fog shortly after beginning our descent. It was 30 minutes before we broke out of it, and we spent an additional 15 minutes in-and- out of clouds. For an hour, then, we were losing altitude, switchback after switchback, mostly in dense fog. None of these factors deterred our driver’s zeal for overtaking slower traffic despite his inability to see beyond his headlights.
The highway on the west side of the mountains was rough in spots. There was evidence of recent slides of mud and rock that must have closed the road for many hours, if not days.
Near the end of our descent the vegetation began to take on a more tropical character. At 6:10 p.m. we had been on the road for two hours 40 minutes. An hour-and-a-half ago we had been at an elevation of 13,616 feet; now we were essentially at sea level, with another hour and 20 minutes of perfectly flat terrain separating us from Guayaquil.
With only a short way to go to the bus terminal in Guayaquil, a young man sat down in the recently vacated seat next to me. We talked a bit. His name was Marcelo, he was from Cuenca, and he was on his way to Guayaquil to take an examination to assess his fluency in English. If he passed the six-hour exam, he would be one step closer to being accepted at Moody Bible Institute in Chicago. He was traveling with a pretty young woman, a long-time friend of his named Vivi, who would also take the English fluency test and also hoped to study at Moody.
As we approached Guayaquil’s Terminal Terrestre, Marcelo asked me about my luggage. I thought he just wondered if I traveled light, or was simply making conversation, but he had a more relevant reason to ask: his mother was meeting him and Vivi at the bus terminal and would take me to the airport if I wanted...and if my bag would fit into the car.
Guayaquil’s Terminal Terrestre, by the way, was quite a surprise. It was new, modern and clean, lined with shops and restaurants, more like a suburban mall than a bus terminal, as different from the Quito terminal as night and day. There were actually two adjacent terminals in Guayaquil, one as nice as the other, to serve intra- and inter-city passengers.
Marcelo’s mother, Patricia, met her son and Vivi following a few cell phone calls to coordinate the pick-up. Marcelo’s sister and young nephew, Maria and Santi, were at the terminal as well, and so was a friend, Juan Pablo. There were now seven of us, counting me, and we all piled into Marcelo’s small Chevrolet—Marcelo and I in front, the other five in back.
Vivi was clearly considered one of the family. As with any Ecuadoran family, there was constant cheerful banter after being reunited even though the separation may have only been for a matter of days. We did not go straight to the airport, though. Marcelo had decided that he’d show me a bit of Guayaquil, Ecuador’s largest city, before dropping me off.
We drove up to Cerro del Carmen, parked, then walked several flights of stairs to the base of an imposing statue of Christ (Sagrado Corazón de Jesús). An impressive view of the lighted city spread out below rewarded all who—like our group—had climbed the steps.
I took photos of the various family members and friends, and they of me. We got back into the car and drove through downtown Guayaquil on our way to Malecon 2000, the pedestrian promenade along Rio Guayas. As we drove through central Guayaquil we were able to glimpse such prominent landmarks as Parque Bolivar, the Cathedral, and Palacio de Cristal. Marcelo, Vivi and I got out near a lighted monument—La Rotonda—on the malecon, walked over to the river, took some photos, and returned to the car.
Marcelo and Vivi at La Rotonda, Malecon 2000, Guayaquil, Ecuador
Then, and only then, did the group drive me to the airport and let me off with my bags. It was 9:15 p.m. by then, an hour and 45 minutes since the bus from Cuenca had arrived at the bus terminal. What a nice and unexpected experience! Muchas gracias!
I checked-in easily at the Continental ticket counter. There was no problem getting a seat for the flight to IAH. International passengers are required to pay a departure fee of $27.16, making the total cost of my transportation from GYE to ICT $129.48. I couldn’t secure a seat in Business Class, but I did get an exit row seat assignment with its extra legroom, and no one was seated on either side of me, giving me maximum space on the six-hour flight to IAH.
The flight departed right on time, just after midnight of Day 16 of my trip.
Day 16: Guayaquil, Ecuador, to Wichita
UNDER CONSTRUCTION
The overnight flight from Guayaquil to Houston was uneventful. Except for the discouraging sight of two planes departing Houston for Wichita full and without me, there's not so much to report on this last day of the trip. Having spent fully 10 hours in the George H. W. Bush International Airport after a sleepless night of travel, I finally got on a flight to Wichita, arriving to meet Barb and Madi on a beautiful spring evening at about 6 p.m.
There are a few thoughts to record before calling it quits on this journal. Over a period of more than two weeks, with the exception of a few hours spent in airports and on airplanes between Iquitos, Peru, and Quito, Ecuador, I never felt that supposed necessity--air conditioning. During that same two weeks, I never drank out water from a fountain or a tap; never read a newspaper; watched TV only once, three innings of baseball while eating in a bar/restaurant; and made exactly two phone calls. I don't consider that any of these represented a hardship.
I've had time to think about some of my trip's 'bests':
I got up early, had breakfast at my lodging--El Tren Dorado, and crossed the street to the train station to see if I would be able to obtain a ticket for the trip from Riobamba to Palmira. An uncertain boarding of a train that, because of rain-induced slides in its most spectacular section, would only be making a condensed version of its usual route, represented a great disappointment.
I waited outside the station with several others who were in the same boat. Things looked grim until a young couple tired of waiting in the cold for the shortened ride and walked off. Just then a train employee came outside with two unclaimed tickets; since the couple, who had been ahead of me, were not there to claim them, I was able to buy a ticket ($7).
The train was scheduled to depart at 6 a.m. and I knew it would be on time. I had to hurry to board the train. It was then that I realized that there was very little train-like about the conveyance other than the fact that it traveled on rails. On this day, at least, there would be only a single, red, motorized car making the trip, more similar to a trolley than to a train.
Despite the cold--and some frost here and there indicated that the temperature was in the low 30's this morning-- nearly everyone opted to ride on the roof rather than inside the car. We were issued square seat pads as we climbed the ladder. Passengers sat on the pads on the roof, legs squeezed under a bar that ran the length of both sides of the car, each person facing outward left or right of the tracks. The top was packed on both sides, but I managed to squeeze in towards the back before we left the station.
Chimborazo
The morning was clear and cold. The great volcano Chimborazo, more than 20,000 feet high, could be glimpsed at times. The train traveled at about 20 miles per hour. Occasionally, overhanging branches and leaves would brush against us. I lifted my camera overhead from my seated position to try to photograph Chimborazo and the passing scene. That proved to be an extraordinarily bad idea since we frequently encountered electrical wires low enough that we passengers on the roof had to duck our heads to avoid them. I'm sure that some unlucky passengers in the past have had cameras snatched from their outstretched hands by low-lying wires.
