Quito, Quayaquil and with a roll of the dice ... Canoa !

Quito, Quayaquil, and with a roll of the dice … Canoa !

I am learning to really dislike the big cities in this 80 day tour.  But they are necessary, since they contain the airports that are getting me around this huge continent on my LAN Pass flight segments.  In Quito, capital of Ecuador, I broke the rule.  Only two days here.  Didn’t even bother with the usual museums (though the Museo Todos Del Mundo, having something to do with the equator, was highly recommended by everybody).  Even the more highly recommended church of Compania was not on my radar.  Nor the personally inviting artist workshop of Guajasamin, “Ecuador’s Picasso”and the most famous artisan this country has ever had.  I also did not visit the esteemed Old Town in Quito, that of the colonial architecture I so adored in Cuzco.  None of it.  First, with all the early wakesups lately, just slept in on Monday.  Spent the rest of the day, catching up on e-mail, and blogging about Machu Picchu and the Sacred Valley of the Incas and adding photos.  Before you know it, the time is past 2 AM.  Tuesday, another lazy day.  No motivation at all.  An admin day of sorts.  Decompression probably, from the incredible trip to “The Lost City of The Incas.”  Mailed some gifts and personal effects back to the US so I would have continued room in my large bag.  This was a maddening process, that took an hour and one-half with the El Correo (post office) in Ecuador.  And you thought they were slow and indifferent in the US!  Needed a shot of sanity.  They don’t have shops for this on every corner, like they do for Starbucks.  But a little sleuthing got me to the right place.

Decided to visit an English speaking bar.  Now, I am not a bar person.  Never have been.  Not in college, and not afterward.  But the truth is, you always pick up the best bullshit and the best scouting reports, in bars.  The one I got referred to by a Canadian gal on the street, who was leaving town in 15 minutes, was Hostal Villa Cayetano.  Bar, hostel, and Internet Café combo.  Proprietor was Canadian Christian Ramirez.  First of all, no struggling with the language and having multiple misunderstandings in the process of making a deal or trying to buy something.  Got three beers, two hamburgers (only meal of the day), chips, and the whole kit with tip for $13.  Better yet, I was advised for four hours on what I should see, what wasn’t worth seeing (despite the reputation), some great soccer on the TV, fluent English, and a referral for where I should head the next day.  More on that in a moment.  I also met Minneapolis journalist Tom Bartel, who – with his wife Chris –  does freelance journalism throughout South America.  Seems almost like they have the ideal job.  Best thing I picked up from Tom (besides engaging good company) was his story about a book deal he may pursue.  Seems there is “old knowledge” about the final “Lost City of The Incas” that has ben narrowed down from legend, old trails, old maps, and Spanish records.  The Spaniards knew it existed, and like Machu Picchu, could not find it.  Three others like it have been found by acquaintances of his  since 1980.  It is out there somewhere.  Trouble is, you can’t find it with satellite photography.  It is grown over with jungle.  And it is somewhere in Ecuador between 5000 and 13,000 feet in altitude.  You have to find the right old trail, hack your way in for miles and miles, and get lucky.  But they know it is there.  Tom promised to keep me posted.

On the way back to my hostel, my cabbie asks me if I am aware of the chairlift called “El Teleferico” leading up to the local volcano at 4300 meters.  Now, this is a comical conversation, conducted one word at a time, but largely successful due to some Italian interloping (hand gestures) and major interpolating on both our parts.  Quito, in fact, is flanked by five of these cone-shaped puppies.  I indicate “no.”  He says they are still open.  Would I like to go up?  I say “of course.  What is the cost?”  He tells me five dollars.  I’m thinking, at least I’ll have something to talk about re: Quito besides working the blog, and sleeping.  So they take me to the high point in town.  The gondola ride up the Guagua Pichincha volcano.   I pay my $8 (quoted price is for locals only), and ascend up the mountain in a four-man gondola.  I can still hear the cabbie and the ticket office folks snickering now.  They forget to tell you, the volcano gets fogged in at night.  Best viewing time is early in the morning.  For half an hour ascending over 3000 feet, and again on the return voyage, I see nothing but fog and the ascent cable and the occasional blurry shapes of passing gondolas descending.  Empty.  Oh well, teaches one to ask enough questions, or else …

Today (Wednesday), I am have an early 45 minute flight to Quayaquil.  A port town.  Euador’s largest city at 4 million.  Flat.  Hot.  Not particularly scenic.  Nothing to recommend it.  Except for fellow passenger Luz Ullauri, who is coming to town from Quito to visit her parents.  She has a son in New York, and a daughter who is a lawyer, and is terribly proud of both kids.  Turns out she is the Ecudadorian version of “A California Girl.”  Breezy.  Confident. Self assured.  Comfy in her own skin.  And assertive.  In a land where people don’t want to stick their heads up above ground zero, she wags her finger at the LAN people on my behalf for lousy service and allowing others to bypass me in line when I was simply following their protocol.  Then, she alerts me to the constant gate changes that are the norm in South America.  And, she is perfect company for what turned out to be too short of a flight.  One of those times you wish it was four hours, and not one.  Quayaquil is a town I have been warned about as “potentially dangerous.”  I elect for the first time to bypass it completely.  No sooner land at the airport, than I ask to be taken to the bus station.  I decide to head to some small towns, on the Ecuadorian coast, near the equator to finally get some beach time.  Not only that, but these towns have a reputation from International Living (which I subscribe to) for being great places to retire.  Way too early for me to consider that, but good intel is always good intel.  Never too early to start.  And besides, in 40+ days in South America, I’d never have known it was summer save but for a few days in Santiago and maybe a day or two elsewhere.  I am ready to tan.  I choose Canoa because it is the furthest north (60 miles south of the equator) and will allow me to systematically work my way back to Quayaquil (that flight sequencing mandate with LAN Airlines again) for the trip a week from now to Iguazu Falls.  It is a six hour bus ride.  Cost: $7.  Not the equivalent of $7.  Seven dollars exactly.  Reason is, for the last ten years, Ecuador has been on the US dollar.  Strange to see greenbacks, dollar coins, our quarters, and small change handed out routinely in a foreign land !

