Ultimate Bus

Today was the ultimate bus ride, the journey overland from Riobamba to Cuenca.  I was heading for  the last not so lonely house in Ecuador, the home of my bueno Amigo and ex-pat, Señor Hansen.  Day trips aside, Cuenca would be my home in Ecuador until the flight back to the Estados Unitos.

I was up with the sun, ransomed myself out of cute-ville, and optimistically headed for the volcano overlook for one last try.  Alas, although I was treated to a fantastic morning view, there was no volcano in sight.  

Being a Sunday morning, I feared the worst for breakfast and certainly for coffee.  On a Sunday morning, the only things open for business are the churches.  If a business is not involved in the maintenance of souls, it is shut tighter than a frogs asshole on a deep dive.   Today, however, I learned a new trick.  Outside of the churches, in anticipation of the newly cleansed and hungry souls, are food stalls!  Being a good pagan, I suppose I don't much hang around churches of a Sunday morning.  (Anybody get that little intentional Mid-West usage?  Anyone?)

Sweet coffee and chicken rice will do in a pinch when there is nothing else about.  Stocked, I retraced my steps back to the terminal, found my bus, and began my hour and a half wait.  Yes, going North to Quito i would have been on my way in five minutes, but South, no Señor.   I actually saw a very worn looking ex-pat guy smoking a cigar on the platform so, after an acknowledging nod to him, I followed suit.

Soon enough I was aboard for the six hours South.  Up and down, screeching tires, lonely hamlets far above the valleys, crowds of Indians off the bus, crowds of Indians on the bus.  My mind shifted into a dream-state as the unreal landscape swept by.  The central highlands are even more rugged and remote than the North.  

Mountains and louds, mountains and clouds, as if in a dream.

Even the Ecuadorans get pretty nervous when there is evidence of fresh rock fall.  We had to sit here for a few minutes before everyone decided to make a dash for it.  

Even six hours will pass and as the afternoon was waning, we pulled into Cuenca's Terminal Terrestre.  Being an Idiot, I had forgotten one crucial bit of information, or, more probably, hidden it from myself.  I did not have Senor Hansen's address.  I thought I had saved an email, a note on my phone, some damn thing, but no luck.  That morning I had messaged ahead asking for the addy, but I had to leave the wifi before I received the answer.  I was on my own with dead reckoning.

Before leaving Seattle I had Googled the address of the apartment.  I had a mental map of about where it should be.  I also remembered photots that Senor Hansen had sent to our group, a view of the river, tiny lane in front, benches for sitting, walking path.  OK, Cuenca is maybe the thrid largest city in Ecuador, how hard could it be to find one little ole' apartment?  As it turns out, not very.

Look at the big map in the bus station, read my own notes, compare those with the mental image in my noggin.  Southwest to the river Rio Tomba, strike out from the border of the El Centro and head towards the Unesco World Hertiage site center, look for wifi along the way.  OK, good plan except that it is Sunday and there isn't anything open on the streets but a few Paneria and they ain't sporting no stinkin' wifi for no lost touristo.  

Back to dead reckoning.

I reached the Rio Tomba with no trouble, just a good hike.  One side had a small lane and the other a busy avenida, so that was a clue.  I found the walking path along the river as dusk was coming on, and headed towards the center.  As I passed under the second bridge on the pathway, I started feeling a little hopeful.  There were benches and the river looked about "right" from what i remembered.  I started scanning the adjacent buildings carefully and: That's a Bingo!  (We just say "Bingo").  Shining out into the eveing from one of the apartments was a big, green tiffany-style lamp, the very lamp that Senor Hansen had proudly posted pics of not two days prior.  And outside this apartment, resplendent on the incredible balcony, was the man himself.

"That's a real purty lamp ya got there Mister" sez I out of the darkness.  Laughter and hugs and the stowing of bags was quickly followed by cigars on the balcony as the night wore on.  My solo travels are over for this journey.  It has been beyond wonderful, but now is a time for Brotherhood and sharing time.  I am really looking forward to it.  

Riobamba

Steep farm land on the volcanic slopes South of Quito.

The time had come to depart Quito and head further South through the central highlands of Ecuador.  I had a rendezvous in Cuenca and Senor Hansen was waiting.  Cuenca is a ten to twelve hour bus ride in one shot, well past my six hour allowable quota, so I chose the midpoint of Riobamba.  

December 6th is the real Founder's Day in Quito and this year it fell on a Saturday.  This was to my advantage, or so I thought, since I would not be fighting the rush hour crowds on the city bus ride I needed to take.  The southern bus terminal is a long, long ways South of El Centro because Quito is a long, long city.  I knew where I needed to go, which bus, and where to catch it.  How hard could it be?  As it turns out, pretty damn hard.