The group on top of the car was in good spirits, wrapped in sweaters and windbreakers if they were lucky, blowing on their hands to ward off numbing cold. The passing landscape was mostly agricultural. Men and women were out tending livestock despite the early hour. We approached the town of Laguna de Colta just before 7 a.m., the sun just coming over the hills to the east. The cold air produced fog over the town's namesake lagoon and, in the early morning light, a beautiful and surreal scene.
Fog over the lake, Laguna de Colta
A little further on, perhaps 5 miles, there was sudden chaos and yelling from the front of the car. As quickly as I could turn my head from the passing landscape to see what was going on, I was fending off sizeable branches of a tree that had fallen across the tracks. The train's engineer could only begin to slow down after he saw the obstruction, but the tree swept across the top of the car at 15-to-20 miles per hour. To make matters worse, the tree had pulled down electrical wires that passed by the left side of the car within inches of the passengers' outward-turned legs.
Looking back at the tree across the train tracks
It took several hundred yards for the engineer to stop the train. It was very quiet for a few moments as the passengers took stock of the situation, wondering what had happened, checking to see if they or others were hurt. A train employee climbed up to see if anyone was injured. There were some minor injuries along with a few complaints, people who wondered how such a thing could have happened, who opined that nothing of this sort would have happened in their home country.
Everyone on the trip probably possessed a well-developed sense of adventure, but this was more than anyone expected. I could imagine much worse results: a passenger could have been knocked off the top of the car by the branches sweeping across it, or the pinioned leg of a twisting passenger could easily have been fractured.
Thirty minutes or so after the event, we continued on our way, the train’s passengers and crew shaken. Many of the passengers had chosen to get off the roof and to ride below. We continued on to the town of Guamote (GPS: 01 56.036S / 78 42.684W), arriving there a little before 8 a.m. Arrangements were made to take several passengers, accompanied by the train’s crew, to a clinic in a nearby town for x-rays and evaluations.
An unscheduled stop in Guamote
It felt great to bask in the warmth of the bright sun on top of the car. Five prone bodies lounging on various configurations of 30 seat cushions suggested a 60’s hippie pad. This made a great vantage point for watching and photographing the passing scene in the small town, especially the colorfully attired indigenous people who populated the streets of Guamote.
Indigenous people, streets of Guamote
It didn't take long to realize that we wouldn't be going anywhere soon. Tentatively, one by one, we started to explore the town. With anything of consequence located within a block of where the train car was parked, it was easy to have a look around.
I could see and smell all sorts of foods being prepared by vendors on the streets. I saw some people eating flat, sandwich-sized portions of dough that had been cooked in hot oil. Coarse sugar was sprinkled on the items at the time of their purchase. I had one, and then quickly had another just after it was lifted from the hot oil. They tasted a lot like that old state fair staple, funnel cakes; they may have been called empanadas, but those usually contained a meat or cheese filling.
Food vendors, Guamote
At another stand I tried one more of these fried dough treats, this one filled with cheese (empanada con queso). The vendor was also cooking a large kettle of milky liquid, and a hot drink on this chilly morning sounded pretty good. I was told the drink—thickened and flavored with a tapioca-like substance—was called maroche. Bueno!
An old woman a half-block away enlisted some men to help her hoist a huge boar hog onto a sturdy table right by the railroad tracks, its belly on the table and its feet splayed straight out. She went to work on the carcass, but I never knew if the hog was cooked or not. Perhaps she simply ran an outdoor butcher shop.
Vendor selling fresh--really fresh--pork, Guamote
A little farther off, there was an active food and produce market. I bargained for some dark purple, almost black, grapes (uvas), buying a half-kilogram (about one pound) bag for 50 cents. I wavered between hoping the grapes had been washed, then thinking that unwashed produce might be less risky than produce rinsed in the local water. Whatever, I ate them, enjoyed them, and suffered no adverse consequences.
I found a clean bano (bathroom) on the other side of a park that was adjacent to the tracks. Often, a small charge of five or ten cents is collected to use banos, as it was here, providing a livelihood for someone maintaining the facility and a service to those in need.
It was nearly two hours before the train's crew returned from the clinic. During the interim, nearly all of the original passengers—tired of waiting, chastened by our brush with danger, still chilled from the morning ride--had elected to proceed onward via bus or van. The crew finally arrived back in Guamote at 10:15 a.m. When we departed shortly after that, the original manifest had been trimmed to a total of seven passengers--five on top and two below.
The route from Guamote took us past more men and women wearing the colorful dress of the region working in the fields or tending livestock. Some of the women had small babies tightly secured to their backs, almost hidden. At 10,000 feet, the land was high and dry; some hillsides were cleared for agricultural use, others were covered with pines. A stream paralleled the tracks on our right. The sky, vivid blue, was filled with bright white cumulus clouds. Unlike the cold ride from Riobamba to Guamote, the air was pleasantly cool.
We passed by a few building, and a few settlements. Then, 30-45 minutes after leaving Guamote, the train stopped at a little community of perhaps 25 buildings. What was up?
Get your bags and get off the train, that's what was up. We had arrived at Palmira (GPS: 02 37.175S / 75 38.357W), the end of the line for train service until slides that had closed the tracks were cleared some days or weeks from now. All that was missing was a scorching sun and some swirling dust devils and you'd have thought we were on the set of an old spaghetti western.
Palmira, the end of the line
Only seven travelers had even made it this far on the train. Two of the seven were returning on the train to Riobamba, which left five of us who disembarked in Palmira.
One of the train employees pointed us towards the highway where we could catch a bus. When we started in the wrong direction, he called us back and personally took us to the highway and showed us exactly where to stand to stop a bus going in our direction.
There we were: three French travelers who spoke neither Spanish nor English, a young woman who sported a ring through her lower lip and spoke a little English, and myself. We stood where the tracks crossed the highway. We looked right and left and saw only the empty road. Not a vehicle of any kind, nor a person, nor any habitation. To take the movie allusions one step further, the vista evoked Easy Rider and its scenes of empty highways in the American west.
Looking for a bus near Palmira
What are the odds that a bus would appear going in our direction? Not just in our direction, but to our destination of Cuenca? Within five minutes? Well, better recalculate those odds: at 11 a.m. the five of us boarded a southbound bus to Cuenca. The fare? $5.
