Bore, Beer, BaÒos - Turning the Key to Quito - 10 June 2003
I spoke too soon.
Cuenca
BaÒos
BaÒos, not
BaÒos beers
Big things
Quito ñ Mitad del Mundo, but sign free
There I was blabbing on about how marvellous the roads are in Ecuador and that this is to do with their farsighted policy on constructing up on the top of ridges.
We were not too convinced by the directions everyone was giving us out of town as it was nothing like the PanAmerican that we had been on before. At last when we asked yet another chap by the roadside, he pointed out that we were on the old road as there had been a mud slide up on the new PanAm. Mudslide up there, eh?
We were having our fair share of it down in the bottom of the valley. Here and there, dozers and graders were putting a carriageway back onto the hillside where the rains had obviously done their bit to hamper traffic. The bus drivers of course had been cut no slack by their bosses and were doing their best to keep to normal timetables. The track was just wide enough for 2 vehicles but there was only part of it that was ride-able the rest was deep mud.
As ever, they seemed totally oblivious to the difficulties of a couple of useless gringos on an overloaded bike trying to get out of their way. To cap it all, most of the route put us out on the river side of the road and so we were left teetering on the brink of the abyss as mud splashing behemoths blasted past. Not the best days riding.As the road twisted along the river valley, there were a multitude of blind corners on the track. Knowing that the buses took the attitude that they were big so everything can get out of their way, and we were trying to use the best bit of surface all the while, often in the middle of the road, I wanted Pat to beep the horn at every corner so that at least the mad bus drivers would know we were there. Poor Pat was concentrating so hard on negotiating Bertha who was still not handling right, that beeping the horn was something that was understandably on occasion was omitted. I decided that I must buy a whistle or something so that in future, I can leave Pat to dedicate his energies to keeping us upright. As it was at each un-beeped corner I semi-expected to be confronted be a speeding bus half way round and in efforts to avoid a collision steering Bertha into the deep mud and loosing it. We did not fall, although the back end slithered a couple of times but Bertha managed to recover her dignity.
I could at least offer assistance by looking ahead for traffic when possible so if Patís eyes left the bit of mud immediately in front of us we would inevitably, hit a rock at the wrong angle or a patch of deep mud. For once I felt I was an essential part of the riding process.
We kept getting snippets of information from pedestrians about how far it was until tarmac. Although these diminished in quantity, none of them were particularly close to the truth. The largest estimate had been about 20 km. Itís rather like telling a child that theyíre near the top of the hill when out walking. The mud lasted for about 40 km.
To add to the hazards on the road and to distract us from the stress of the road, we passed through a couple of small mountain villages that were clearly in the midst of market day. Cows, pigs on their way to becoming dinner, being herded by a couple women and children. Now the reason for local choice of gear became clear. The men in their 3 quarter pants and wellies looked relatively clean and tidy on these muddy roads compared to the few blokes that had misguidedly chosen more modern attire, whose jeans to be covered from thighs down in caked on mud. The majority of people at the markets had thankfully chosen practically over westernisation.
Again our timing had gone to pot. In 2 hours we had only completed 40km and there was another 200 to go. The tar we were promised was in fact good impacted gravel, but the improved was welcome anyway. When we did eventually hit tar, the gravel was probably better, with all manner of potholes to weave around, but it was at least easier to enjoy the scenery which was stunning, as we wove up and down mountainsides and along ridges.
Our entry into Cuenca was rather nice cobbled streets lined with colonial houses. Now that we are the proper gringo trail it does have the advantage of pretty well set up backpacker hostels, with book exchanges, happy hours and lasagne on offer. Itís all a little artificial and set up for the gringos, but every now and again itís nice to relax a little. This town even had an English caff complete with an unsubtle full size Union Jack in the window, which was of course offering a full English breakfast complete with black pudding and baked beans. Although we have been away a long time, my desires do not yet stretch to black pudding.
Strolling around a corner in old town who should we see but Marcella and Luca. It was great to see them again and it meant that that evening we again had the pleasure of their company. Talking about everything from their plans to set up an Italian cultural centre in Holland to jungle mosquito avoidance. For some reason talking with them is very easy and like being with old friends and we seem to have to the same sense of humour. The hours passed quickly and we made plans to meet up the following evening.
Three of the villages nearby have interesting markets on a Sunday. The scenery in the area is excellent so it seemed a good excuse for a little bike jaunt for the day. None of the markets were anything to write home about and frankly Bolivia could have put any one of them to shame for dullness. But the round trip on tar was worth an outing and as we wound up hill the rain set in, just as we spotted a rather pretty looking village. Hauling up, to get out of the rain and eat a little lunch, we had clearly got off the gringo trail. Every little village we passed had a football 5-a side tournament in progress on whichever available bit of ground they had spare. I could only conjecture that this must be the early rounds of the district cup. This village was no exception with teams braving the rain and kitted out in matching strip in the town square.