I saw my bus heading out as I was approaching the stop.  Well, damn, but another bus will be along soon, yes?  No.  After waiting for a bit with a bunch of locals, the attendant told us that all of the buses through El Centro were stopped becasue of the Founder's Day celebrations.  Most of El Centro had been shut down to vehicular traffic.  I got the gist of this and directions to another bus stop that would get me South.  After walking to this station, I found the same thing, no buses.  Giving up, I hailed a cab and we were off.   The cab turned out to be a wise decision.  As we drove past El Centor, I could see the streets crowed with people and traffic barricades all over.  Since the bus station is just about in the next damn province, the cab ride alone was almost 40 minutes.  Who knows how long the bus ride would have been.  Adapt, improvise, overcome.  Once I was into the shiny new terminal, I had ticket in hand, and was onboard the bus for Riobamba in a matter of minutes.  

Brief glimpses of snow covered volcanos.

We rolled down the ridges and valleys of the Andes, getting a few peaks at some of the 5,000 meter high snow-capped volcanos.  I fell into the bus groove of contemplating the landscape and letting the scenery drift past.  I enjoy the bus rides as long as I keep them under the six hour limit.  More than that and they become work.  All of the usual stuff happened.  Vendors got on and off, we stopped in different towns, and we had our visit from the snake oil salesman, or rather woman.  Today's brand of snake oil was some kind of magic roots.  These roots would cure anything, including male pattern balding, foot fungus, and heartbreak.  

I arrived in Riobamba after a few hours.  The sun was bright and hot in the afternoon sky, but I needed a walk  I shouldered the faithful Deuter and marched off the two kilometers to town.  Riobamba is a solid colonial town with a large indigenous population.  After getting good and sweaty, I followed my nose to the Saturday market and lunch.  Planting myself at an outdoor table with the standard blue tarp sunshade, I tucked into a bowl of stew in the company of a group of local Indian folks.  I have become so used to this that it seems perfectly normal.   It is not a cultural "experience" or some kind of tourist attraction, it is just lunch and I am treated accordingly.  

A new kind of stew with some local herbs for flavoring.  Most excellent.

After lunch I lucked onto a little cafe with great coffee and Ecudoran bread pudding!!!  

Passing the main square, church and more colonial buildings, I found my guesthouse.  The place was run by a very cute family all of whom had voices like squeaky dog toys.  It was crazy.  The courtyard of my ever-so-cute hostel was deocrated with every kind of gnome, santa, whirlygig and coloured light string that could possibly be fit into such a small space.  I used my room long enough to drop my bag and shower before heading back out for a quick walkabout.  I would be leaving the next morning for Cuenca, the last bus ride of this journey, so I wanted to see as much of Riobamba as possible.

The view through an artists studio window.  Ummmmm.......

The Mercado, where a Señora told my my sombrero was "Muy guapo"  Nice.

The local radio station is housed in this colonail relic.  

The plaza.  No town is complete without one.

There is a parque in Riobamba that sits on a small hill.  The hill is supposed to be a viewpoint for one of the big volcanos that make up the Andes chain.  Views of the heights are ellusive this time of year and they proved so this evening.  It was a grand vista of clouds and sky, but no volcano.  I decided to give it one more try on the way out of town in the morning.  

Back in my little room, I fell deep into my biography of Simon Bolivar and then deeper into a sound sleep.  It has been a whirlwind travel day, but Riobamba had proved well worth a stop and yet another Ecuadoran town that rewarded a weary traveler.  Tomorrow would be the ultimate bus ride and my arrival in Cuenca, with the promise of sanctuary at the home of Señor Hansen.

Quito Dance Party

The bull fight in progress as viewed from the rooftop.

Regardless that my feet might be a little tired from strenuous hiking, or that it was after dark in Quito, it was 5 Dicembre, the day that Quito fills up El Centro with parties, concerts and dancing.  Tired feet or no, I was not about to miss it.  I emptied my pockets of everything except a little bit of cash and headed out.  The bullfight crowd was queing up for the 8 PM show, but I was heading down into El Centro to see what was happening.

I fortified myself with a quick ensalada de fruita and a mita, a sweet masa tamale without any filling.  The party was a few blocks down Av. Guayaquil in Plaza de Theatro.  The crowd was already swelling out into the street and the band was just taking the stage as I arrived.  Lots and lots of happy Quitanos were already cheering as the EmCee introduced the performers, an eleven piece band all togged out in  natty matching yellow suits.  