The bus climbed and descended steep terrain on the well maintained Highway 35. At 11:40 the bus pulled into the town of Alausi. This is where the classic train ride through La Nariz del Diablo (the Devil's Nose) really begins, but not for us, not today. Don't bet against a future trip to complete this bit of unfinished business.
The road out of Alausi switchbacked up a mountainside 2,000 feet or more. The slopes were green with lush vegetation, but there were only small stands of trees spotted here and there where we would expect to encounter forests in similar high mountain terrain back home. Fallen rocks were commonly seen on the highway.
Highway 35, which, with the exception of the train ride, I had been on since leaving Quito nearly 24 hours ago, became rough in spots beyond Alausi. It showed evidence of repairs following recent rains and slides. Brilliant red poppies and yellow composites adorned the road cuts and hillsides. Off to my left I could see a waterfall, and to my right the terrain fell off thousands of feet down to the river.
At 12:15 our bus was stopped for road construction; it was an hour before we were finally led through a one-lane section of the highway and allowed to continue towards Cuenca. The first mile beyond the stop was in very bad shape. Some bumps had me wondering what would happen if the bus dropped its transmission or broke an axle. Then we were past the worst of the road repairs.
I looked out the bus windows at clouds that were at eye level. At 1:30 we arrived at Chunchi, a beautiful town in a beautiful setting. It reminded me of Coroico, Bolivia, the dreamlike town in the junga at the end of the bike ride down The World's Most Dangerous Road. Numerous passengers boarded the bus in Chunchi: every seat was filled and a dozen riders packed the aisle.
Beyond Chunchi the terrain was beautiful and nearly vertical, the highway clinging to one side of an impressive valley. The bus went in-and-out of clouds. Frequent waterfalls graced the views out the bus windows, as did many plants flaunting purple, yellow and pink flowers.
It was difficult to keep track of exactly where the bus was on my map. I could not really see ahead on the highway where town names were posted. I only knew that the old bus kept grinding onward.
When I thought that we might be getting close to the town of Azogues, which was perhaps 20 km north of Cuenca, I was dismayed to see a sign that read "Cuenca 68 km." That meant at least two more hours at the pace we had been going.
The two-hour delay at Guamote on the train, a one-hour delay for road construction, and this lengthy bus trip (it had already been four hours since I'd boarded the bus) were conspiring to cut short my visit to Cuenca. And then some marvelous interactions with Ecuadorans--indigenous and not--made for a memorable afternoon.
I had been riding for hours in an aisle seat with diminished ability to see outside and no ability to determine our position with my GPS. When a passenger got off in one of the towns along the way and a window seat became available, I shot over to it.
Soon afterwards, at another stop, an indigenous woman in full native dress, including a baby swaddled to her back and just barely visible, boarded the bus with her two older children. She spoke Spanish and we talked a little. We learned a little bit about each other; I learned her older children's ages. She asked what the English word was for the age of her girl (nine) and boy (twelve). The woman with the baby on her back was hardly bigger than my nine year-old granddaughter Miranda, and her daughter appeared closer to six years old than her actual nine years.
I had not offered to vacate my long awaited window seat, so three of them--all but the son--were clustered on or in front of the single aisle seat, their faces not a foot away from mine. I tried to engage the nine year old girl, but mostly she just stared at me wide-eyed. I traded hand pats with the baby whose chubby face and arms were just visible above his perch on his mother's back.
The family exited the bus within an hour of boarding it, the little girl sort of backing up as she moved down the aisle, her eyes always on me.
I had attempted to get my MP3 player out to show the family some pictures, but its battery was depleted, and so I pulled out my camera and started to show them some pictures. I had hardly started when they had gotten up to exit the bus.
In the row ahead, though, a young man in his early 20's had taken an interest in the photos. And a middle-aged man across the aisle was craning his head to get a look at them. So, for each picture, I would point the display first one way, then another, so each could see. After awhile I simply showed the young man in the seat ahead of mine how to advance the pictures, then let him have the camera until he'd either seen all the photos or tired of the novelty. I think he was shocked that some gringo would allow him to actually hold such a prized possession.
When the indigenous woman got off the bus with her family, a well-dressed professional man sat down next to me. His card read 'Dr. Timoleon Carrera C., Gerente Comercializacion.' He was an officer, the director of marketing, in a large company based in Cuenca. He had been out making sales pitches today in one or more of the small towns north and west of Cuenca.
Bus rides in Ecuador can be very interesting: part transportation, part naked entrepreneurship, part entertainment. Enterprising sorts simply board the buses at a stop and begin selling their wares. They walk up and down the aisles with drinks or snacks. Their bags of papitas (potato chips) were my favorite--crisp, hand cut, cooked and packaged at home. Papitas are the greatest chips you can buy. Frozen items and candy are sometimes available.
The greatest fun, though, are the entrepreneurs who stand at the front of the bus spouting an unbroken line of patter, making eye contact with everyone up and down the rows of seats, pointing their finger to emphasize a point. Wanted or not, they had likely distributed a sample of their product--bracelets, say, or cologne--to everyone on the bus. Then, following their presentation, they would re-trace their steps, hopefully to collect money for purchases, but just as often to retrieve their unsold products.
Some of these sellers reminded me of cookware salesmen at a state fair. Close your eyes and you could almost hear Dan Akroyd breathlessly selling the Bass-O-Matic blender on the classic Saturday Night Live bit.
I'll always remember the somewhat overweight woman of 30 or so who began her presentation by distributing three wrapped pieces of candy to every passenger on the bus. She never stopped talking or laughing and she never stopped smiling. This could have been a Vegas lounge act. She did a number of rope tricks and other magic. She called up one of the French travelers who had been on the train from Riobamba to Palmira earlier today and who spoke no Spanish. The Frenchman stood beside the woman, clueless, while she entertained her Spanish-speaking captive audience. Suddenly she reached somewhere, I couldn't see from where I sat, and pulled a piece of lingerie out of one of the Frenchman's pockets. He was good-natured throughout. Who would not be in the presence of such a dynamic, positive force as this woman?
Then she went into her real pitch. Her son was ill with cancer. This was how she raised money for his treatment. Please, she asked, give what you can for the candy she had distributed earlier, the money would go for her son's care. She opened a worn photo album and showed pictures of her son and, I presumed, the rest of her family.