That night we were joined by Luca and Marcella a couple from Belgian and Luxembourg from their hotel and later by a Scotsman, Todd. The evening had been very enjoyable until Todd invited himself to our table. This in itself was not a problem, lone travellers often invite themselves to join others for some company of an evening, but we soon discovered that Todd was a little odd. He seemed to pronounce himself as some travelling expert, but when asked about any details seemed ignorant. Hippy is just far too polite. The expression she is seeking for this man is bullshitter.
He told us of his plans to set up a travellers cooperative with a few friends he had met on the way, where they all club in a buy some land which they all was as a base to work and earn cash for further independent travels. I pointed out the obvious problem that if they were all free to come and go as they liked, some people would end up working longer than others and there could be times that no one wanted to be hauled up running their business. He seemed to dismiss these concerns with comments like ëWeíll be friends. No one will take advantageí Ummmm?Ö.. Please someone tell be if my Hippyishness gets this naÔve!
In an effort to change the subject I said that Pat had had vague thoughts about running a bike touring company, where we set up everything food accommodation, bikes, spares and the like and people who cannot dedicate years to travel can come out and bike tour for a couple of weeks. This was a mistake to start this line of conversation, as he began to tell me and Pat how to run it, where to set it up, what bikes to have etc, like we wouldnít have any idea ourselves. He suggested Panama, on the basis of the good quality of the roads then we later discovered he hadnít left the Pan American, which would make one of the dullest, bike tours in existence, up and down a straight highway only 300 miles long.
Needless to say his confident bullshit about bikes was not any better. I had been chatting to Luca for a while as he had begged me to relieve him of this pillock. When he did at last engage me in conversation, his opening line was ìWhy donít you go to India and buy a Triumph Bonneville to ride back to England?î As much as I tried to explain to him that the bike he meant was an Enfield Bullet which is still made there, he remained adamant and it was I that was in the wrong. I decided from the outset that anything he said about bikes could be taken with a pinch of salt.
He began to annoy.
Hippy has a higher bullshit threshold than I. He had completely shot himself in the foot when he was explaining to Hips that you could buy land in Panama for 2,000 dollars. Not unreasonably, she asked how much land that would be? He instantly changed the subject. No clue. Iíd had enough of this.
It will take me a while to forgive Pat for leaving me in conversation with this idiot when he made excuses and went for a shower. All attempts by me to make unsubtle attempts to get away from his company fell on stony ground, even the barmen turning off the lights and locking the front door did not seem to encourage him to go off to his own hotel down the road. Needless to say he is not someone I shall be contacting by email.
When I returned, refreshed poor Hippy was straining to get away as this bore was setting fire to a little pile of pot in his pipe. Strangely I have had very little interest in cannabis for a while. Maybe Iíve grown up at last.
On the way to Quito and hopefully our awaiting parts to fix Bertha, we took a little detour to BaÒos. In theory on the may there was a road from Riobamba to BaÒos, but we quickly found out that that road was impassable. This is beginning to become a bit of a trend! So we headed further North to the supposed tar road to BaÒos. We were not disappointed. From the PanAmericana it was all down hill and as the road wound its way along following the river the temperature began to rise. I arrived a little tired and this does not bode well for the planned mega-hoon through Columbia and Venezuela for us at lightning speed for 3 weeks to try and make it into Guyana to see old friends.
Our bed for the night was in a lovely old house, away from the Blackpool like centre of town. It seemed that the gringos outnumbered the locals by about 2 to 1. Bimbettes wandering insensitively around in short hippy wrap skirts and bikini tops through the centre of town Where was this exactly? [web-ogler] and internets full of gringos speaking English.
It had been a few days since we had done any exercise, so a little stroll was in order. I had spotted a road winding up the other side of the valley from town and thought that it would be a good spot for views. We picked up food in town and as the church doors were open it seemed that we really ought to pop in and see why this place was such a pull for the Catholics of Ecuador.
We followed a series of paintings around the walls that depicted the events when the Virgen del Salta had been responsible for all sorts of miracles. They mostly involved folk falling in the river and a series of volcanic eruptions. It seems that the shouting of ìDear Lady of the Waterfallî saved lots of people over the years. Cynic that I am, it occurred to me that pretty much all of the 20,000 folk of the town must have shouted the very same words but did not survive. Not such a fantastic strike rate, then. Must try harder, Lady of the Waterfall.
We had a huge Big Al moment as we crossed the bridge over the river. Above us a new bridge was being built. They were using fairly traditional methods and so I could spend ages fascinating Hippy about the effective use of derrick poles with action to illustrate my points. As with previous engineering explanations she seemed strangely remote. We walked on.