To say the trip was interesting, would be a vast understatement.  On the surface of it, there seemed little to excite the pen.  But I remember a teaching moment from a favorite coach of mine, Frosty Westering of Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma (WA, USA).  Frosty’s most memorable phrase was “make the big time, wherever you are.”  I decided to really dig this trip, and try to make something of the grind.  Paying extra attention was well worthwhile.  Ecuador simply offers a different reality.  First of all, vendors of every stripe and variety hop aboard the bus at what seems pre-designated stops along the route.  They offer sodas, bread, candy, nuts, coconut water, frozen water,  taffy, and many other things I didn’t note.  Then they hop off at the next stop and catch another bus headed in the opposite direction.  Next, is the commotion.  This is not a quiet ride, as on US buses.  There is loud Latino music.  There is a constant buzz from the passengers.  And the endless little villages we pass through, offer up their own distractions.  One example: I need to use the bathroom.  I walk into what is a public area.  Use the facilities.  The water faucets are dysfunctional and there is … uh … toilet overflow residue everywhere on the concrete floor.  Walk out.  Guy accosts me for money.  “Why?” I ask.  “Es publico.” He slyly avoids my questions.  Asks for the fee again.  I almost yell at him.  “Por Que?  Esta sucia (dirty).  No tiene agua (you don’t have water).  No jabon (soap).  No tiene toallas (towels).  Por Que debo pagarse?  (Why must I pay you?).  He runs in, grabs a bucket of water, pulls out a towel from a hidden niche (dirty one at first, until I scowled at him, at which point he went to the clean laundry sack and got a fresh towel).  I shook my head.  Laughed, paid him the requested fifty cents, and barely made it back to the bus on time before I was abandoned on the way out.

During the six hour journey, saw multiple shacks.  I mean, chicken shacks.  People lived in them.  Some had sidewalls made up of Japanese style tatami mats, and no solid walls.  No windows present.  Many were raised up on stilts.  No idea why, unless there was a flood plain extent.  There were the usual combos of red brick, mixed mud brick, and tin roof homes as well.  Some stucco and red tile roofs, but not many.  Coconut groves sprouted everywhere.  Hammocks, usually with men in them sleeping the day away while the women worked, were in every other yard.  The place abounded with plastic chairs.  And the jungle hillsides beyond the slovenly housing were beautiful.  Once again, same as if I had I been a brake repair shop owner in La Paz or an American lawyer in most of this continent, had I been a plastic chair salesman in this neck of the woods, I could retire early.  Lastly, it was fascinating because I was the only white man or woman on the bus for six hours and got many studious stares.  Not a word of English was heard for the entire journey, except for my halting attempts to communicate with the locals.  Only Anna Pilar, a mother of three making the journey back from Quayaquil after a rent agreement contract signing, broke up the constant stream of Spanish.  And same as usual, we did this for four hours one halting word and short phrase at a time.  Such earnest, wonderful people …

Finally arrived in Canoa.  I am dropped off in the middle of nowhere.  At night, it looks like a cow town.  But I could hear the nearby waves.  And I knew from the balmy air, I wouldn’t freeze at night as I have in the altitude (altura) of La Paz, Cuzco, and Quito.  The first clue was, a single sheet covering the top portion of my bed.  No blankets.  I need a fan in fact, for the first time.  Cabbie took me to a place called The Baloo [ http://www.baloo-canoa.com/ ].  It was recommended back in Quito. Turns out it is well known in town, and especially among backpackers and travel gypsys.  The huts and bar/reception area are straight out of “South Pacific” movie set.  Proprietor Phil, is a 40 year ex-pat from Derby, England.  A seven-month setpiece at the beach/jungle bar is William, a part-time professor and book critic who gives me the low down on local conditions before he retires at 9 PM.  Shortly after, Phil retires.  The security guard (all he does is watch tv, so that is a slight misnomer) arrives, and I have the place to myself.  It is 75 degress farenheit.  The beach is 50 feet away, across the road.  I can wear slaps, bare feet, or Huarachi type sandals in the sand leading to my cabin.  I quickly change into shorts and T-shirt and no socks.  Have my own thatched roof cabana for blogging overlooking the ocean next to the bar.  The sound of the surf is so soothing, I can hardly write.  Yes, this just may be the change of pace and break from my action adventure vacation, that I was looking for …

Next: Scouting The Ecuador Coast