Her upbeat and outgoing demeanor never changed during any of this. I asked the man sitting next to me, the marketing director heading home after a day of sales of his own, if the woman's pitch was valid in his opinion. Yes, he told me, yes it was. I reached for some money, and had to reach deep: by this time I had less than $4 in my possession.
Dr. Timoleon pointed out on my map exactly where we were as we proceeded southward in the late afternoon shadows, along a mountain stream caught between two escarpments: now we were in Biblian, then Azogues, and finally on the outskirts of Cuenca. Dr. Timoleon got off the bus in a northern barrio of Cuenca after bidding me goodbye.
It was 5 p.m. when the bus pulled into Cuenca's Terminal Terrestre, six hours since I had boarded it in Palmira. I wasted no time in getting a taxi to take me to Hostal Macondo which I had selected from my guidebook. My driver, Eddie, had recently returned to Cuenca after living for seven years on 163rd Street in Queens, New York, where he had worked for a commercial roofer.
Eddie and his wife are both Ecuadorans, but they had three children born in New York, each of the three now a U.S. citizen. When their oldest child reaches her majority, she will return to the United States and sponsor her parents' emigration. That's another 14 years off, but it's understood in the family that that's the way it's going to be.
Eddie was a nice 'kid' of 29, a good worker I think, who left the States on good terms with his boss in New York. His wages as a taxi driver must be only a slight fraction of what he earned roofing in New York, but he and his family probably live alright by local standards.
Hostal Macondo represented a great lodging experience. I was shown a small, spotless room with a shared bathroom and shower a couple of doors away. The cost was $13.39 a night. The facility had been a colonial villa at one time. Enter from the street and you'll find a front desk that shares a corner of a spacious, open room with a large skylight. This lobby, festooned with plants and flowers, serves more as a living room for hostal residents, a pleasant place to sit, read, talk or otherwise relax.
Most of the rooms opened onto a large courtyard encircled by the main building and a couple of single-story wings containing the majority of the hostal's living quarters. The courtyard was green with plants and lawn, manicured, decorated, furnished with seating and a table, and was almost cloister-like in its peacefulness. A traveler with more time than I had might well choose to simply spend a day inside Hostal Macondo, enjoying the ambience.
Inside Hostal Macondo
As for me, I had less than 24 hours to spend in Cuenca and, after settling into my room, I set out in the twilight to see a bit of the city, get a bite to eat, find an Internet site, and not incidentally, to find an ATM and replenish my cash supply.
I ate at Raymipampa (Benigno Malo 8-59), a recommended restaurant located adjacent to the 'new' cathedral (begun in 1885) and across the street from the main plaza, Parque Abdon Calderon (GPS: 02 53.860S / 79 00.240W). The restaurant is one of those venerable institutions that was likely in business at the same location 30 years ago and will probably be there 30 years from now. And for good reason...
I chose an entree called Pegucha a la plancha (grilled chicken breast) for $5.50. It came with papas fritas (french fries), arroz (rice), verduras (vegetables: lightly dressed fresh tomato, avocado, cauliflower, green beans, onion, lima beans, carrots, peas), pan (bread), and the ever-present dish of aji (chile sauce). I added a humita (a corn cake with a hint of anise steamed in a leaf, similar to a tamale) which seemed to be a house specialty. Add a beer, and follow the meal up with ice cream from one of the shops that can seemingly be found on every block in Cuenca, and this was a fitting end to a long day in Ecuador. In fact, only my meal at Lima's L'Eau Vive exceeded this one as an event in its own right.
I would have to leave later today in order to get to Riobamba, the jumping-off point for a remarkable train trip that departs that city just three times a week. That left only a portion of the day to squeeze in a few last sights in Quito, Ecuador. The day began bright and full of promise and so, after a last breakfast at Villa Nancy, I left the hostal early, caught the Ecovia bus just outside its gate on Av. 6 de Diciembre, and was in the Old City before 8 a.m.
I have mentioned that the Old City is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, so designated because of its cultural (architectural) values dating from the 16th century and its Spanish colonial influence. The UNESCO website's ( whc.unesco.org ) description states that Quito "...has the best-preserved, least altered historic centre in Latin America. The monasteries of San Francisco and Santo Domingo, and the Church and Jesuit College of La Compañía, with their rich interiors, are pure examples of the 'Baroque school of Quito', which is a fusion of Spanish, Italian, Moorish, Flemish and indigenous art."
The Old City streets are cobblestoned for the most part, as are many of the sidewalks, contributing to the site's charm. It was the churches that seemed most remarkable to me, grand in both scale and beauty, and it was on them that I focused what little time I had this morning.
Street scenes, Quito's Old City
My route took me first to the Iglesia de San Agustin (Calle Chile y Guayaquil). This imposing, bright white church, begun in 1580 and completed in 1627, had the advantages of being both open to the public and allowing (non-flash) photography inside. A sparsely-attended mass was being conducted. I entered the church discreetly, admired its ornate main altar as well as some of the side ones, and tried to take some photographs as surreptitiously as possible before continuing on my walk.
Iglesia de San Agustin
It was only a block to the Plaza de la Independencia ( GPS: 00 13.219S / 78 30.721W ), an attractive landscaped park with many benches surrounding the tower and statue that dominate it. Also known as Plaza Grande, it seemed an inviting oasis this morning. Later in the morning, on my walk back, it would present quite a different scene, but now I could admire La Catedral, the 16th century cathedral that faced the plaza.
Plaza de la Independencia and (background) La Catedral
La Catedral (Calle Espejo between G. Moreno and Venezuela) was built between 1545 and 1572. Large and brilliant white like Iglesia de San Agustin just two block away, the cathedral was not open and so I could only admire its exterior.
Walking a block further south, I came to the Jesuit (Society of Jesus) Iglesia de la Compania de Jesus (Calle G. Moreno y Sucre) that was built between 1605 and 1765. Outside, I absorbed the church's architectural features which included an entryway with unique twisted columns and ornate carved facade. Later, on my return, I entered the church and was overwhelmed by the 23-carat gold lamina that covered virtually every square inch of the sizeable interior. Less ostentatious, yet no less memorable, was the inlaid wood floor and the narrow spiral staircase leading from the back of the church to the small choir loft. My notes summed up La Compania in one word: "Resplendent."
Iglesia de la Compania de Jesus
My destination was the Convento y Museo de San Francisco (Calle Cuenca 477). If the other churches of the Old City were notable for one reason or another, the Convento de San Francisco, begun in 1553, could be notable simply due to its monumental scale. It seemed to be a city block in length. Facing Plaza de San Francisco, the complex of buildings that make up Convento de San Francisco is enhanced by its setting across the vast open plaza.