Bang!  Cumbia beats filled the evening air as the band jumping into their first number and we were off.  With spins and moves that would make James Brown proud, the guys worked the crowd with a killer horn section.  In minutes the crowd was dancing and cheering and clapping.  I was right there with them.  One advantage of being a tall gringo is that I stand a full head above any Quito crowd, so I had an unobstructed view.  The next number was a song that everyone knew, including the hand gestures and response calls.  I gave it my best shot and my neighbors helped me out with genuine delight that the gringo was willing to try.  Fun, fun, fun!!

I danced along with the Cumbia until my feet finally started protesting that they had had enough.  Reluctantly, I dragged the tired dogs back in the direction of the hostel.  Stopping for a sanduche outside the bullring, I mingled with the bull fight fans, a totally different energy than the concert folks.  Eventually I retreated to the rooftop terrace for a well deserved cigar.  There were fireworks shooting into the skys above El Centro, the sounds of the bullfight crowd from across the street, and the mixture of music from every corner of the city.  It was "Ole!! Ole!!"  Bang-bang-bang-bang and random beats.  Craziness.  My last night in Quito was a celebration worthy of a send-off, even if it had not a thing to do with me.  Fantastic city, fantastic time, fantastic day.  

And now it is time to head towards Cuenca and Señor Mark's Casa.  In case you are wondering, there are no photos for this blog entry because a wise traveler does not venture into the party night of Quito and carry anything in his pockets that he might miss later.  

Andean High

The mission of the day was to walk through El Centro, the historic center of Quito, and thence Northwest to the foot of the first volcano to the West of the city.  At the foot of this volcano is the Teleferico, the gondola that would whisk me to the flank of the mountain.  From there I would explore the trails leading higher into the Andes.  It was three miles or so to the Teleferico, walking first through the old town, exploring new barrios to the West, and then through the Western edge of modern Quito. Before any serious walking could happen, I needed some real coffee.

El Centro has all the tiny cafes required for a good cheap breakfast, as long as one doesn't mind bad coffee.  There is good coffee to be had, though, and the cafe at the Basilica was my spot.  While I was imbibing the brew that energizes, I noted a few details of the Basilica that I had not seen on my first visit.

The earthquake damage on the South end of the Basilica.  The stained glass that once adorned the heart-shaped window has been replaced with modern glass.  Earthquakes are not uncommon in this volcanic valley, and repairing the damage to historic structures is constant.

One of the bronze doors of the Basilica.  This one depicts the arrogance of The Church wherein the native people are blessed with the salvation of the Lord.  i won't even begin to apologize for my use of the term arrogance.  Note the Conquistador on the left.   

With a sufficient dose of caffeine taken in I was off, climbing the steep hills of the barrio behind the Basilica.  Then it was downhill and out into modern Quito and not the nicest bit of walking.

Just in case you thought all of Quito was a jumble of colonial facades, think again.  This is a very large city of over 2.5 million people.

They do love their public art here, even along the busy arterials.  I guess this is a representation of slack lining.

I walked and I walked.  One would think that a giant gondola, whose cable lines and cars were visible coming down the side of a massive volcano would be easy to find.  Well so did I.  Eventually I found the road that led up to the Teleferico station.  Led up it did, and continued to lead up.  I thought I was going to have to climb the entire mountain just to find the thing.  With the help of a few locals who were probably wondering why the Idiot Gringo wasn't taking a taxi like any other sane traveler, I finally found the estacion.

Just below the Teleferico estacion is Volcano park, quite possibly the saddest little amusement park I have ever seen.  The only thing that could make an almost abandoned amusement park in Quito, Ecuador even more sureal was the piped in theme from the Howdy Doody Show drifting over the morning air.  i kid you not folks!

I gladly paid my $8.50 for the ride and climbed aboard.  I was not lucky enough to draw a sunny day, but this time of year in Quito most people do not.  Regardless of the weather, I was excited as the gondola lurched away from the station and started ascending the mountain.  While the Medellin Metro Car was far more exilerating as it swooped over the barrios, the Teleferico was still wonderful.  The views of Quito revealed what a massive amount of real estate this city covers.  Virtually the whole of the valley, every spot level enough to support a building, is covered for miles to the North and South.  Yet from East to West the city is as narrow as a wasp's waist.

The city of Quito, far below the flanks of the volcano.

I disembarked the Teleferico into a stiff breeze sweeping the mountain slopes.  i was glad for my new alpaca sweater and felt hat.  Taking in the views, I quickly found the hiking trail, which begins at an elevation of 4,050 meters above sea level.  Serious altitude.  That is just about 1,000 feet less than the summit of Mount Rainier, to put it in perspective.  