Weíd timed our walk so that weíd be satisfyingly glowing and ready for a visit to the hot springs to relax on our return. It was twice as much for gringos as locals but we donít have too much of a problem with that.
You may know how lycra degrades and goes see-through and my trunks had been ditched, threadbare some time ago. Iíve got a very respectable pair of briefs that Iíve used in hot springs in Argentina, Chile, Bolivia and Peru with no comment from the staff, but here in Ecuador I was refused admission to the pool.
I asked why, of course.
Because they are not swimming trunks.
What is the difference?
They are not swimming trunks.
A man passed in extremely tight trunks showing every wrinkle of his winkle and I asked
whether I was not more respectable than that.
But, theyíre swimming trunks ñ they have a logo.
I knew I was beaten and changed back to mufti to claim back my admission fee and return to our hotel. The manager of the pool appeared as I was doing my best to wrest my dollars back from the cashier. He pointed out the ìUnder no circumstances will refunds be given.î sign. My argument that he was refusing my right to bathe and taking my money under false pretences cut no mustard. There was little we could do. I said that as he would not return the cash I was going to swim and be damned and started to walk back into the complex. Here, he squared up to me and bumped up chest to chest to bar my way. Itís quite funny when you tower over the locals. I didnít want to precipitate an international bathing incident and so backed off to give him a bit of a moral victory. I persisted with the whinging arguments for which the Brit abroad is justifiably famous. Eventually he caved in after I called his bluff on the ìIím going to call the police and have you removedî line.
We had a nice hot shower instead.
The upside of gringovilles is the outstanding number of internet caffs with fast connections and relatively lightly used keyboards. It was quite nice to be able to arrange events in Quito for Helenís birthday. Booking a hotel and arranging to meet people can all be done at a single sitting. Trying to arrange for flores in Quito was a different matter. All searches for flowers in Ecuador brought up were the web sites of exporters. Youíd be surprised how many of those Interflora roses you send actually originate in Ecuador. While perusing the emails we found one form Luca and Marcella. They had changed plans and were in BaÒos instead of Riobamba. We met up and went for a beer. Important point to note, here. Meet up with civilised Europeans for a beer on a night out and thatís all you have, or indeed need. A single beer and an evening chatting is so much nicer than the British typical session that ìa beerî implies. Well, almost better. Marcella is dismayed by the fact that the British drink so much and often without the contamination of food. Seen from an Italian perspective that alcohol is compliment to excellent food, I can see her point. The behaviour of the British is more than a little crass.
Just as we were parting company, a family came into the restaurant and I was sure I knew the father from somewhere. As we stood up, it came to me that this guy was someone Iíd met a few days before who ran a jungle trip company in Ö.. BaÒos. Not so surprising, really. We chatted for a moment or two and I apologised for not pointing L and M in his direction for they had booked a jungle trip with another company. He pried a little to find out who theyíd booked with and upon hearing commented that their operator was not such a wise choice. We assumed that this was a bit of a sour grapes comment and moved on.
Standing on the pavement saying our goodbyes, this chap popped out and engaged us again. Without his family in earshot he seemed happier to tell us that the tour operator had been accused of raping clients but had got off on some technicality. His advice was to cancel and book with one of the other companies. This seemed feasible even at this time of night and Luca headed off to get money back off the alleged pervert. No joy, he could not be found.
They had met an Italian guy working in the town earlier and so they sought him out for a second opinion. He had a completely different opinion and indeed counted the subject as one of his mates. What can you do in a case like this? Who do you believe? As Luca put it, clearly someone in the town is a complete cad, either the guide is spreading nasty rumours about the competition or some pervert is lulling naÔve tourists into the jungle with him by offering discounted rates. I was glad I was not in Luca and Matrcellas position and trying to tease out the truth. Poor Luca was taking the role of protector for his wife and the other two German girls that they had booked with as a terrible responsibility. We promised to get in touch with the police and Italian Embassy if we didnít hear from them in a couple of days. Some comfort.
Our next destination was the market town of SaqisilÏ. Only just down the road and so we had time for a detour up to a town renowned for its cheese making. Up and up and up. Surely cows could not live at this height and produce the quality of milk needed for good cheese. There were half views of Chimborazo (highest mountain in Ecuador apparently) when we reached the plateau and so we stopped at a caff for a cup off coffee while waiting to see if the views would improve. Strange what thought come to you but I sat there and chuckled about the Cat and Fiddle being supposedly the highest pub in England and here we were at 4,250 metres having a cup of coffee and a cheese sandwich. Hmm. Really ought to get in touch with them and point out that they are suffering from the Texan tendency to label everything as highest, widest or whatever when its not really that impressive.