Plaza and Iglesia de San Francisco
It was late enough at the time I was there, about 9 a.m., that I could enter the site and join a guided tour. What an interesting experience that turned out to be. I soon found myself being led, alone, through the museum portion of San Francisco. My guia, Paulina, spoke only Spanish, and so my tour of the great Franciscan art collection became a Spanish tutorial that required my undivided attention.
At the conclusion of the museum tour, Paulina asked if I'd like to see the church, and of course I did. There were extensive renovations being undertaken. We entered the large choir with its perimeter of carved wooden seats and, above them, carved depictions of notable members of the Franciscan order, many of them martyrs. Dual silver-piped organs were installed at the front of the choir. I could easily envision the loft filled with brown-robed friars raising their voices in praise of their Lord. My guide could not take me downstairs and into the main portion of the church, but we could view it--and the renovations that were in progress--from the front of the choir.
Paulina left me in the cloister. With more time I might have remained there longer, enjoying the landscaped and architectural beauty as well as the cloister's peaceful isolation.
Cloister (left) and second level walkway, Convento de San Francisco
I began to retrace my steps back to a mass transit stop. My route took me back past the Plaza de la Independencia. The Palacio de Gobierno is situated on Calle G. Moreno directly across from the plaza, making the park a favored spot for political or labor demonstrations. I encountered armed national police lining the street, separating demonstrators in the park from the government building across the street. The demonstrators' grievances seemed to be with mining pay or practices. Banners and flags were carried by people dressed in ordinary urban clothes; large numbers of indigenous people dressed in colorful native garb moved in a sort of dance line to the sound of music and drums. I never saw any physical conflict nor anything that seemed like it might lead to any such escalation. I stopped, watched, listened, took photos, then continued on my way out of the Old City.
Demonstration, Plaza de la Independencia, Quito, Ecuador
The day was fine, the best since I landed in Quito three days ago. One of the things that you must do when in Quito is to ride the Teleferiqo (www.teleferiqo.com) high above the city. I had waited through several cloudy days, and today I was rewarded.
The Teleferiqo ascends one of the hills, Pichincha, that border Quito to its west. Passengers ride in modern gondolas that afford great views of the city and the mountains that nearly encircle it. The ride, 15 minutes in length, is almost silent as you climb to an elevation of just under 13,000 feet, about 4,000 feet above Quito. The ride costs $4 round-trip; it's $7 if you choose to take the express line and avoid the queue, which may be well worthwhile on weekends or holidays. On this day, though, I was loaded onto a gondola as quickly as I could walk from the ticket window to the boarding area.
Teleferiqo and city below
Teleferiqo involves a great deal more than simply some towers, cable and gondolas. There are modern glass-and-steel structures at both the bottom and top of the ride, the former serving as a location for ticket sales and queueing, the latter selling refreshments and providing seating and telescopes oriented to the east. There are a few shops and eateries at the top near the gondola exit, and many at the bottom downhill from the gondola entrance. In fact, there is a sizeable amusement park among the complex of businesses at the bottom of Teleferiqo.
There was a wide path, perhaps a quarter-mile in length, that rose a couple of hundred feet in elevation from the gondola exit to the viewpoint in the distance. It was slow going for me at this altitude, but of course I had to go out to the end of the trail and the destination called Cruz Loma (GPS: 00 10.947S / 78 32.302W; elev. 13,191 feet). The city of Quito was laid out before me, pinched into a wide valley and stretched far to my left and right. It was difficult to believe that Quito placed a distant second in population to Ecuador's largest city, Guayaquil, having nearly one million fewer inhabitants (1.4 million and 2.3 million, respectively, according to my guidebook).
Trail to Cruz Loma
I had done as much as I could do since arriving in Quito on Saturday afternoon. Time-wise, I could see that I was pushing both my luck and my check-out time, and so I returned to the Teleferiqo gondolas and headed back down the mountainside. I found a ride back to the neighborhood of my hostal--Villa Nancy--for just $1. (The taxi from Av. Colon to Teleferiqo had cost $5.) You can arrange to ride these mini-vans (called kombis) in both directions to/from the hotel district that is generally within a one-mile radius of Avs. Colon and Amazonas; look for the white kombis emblazoned with 'Completo Turistica.'
I was let out near my lodging, collected my bag, hailed a taxi, and soon I was on my way to Quito's inter-city bus terminal to board an autobus to Riobamba. I had made one final mistake: I did not determine the cost of the ride prior to getting in the taxi. Instead, I agreed to the use of a meter to determine the fare. It didn't take long before I knew that I had made a mistake. The meter turned faster than a progressive slot machine. When it reached more than $8 and we were nowhere near our destination, I told the driver that I didn't believe the fare was correct. The tension inside the taxi was not alleviated when I made it obvious that I was entering the driver's permit number in my notebook. He became rather animated, telling me how construction and traffic delays were the cause of the escalating fare. He took to glaring at me in his rearview mirror, a look I would have found more menacing had I not been in a licensed taxi. It seemed to me that the rate the meter was turning had slowed down significantly. That may have been accurate or not, and there could have been other factors affecting the meter for all I know. Anyway, the meter read $10.13 at the end of the ride from Villa Nancy to Terminal Terreste, probably double what it would have cost had I negotiated a flat rate prior to getting in the taxi. Lesson learned.
Terminal Terrestre is considered one of the least safe places in a city seemingly full of unsafe places...that's the advice in guidebooks and from other travelers. It's chaotic for sure. I estimate that there were 200 buses at the station when I arrived there this afternoon. The number of different bus lines with their own offices inside the terminal had to be around fifty.
The travelers' task is to find a company they are comfortable with and which serves their destination. Angel, a helpful employee at Villa Nancy, recommended a company called Chimborrazo. I found their office without much trouble, purchased a ticket for $3.60, and was quickly loaded onto a bus to Riobamba which lay 99 miles south of Quito. We were scheduled to leave Terminal Terrestre at 2:40 p.m.: that didn't mean 2:39, and it didn't mean 2:41. The bus crawled out of the terminal precisely on time, picking up as many additional passengers in the first mile as we had loaded at the terminal itself.