Clouds sweeping across the ridges.

The trail wound along ridge tops, steadily gaining altitude and heading West.  I was not prepared to do the entire hike to the volcano, as that is 12 kilometers one way.  That would be a 14 mile round trip, more than I was equipped for.  I decided to do as much of the hike as I was prepared for and until my water ran out.  At that point i would gracefully retreat to hike another day.

Happy in the thin air with the trail winding on behind me.

I cimbed far into the clouds, gaining altitude the entire time.  On the steeper slopes I dropped into a rest-step, which is an altitude survival technique.  Step, breathe, step, breathe, forcing the air out of my lungs with a hard exhalation.  As the air thins at altitude, the human lungs will not bring in enough oxygen through normal inhalations.  Forcing the air out of the lungs produces a corresponding greater inhalation, and thus more oxygen through larger volumn of air inhaled.  

The clouds were swirling around me, revealing and then hiding the terrain.  Tendrils of cloud were pulled down towards the ground, gyring across the valley like so many ghostly ballet dancers.  It was pure magic.  There was no sense self, only the sensation of being a part of the landscape.  Breathe, step, breathe, step.  Moving through while being a part of and being engulfed in.  Breathe, step, breathe, step.  The air is sharp, thin, biting.  The wind is chiling and invigorating.  Breathe, step, breathe, step.  

The ground was covered with tiny sedum-like plants, creating a yielding and fragile carpet.

I continued climbing until I was out of water, the trail head far below me and out of sight.  The next part of the trail was the begining of an even steeper climb above the first cirque of the volcano's summit.  This was where i would call it a day.  I was already climbing in the clouds and the trail ahead was completely cloaked.  I had gained somewhere in the range of two thousand feet, easily over the 15,000 foot elevation mark, the highest elevation I ever been to on foot.  It was pure joy to stand South of the Equator and at the highest point on Planet Earth I have hiked to in my life.  Chilled and tired, I watched the the spectacle of the cloiud dance as long as I could and then turned my feet downwards letting gravity do the work.  

The cloud dance across the approach to the cirque.

Down and down and down, and then, once more aboard the Teleferico, down some more.  It is amazing how thick the air can feel at 9,000 feet, the elevation of Quito, after the hike above.  It was like returning to sea level.

Heading down the Teleferico.

Down and down and down.

On foot once more, I walked East into New Town.  It was time for a greatly deserved late lunch and then, at another cafe, a wonderfully thick coffee.  There was more to come on this day, for it would be Party Time in Quito as the city came out in droves to celebrate Founders Day, but that is the stuff of another post.  

Andean High Videos

Here are a few videio links to serve as an adjunct to a post I have yet to write.  I riode the Teleferico to an altitude of 13,200 odd feet above Quito.  That was the starting pint of my hike.  I hope you enjoy these.  

http://youtu.be/WCaI46ASqLg

http://youtu.be/xqxXHN92sGk

http://youtu.be/VyhzBebXdfY

Bringing Happiness

To quote Oscar WIlde:  "Some bring happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go."  Thus it is with travelers as well.  There are times when I meet fellow travelers and they bring joy to my trip, making my journey better for their company, however brief.  There are a few travelers that I have met who have become very important people in my life.  You know who you are.  

Then there are the "ass-hats" to quote a wise man I know.  Not Oscar Wilde, another wise man.

This morning I had great happiness brought into my life when I saw a group of people getting into a taxi out in front of the hostel here in Quito.  I was just returning from brekkie down the street, climbing the hill back to the hostel.  In the group was someone I hope I never have the displeasure to run across anywhere in the world ever again.

I suppose some of this could be chalked up to my entering into geezerhood.  I admit that my tolerance level  for noisy, obnoxious, unaware fucktards is shrinking as time passes.  That taken into account, this person reminded me of the pitfalls of staying in hostels frequented by young backpakers versus places where no English is spoken and Loney Planet does not know of establishment's existence.

First of all, no matter how many times you say "Bra" when referring to a male person rather than a feminine undergarment, you will not turn your pasty white ass into a Rastafarian of a Gangsta.  Especially when you are not a natives speaker of English.  Secondly, no matter how important you think your conversation is, shouting it so the whole courtyard reverberates with your inanities does not make your point any clearer.  This is especially true when you have no point.  Can you hear me, Bra?  

If I do meet this person again and he stands outside my door shouting into his cel phone with the speaker on so I can here the other end of the conversation as well, I am clubbing him with my Bate' de Pero Pequeno.  No warning, no nothing, just a hard and constant drubbing until the only noise I have to listen to is his death rattle.  Oh, and by the way Bra, referring to women as "Mad Bitches" is really low class.  Not that you would have the faintest clue what class is.  