Aggressive vendors took their turns at the front of the bus, each touting the virtues of their product--drinks, snacks, lottery tickets, Mother's Day cards, cologne. I played dumb--not a stretch, really--and for the most part I was not hassled when the vendors walked down the aisle following their spiels. I didn't know how far the vendors would ride on the bus, or if they would have to pay for the privilege of boarding and selling, and I still don't know. I do know that such mobile sales pitches were standard on all my bus trips of any length in Ecuador.
We climbed out of Quito and were soon in verdant agricultural land, in a valley with impressive volcanoes on both sides that reached 15,000-to-18,000 feet in elevation. Their bases were visible, but not, for the most part, their cones. And so I never got to see the enirety of the perfectly shaped Cotopaxi. This was sort of the Mount Rainier effect: you know that it's there and you know that it's beautiful, but you could spend days, or even weeks, and never get a full view of the peak.
Tall trees, including pines, became more prevalent as we progressed south on Highway 35. Dairy cattle, mostly Holsteins, were plentiful. At 4:30 p.m. we passed the town of Latacunga and vendors selling watermelons (sandias) from roadside stands.
The cloud cover dissipated with time and distance. When we reached Ambuato at 5:20 the sky was almost clear of clouds. Volcanoes became prominent and could be seen in their entirety. A small one to our left (east) seemed to be belching smoke.
A small volcano belching smoke
Also on our left were the serrated teeth of snow-capped extinct volcanoes in Sanjay National Park, at once both forbidding and inviting. One peak, El Altar, is considered to be perhaps the most technically demanding climb in Ecuador. As the sun continued to set, the peaks took on the pronounced aspect of alpenglow.
The highway was now mostly in shadow. We had caught glimpses of the inactive volcano Chimborazo in the distance almost since leaving Quito. Now, three hours into the trip to Riobamba, the peak--at approximately 20,500 feet it is the highest in Ecuador--seemed quite close and reminded me of Mount Rainier in appearance. My attempts to photograph its grandeur, and the grandeur of El Altar earlier, through the bus windows were largely unsuccessful.
Out the bus window, above a ridge line, Chimborazo!
I retrieved my bag at the bus terminal in Riobamba and caught a taxi to El Tren Dorado (Carabobo 22-35 y 10 de Agosto). Arrangements for my lodging there had been made by Angel at Villa Nancy in Quito. El Tren Dorado was located less than 100 yards from the train station, and the train was why I was in Riobamba (GPS: 01 40.031S / 78 38.079W).
Merde! I was told while checking-in that (1) the train only went as far as Palmira because of slides on its most scenic section called La Nariz del Diabllo, and (2) tickets were sold out for tomorrow's ride in any case. A shifty looking man in the background apprised the situation and, through the desk manager, told me to show up at the station 10 minutes prior to departure and he might be able to provide me with a ticket. That was my only hope, and that was for a truncated journey.
Oh, well, if you were me you could always find some solace in food. I found mine near my lodging at a nice restaurant called Sierra Nevada (Primera Constituyente y Rocafuerte). For $4.50 I ordered the Camarones en coco: "shrimp breaded in shredded coconut, acccompanied by a house special tropical sauce served with steamed potatoes with fresh herbs or french fries and fresh steamed vegetables." This, along with a cold beer, did a lot to sooth my disappointment, and a dessert of homemade flan with carmel sauce didn't hurt any, either.
Remember, it was a Tuesday night, and it was around 9 p.m. when I left Sierra Nevada to return to my lodging. It seemed incongruous then, and even more so now as I write this, but I could hear a band playing in the distance. I could see it a couple of blocks away, down the quiet side street, coming towards me. It was a marching band, heavy on the drums, numbering around 40 in all.
The members were all men, some with instruments, some simply marching ahead of the musicians. At first I decided to just go on back to my hotel, but this was too surreal. I leaned against a building on a corner, watched and listened while the marching band went past, wondering if there was any particular reason they were performing. No other group preceded or followed them. There were few onlookers beyond other curious folks like myself. I decided that the band members were simply playing for their own enjoyment. And mine.
After the band passed by, I caught up on the Internet before returning to my rather spare room and falling into bed after another long, interesting day.
I got up early, used the Internet, and had breakfast. Then I took a taxi from Villa Nancy to a stop on the busy Avenida Occidental where I could catch a bus for 2 to the town of Otavalo, which lies about 30 miles north of Quito ATCF. Though intrigued by my Footprint South American Handbook 2008's description of the town as being "...set in beautiful countryside, with mountains, lakes and small villages nearby," I was going to Otavalo to see its market.
Vendors boarded the bus, rode it a ways, and sold their wares which included such snacks as sealed, push-up, flavored icy treats (10 cents) and papitas (homemade and home-packaged potato chips that were terrific--30 cents). The bus was comfortable, an American movie dubbed in Spanish played on the screen up front, and I kept watch outside as we followed the winding Highway 35 through rugged terrain, gaining and losing elevation on the way to Otavalo.
Day 11 of my trip was a Sunday; the big market days in Otavalo are Saturdays. Nevertheless, the market is active every day, and a visitor on any day can get a sense of why it's considered one of the best (if not the best) markets in all of South America and why it's included in the arbitrarily chosen selections listed in "1,000 Places to See Before You Die."
It was cloudy and cool when I arrived in Otavalo. A light rain was falling. I took a taxi from the bus terminal to the Plaza de Ponchos and soon found myself seeking a snack and shelter in the Shanandoa Pie Shop (right on the plaza at Salinas y Jaramillo). One look at the lemon meringue, apple, strawberry, blueberry, and chocolate pies and I was hooked. (Alas, though the menu included mora pie, that variety--made from the delectable, blackberry-like fruit grown in the region--was not available.) I chose the lemon meringue and sat down, the only customer in the shop.
It wasn't long before some other people came in, including Mike and Bonnie ________. They were gringos of approximately my own age (62). I asked, and when they told me they lived in Ecuador and were just visiting Otavalo today, I assumed that they were American ex-pats who were getting a little more out of their retirement dollars by living in Latin America. I was wrong.
Mike and Bonnie were missionaries who had lived in Ecuador for 30 years. They were both from small towns in the panhandle of Texas who had known each other from their school days. Their children, who loved Ecuador and would have preferred to have been there, were more-or-less on parentally-enforced sabbatical back in the United States. Mike was still working, likely with the great assistance of his wife. I sensed that they would have to make major decisions about their own future relatively soon, such as when and where to retire.
Another gringo in the pie shop heard our English conversation and asked if she could join us. Her name was Shelly and she was from New Zealand. She was around 40 years-old, was traveling alone, and would meet an acquaintance later today in Otavalo. For now, though, she and I and the missionary couple had a pleasant half-hour conversation before going our separate ways.
As I mentioned, Saturday is the day to experience the grand spectacle of Otavalo, a day that features separate livestock, small animal, and produce markets in addition to the everyday artesanias market. Even today, though, the artesanias market filled Plaza de Ponchos and the streets which bound it on four sides. The scene resembled an almost unbroken sea of bright blue plastic tarps, underneath which a vast selection of handmade crafts were displayed.
Artesanias market, Plaza de Ponchos
The indigenous Otavalenos are a handsome people renowned for their textiles and crafts, especially those made from wool. My favorite items were the choles, colorful and silky-smooth wool items that may have been designed as clothing accessories (shawls), but could just as easily be utilized to accent one's household decor. There were wonderful items featuring embroidery on natural linen, from tea towels to tablecloths; my desire to purchase these items vied with my need to conserve space in my already overstuffed luggage.
The Otavalenos were impeccably and beautifullydressed in colorful native dress. Many of the women wore gold necklaces, the stacked strands sometimes reaching three inches in width. Often there was a quiet baby on their back, bundled tightly and securely and almost invisible. The men, rarely much more than five feet in height, typically wore their long, jet-black hair in a single long braid.
Otavaleno women, Plaza de Ponchos
I spent several hours in the market, appraising items offered by first one vendor, then another. I looked at knit woolen hats (bought some), hand-crafted dolls (sure! I have a granddaughter, don't I?), alpaca scarves (nope), and jewelry (hardly takes any room, right?). Local jewelry craftsmen (and -women) work in silver and seem to favor the regional minerals lapis, turquesa, and jaspe rojo in their settings. Bargaining, even protracted bargaining, is expected before settling on a price acceptable to both parties.
(Left) Wooden masks; (right) silver jewelry
I remained on the plaza until early evening. Vendors began to store their wares and prepare to close for the day. Night comes early near the Equator, and I still had to retrace the 1-1/2-hour bus ride back to Quito and the Terminal Terreste. I thought about the warnings I had received regarding the dangers of the streets of Quito in general and the bus terminal in particular.
I decided that I would prolong my visit anyway, maybe find someplace to eat. I ended up at a very nice place called S.I.S.A (don't ask) located at Calderon 409 y Sucre. The restaurant was large, open, nicely decorated, and virtually empty at the early dinner hour of 5 p.m. I ordered a filet mignon for $5.50 that included papas fritas (French fries), arroz (rice), verdudas (vegetables), pan (bread) and was served, as is served with virtually every meal in every restaurant in this part of the world, a bowl of aji, a chile-based sauce that is distinctively different each place you try it. Ruth's Chris needn't fret about losing market share to S.I.S.A.'s filet, but it made for a good meal. And I'll be darned if my waiter didn't present me with a braided gift (regalo) with "S.I.S.A" hand-stitched in it as a memento of my visit to the restaurant.
The buses back to Quito, while frequent, seemed to depart not so much on a schedule, but when they were filled to their capacity. A leather-lunged barker stood outside the bus, loudly repeating "Quito, Quito, Quito" over and over again, never stopping until we pulled out of Otavalo.
Still wary because of the numerous warnings I'd received about the dangers of being out in the city, I got in a taxi as soon as the bus stopped at Quito's Terminal Terrestre. Although it should not have taken more than 20 minutes, it took an hour for the driver to find my lodging, frustrating both of us greatly. Part of the problem was trying to read miniscule maps in the inadequate lighting of the taxi, and part was because my Footprint South American Handbook 2008 guidebook still listed an old address for Villa Nancy. I finally arrived at the hostal at 10 o'clock and wasted little time in getting to bed after a long day exploring a little corner of Ecuador.
The weather looked promising when I got up this morning. I enjoyed Villa Nancy's fine breakfast, gathered those things I thought I would need for a day spent out-and-about, got instructions for taking public transportation to a site called Mitad del Mundo, and headed out onto the streets of Quito.
I was no longer overly concerned about my personal safety and was not reluctant to explore the city on my own. Prudence dictated that one be aware of their environment and that one's things--daypack and camera--not be too available for anyone who might want to relieve you of them. But such precautions would be judicious anywhere.
I walked north on Av. 6 de Diciembre, then west on Av. Colon through a thriving commercial district alive with traffic and pedestrians. It was probably 1-1/2 miles to a stop on the Metrobus line where I would board my first bus.
I mentioned in yesterday's account that there are three main mass-transit routes in Quito, each running north-south and roughly parallel to each other, and each operating at fairly rapid speed in dedicated lanes on major thoroughfares. I passed an Ecovia stop right outside Villa Nancy, then a stop on the Trole line as I walked along Av. Colon, before reaching the Seminario Mayor stop on the Metrobus line. The cost of riding on any of the three lines is 25 cents. There is a fleet of blue buses called Tipos that must number in the many hundreds that can transport passengers virtually anywhere in Quito, operating frequently on routes that supplement the three express lines. The only trick is reading the signs posted in the bus windows and figuring out which of the many to board (there could be four or more at any one corner at any one time, each going the same direction).
Scenes from Quito mass transit: (above, left and right) Tipo bus and Trole station; (below, left and right) Metrobus station and transfer station
I saw many American restaurants doing business in Quito and throughout South America, some of them expected (McDonald's, KFC, Pizza Hut), others not (Dunkin Donuts, Baskin-Robbins, Papa Johns, Tony Roma's). I can report that the most numerous of the franchises, without doubt, was KFC which easily had twice as many locations as Mickey D's, and likely more than that. As I passed a large KFC on Av. Colon I noticed that their playroom for kids was called 'Chicky Party.'
Large KFC on Av. Colon, Quito, Ecuador
The Metrobus that I boarded took me perhaps 5-to-7 miles beyond the Seminario stop, to a transfer station at its north terminus. I boarded another bus at the transfer station that would deliver me to the entrance of Mitad del Mundo, perhaps another 8-to-10 winding miles away, for 35 cents.
Mitad del Mundo (Spanish for 'middle of the world') is an imposing monument built to commemorate an 18th century French expedition that determined the location of the equator. Why the expedition chose this spot in what is now the country of Ecuador rather than, say, somewhere else in South America--or in Africa or southeast Asia for that matter--I cannot say, but their work has stood the test of time: recent GPS measurements are only about 150 meters different than those made by sextant and chronometer. (GPS: 00 00.000S / 78 27.335W)
A long landscaped walkway leads from the entrance to the monument itself. A four-sided stone tower well over 100 feet in height supports a giant globe. An elevator took me up to a platform just below the globe for nice views in every direction of the compass. My descent by stairway took me through exhibits depicting many of the numerous cultures that comprise the nation of Ecuador.