So there it is, my intolerant rant for today.  I don't wish to paint all young backpackers with a broad brush.  My  experiences with most of my fellow travelers is by and large overwhelmeingly positive.  They bring happiness wherever they go.  I guess they have had their ass-hat vaccinations.  Too bad I did not have a hypodermic full of the stuff when I needed it.  

Quito Walkabout Part II

Whose idea was this?

Yeah, so, it's just a little stair climb.  OK, it's about a gazillion stairs but hey, what's a few stairs at 2,800 meters above sea level?  In truth I enjoy being at altitude and it has never really bothered me, which is why I live at sea level in Seattle.  But I digress.  There is a steep hill just south of El Centro called Panecillo atop which is perched the statue of a very, very large angel.  So up the stairs we go, skirting the old Banos Municipales built in 1924.  There was still a faint order in the air, but it was probably not the historic smell of piss.  

Stairs, stairs, more stairs and.... and old man with a small brown Dag.  Pay attention, there will be a quiz later.  Do you see the Dag?  The wee cocker spaniel sort of thing.....

So uppity-up I go, climbing through the quiet neighborhood, minding my own business and enjoying the respite from traffic of El Centro.  I started up the section of stairs pictured above, noting the older senora and also the old senor who was busy petting and talking to a small brown dog.  Directly behind me there was a local couple climbing the stairs as well.  Everything seemed copacetic.   The old man is cooing to the mutt as I climb past them both.  Suddenly the dog lunges towards me in a furious spasm of barking and growling, not quite biting me.  As I swung about to face the pest, he lunged for the local guy behind me.  The beastie then had another go at my ankles which I avoided while trying to calm the dog with my best Spanish, "Tranquillo, Calma..."  which didn't seem to hurt anything as the dog backed off.

Ecuadoran dogs are lethargic at best, so this was a surprise.  A few more steps and all seemed well until the wee cocker raced up the stairs after me, which produced a kick from me as my patience was wearing thin.  The mutt raced back down the stairs and had a go at the local guy so I continued upwards.  Turning the corner at the top of the stairs (photo above) I found the next set of stairs, steeper and narrower.  I was well up the next section when I heard a shouted warning from below.  I swung about in time to see the cocker, silent this time, sprinting straight for me.  The result of the cocker spaniel's pea-brain actions was to be chased squealing down the stairs by an angry and swift gringo fully intent on demonstrating the soccer free kick method.  The Dag must Die!  It got away of course but that was the end of the incident as the mutt disappeared for good.  

A short ways on I found just what I needed should the mutt reappear:  

"El Bate' de pero pequeno"     The little dog bat.

I told you so, it's a Big Angel.

Big View of Quito but in the flat noonday light the views did not make for stunning photos.

I zipped back down the hill with my perro club at the ready but there was no sign of the beast.  I re-entered the streets of El Centro, which are always entertaining.  The first item of note were my two local pals attempting to change a flat time on their little truck.  Now I ask you, what could possibly go wrong with this scenario?

Oh, despite flaunting the basic laws of physics, the guy holding the rope is the safety guy.  He is also an Ecudoran super-hero.

The most preserved of the old colonial streets and one of the few really touristy streets as well, but mostly during the evening.  During the day it is a quiet little stroll.

Back at the hostel, I enjoyed a siesta on the roof and thought about the day.  Evening was falling and hunger was gnawing so I headed out into the gloaming of the day, my first time out after dark on the streets of this city.  El centro was busy with folks heading home or out to eat, shopping and getting ready for the bands and festivities of Founders Day.  It will be a big party.  

Some other things had changed a bit on the streets since daylight ended.  I got a few "Hey Baby" calls from smattering of the local working girls to whom I smiled and moved on.  I was a bit more mindful of my surroundings, but everything seemed fine.  I had two cafes in mind from the Lonely Planet, one of which did not exist at the address noted, and one of which just seemed too touristy.  So I ended up at a $2 a plate joint where you pay first and get a ticket.  Good food and more than I could manage.

Ambience, for what do we need this?

Dinner.  There is no avoiding the sopa.  I could have done with just the sopa, actually.

I finished out the evening on the roof of the hostel watching the local folks gather for the bull fight.  The bull fight ring is just across the street from my hostel.  No view of anyone picking a fight with a bull, but a great view of the crowd.  It got all kinds of rowdy as the night went on.

A fine day on the streets of Quito, and ready for bed, I retired to my room with my biography of Simon Bolivar, all 625 pages worth.