The monument and views from on top, Mitad del Mundo
The weather was perfect for visiting the site but, being a weekday, there were few people at Mitad del Mundo. I visited a few shops and sat on the patio of a restaurant to write a bit and to enjoy a milkshake-like drink called a bebida made from my new favorite fruit, the mora. Interestingly, one of the shops that also serves as a post office would stamp your passport to validate your visit to the equator; I had never had my passport stamped by any agency other than customs upon entry or exit into/from a sovereign nation.
I left without making more than a casual effort to find the Museo Inti-Nan which is located outside, but nearby, Mitad del Mundo. Other gringos told me that it was very interesting and well worth visiting, but time was my enemy if I was to see anything else of Quito on this day. And so I retraced my steps back into the city, this time riding the Metrobus almost to its southern terminus in Quito's colonial Old City.
Many of the buildings in the Old City date from the 1500's. Its cultural significance is recognized by its designation as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I wanted to get familiar with some of its landmarks so that a visit planned for tomorrow morning could be made without wasting time simply getting oriented. If you are i simplen an open area and can see in all directions, or if you can spot landmarks looking up or down one of the streets, orientation is fairly: the Old City is bounded by prominences at each end--to the north is the large gothic La Basilica; to the south is Cerro Panecillo, a sizeable hill topped by the statue Virgen de Quito.
Views from the Old City: (Left) Cerro Panecillo, and (right) La Basilica
Most of the streets in the Old City are cobblestone, and so are many of the sidewalks. Picturesque stone walls, up to 30 feet in height, are found here and there, some built to accommodate plants growing from them. There may be a dozen churches (iglesias) in the Old City, perhaps half of them being architecturally or culturally significant. Plazas dot the area providing wonderful landscaped oases for rest and refreshment with the added bonus of providing great people-watching opportunities.
I made my way upwards from the Metrobus stop to La Basilica. This church is not colonial in age (it was begun in the early 20th century) or architecture (it is gothic in style). It was interesting, though. I just had time for a quick tour before it closed for the day. Its flying buttresses, immense nave, and stained-glass windows were notable. And how about those gargoyles? Rather than demons or other fantastic figures, this church was decorated with birds and other animals of land and sea that represented Ecuador and the Galapagos Islands.
Some views of the Gothic La Basilica
I topped off my visit to La Basilica, literally, with a drink in the church's Cafeteria Torre Vlass high above the streets. The cafe had an array of windows that provided views of the Old City and of Quito itself in one direction. A thunderstorm could be seen approaching from the south. I saw no reason to do anything other than relax and enjoy something called Capuchino vlass, a hot drink made with amaretto.
I left La Basilica at its 5 o'clock closing hour, taking time outside to photograph some of its unique exterior. I walked to a nearby stop of the Trole line, pushed myself into the packed car, and rode it north to Av. Colon. I found an Internet business where I could catch up on some email and journal entries.
It was dark when I decided to undertake an interesting task before eating dinner. Tom Grimwood, a friend from Kansas as well as my Spanish instructor, had asked me to deliver a note to an acquaintance of his who lives in Quito. Just one problem: Tom didn't have either a telephone number to contact the man, nor even an address, when I left on my trip.
I was not able to find the name in a telephone book but, after I had arrived in Quito, I got an email from Tom: he had been able to find an address but he didn't know in which part of Quito it was located. I got the idea that maybe I could Google the address and come up with something. Sure enough, it worked! Google recognized the address and provided a map showing its location which was not all that far from where I was staying.
And so I hired a taxi, showed the driver the address, determined the cost of the fare ($2), and off we went. We drove directly to the intersection of two streets where the address should have been. Neither the driver nor I could see any house number that seemed even close to the one I had been provided. We drove slowly in one direction, turned around, then crawled past the intersection going in the other direction, always looking for the address.
The driver rolled down his window to ask first one person, then another, if they knew how to find the address. I had him stop to ask employees of several businesses--a pharmacy, a restaurant, a corner market--who I thought would surely know someone who had lived nearby for many years. No one knew the name or the address. My driver did not give up easily. Again we rolled up and down the street, looking.
At last I told him that we should give up the search, that he should take me back to a restaurant close to Av. Colon near where he had picked me up almost an hour ago. As we approached the restaurant, I reached for money to pay my driver. The fare, I knew, was $2 for each direction, but the driver had easily spent an additional 30-to-40 minutes simply helping me to find an address. When he realized that I intended to include a tip (propina) in addition to the $4 total fare, he refused to even consider taking it. I don't know why he would not accept it; perhaps because he knew that I was simply trying to do a favor for a friend?
Why couldn't we find the address? My first guess was that the house-numbering system had been changed by the city sometime in the past (that much is certain); since no one around the intersection knew the man, I also think that he may have moved to another location in Quito some time ago.
I got out at a restaurant called Turtle's Head (La Nina 626 y J.L. Mera) that sounded good in my guidebook. Oh, yeah, it was. Turtle's Head is an English pub kind of place, adorned with flags of the United Kingdom, classic rock playing in the background. Inside there were only gringos, travelers and/or ex-pats living in Quito. The old adage, 'Work is the Curse of the Drinking Class,' adorned one wall. A woodburning fireplace was being tended.
I took a seat at a large table with benches on either side and candles flickering in its center. Several microbrews were available, including: Llama Negra ('as dark as your conscience') and Tortuga Pale Ale ('not that slow!'). A plasma TV was playing a baseball game between the Red Sox and Tigers, what better to go with an ice-cold draft beer? The three innings of the game represented the only television I would watch during the whole trip.
Fish-and-chips seemed like a natural choice in an English pub. My order was preceded by the best bread I had on the whole trip. Then I was brought a plate with three large battered fish fillets, a generous order of very good chips (French fries), and a portion of hideous vegetables that spent too much of their lives inside a tin can. Overall, though, I'd go back in a minute.
It was getting late by the time I left Turtle's Head, perhaps 10 o'clock. When I was let out of the guarded street entrance, I asked directions back to Av. Colon. I was disoriented, walking somewhat aimlessly which is the worst way to walk if personal security is an issue. I pulled out my GPS, clicked on 'Villa Nancy,' and was soon on my way directly back to my lodging and my bed.