As we were about to leave a bustle of local children left a building next to the restaurant. Clearly this was the local school and the children were off to have lunch provided in the restaurant. This would explain the childrenís drawings of Chimborazo pinned up around the caff. Seems like a good little set up, get a few tourists in to subsidise the local school and canteen. Hardly likely that the government would have gone to the effort of building this settlement in such a bleak place but it is obviously needed judging by the number of students.
Chimborazo remained shrouded and it continued chilly on the top so we gave up on the cheese visit and swooped back down the hill to go and see a market. This one is described as a country highlight and so we were expecting big things.
Right on the square was an OK hotel with parking. A quick wander about town made it clear that the market was already underway, and we did begin to wander whether the locals had deliberately started having it a day early just to side step the tourists. On the square a rather softly spoken chap approached us and asked the usual about where we were from. Patricio was a travelling pasta salesman here for the market, who claimed to want to practice his English. Maybe it was the poor dilemma of Luca in BaÒos but I wondered whether this man was genuinely friendly or whether there was some hidden agenda, and he was some kind of con man. When he suggested that he went with us for something to eat, I was desperately trying to work out if he was trying to blag dinner off us, whether he just wanted a little company to practice English or his was demonstrating Ecuadorian hospitality and taking us to lunch.
We chatted over lunch and Pat was clearly annoyed with me for my suspicions. He seemed like quite a nice shy little man to me. When the man insisted on paying, I felt awful that I had not more graciously accepted his company. Pat later made me feel even worse by suggesting that me scowling looks of suspicion had probably made the poor feel that he had to pay for us to prove that was not who I thought he might be. I am sorry Patricio.
I was a bit mean to Hippy I guess but I was figuring that while we were eating all this guy had had was a couple of humitas and a cup of coffee and so the worst case scenario would have been a dollar and maybe a bit of annoyance. It is very easy to get suspicious of everyoneís motives especially when we come form a country that starts from an early age, with good reason, telling us not to accept sweets from strangers and continues with the attitude that starting a conversation on a tube train obviously indicates your unstable mind. And indeed there are enough sponging mad folk in these poor countries that are best avoided.
We did our best to sleep but the roaring of buses and lorries through the night woke us at regular intervals. Although there were no signs of commerce setting up on the square in front of us, there were obviously the promised huge numbers of folks and products arriving from all points. It was not difficult to get an early start to see the markets in the streets!
Our impression that the market had been in full swing the previous day was shattered as we turned the corner out of the square. The street was full of stalls as far as the eye could see. Not just the one street; adventuring further we discovered a network of streets covering about 6 blocks by 6 blocks all jam packed with merchants with the most amazing variety of wares. As well as the street traders, there were several more formal market areas each of which covered a block of empty ground. What did they have for sale? Locally made gas cookers, live fowl, gates and doors, vegetables, feathered felt hats, gold, huge trugs made out of lorry tyres, TV aerials, stalls of spivvy blokes selling Chinese enamelled plate sets, car accessories including bonnet badges for Skodas (important to note that we have not seen a single Skoda in Ecuador ñ did think of replacing Berthaís BM badges, though, so maybe there is a market for them) In all a fantastic experience and indeed a highlight.
For me the wonder was people watching, the style of hat here was more of a felt trilby in all variety of muted subdued tones, mostly adorned with feathers in the side. The women with so many gold chains around their necks that each could set up a jewellery shop on their own, set off by bright shawls and wide full embroidered skirt they looked magnificent. The baby sling in a shawl on their backs, seemed oblivious to the bustle around them, and I heard not a whimper all morning from a single child.
There were generally fewer men in traditional dress men were more subdued with well used and practical, heavy closely woven ponchos, hats and wellies. UmmmmÖthought wellies were traditional dress for Irish folk, not Ecuadorians.
We looked on as a rather well to do local family were choosing a hat for their son, still supported behind her in a sling. I wondered whether it was a big moment in a childís life when you get your first proper hat. As they laughed and smiled, as various options were tried they could have been a family anywhere enjoying the joys of familyhood. I really wanted to capture this moment on film, as their love for each other and tenderness would have shone through the celluloid. But somehow it seemed rude to intrude in such warmth. So rather than secretively snapping off a picture we asked if we got take a picture. They instantly replied with an answer of 3 dollars. I immediately felt guilty for breaking up such a happy time and left them to enjoy their time together in peace. In the end we admired their attitude.
Quito ñ Mitad del Mundo, but sign free
We left before mid day and plugged on towards Quito with some trepidation. Fi had emailed us ages ago to give us the cheery info the road signing into Quito is pants and our usual Capital City phobia set in. The gentle precipitation did little to lift our spirits.
Just as we were about to enter town, a ìbig bikeî came the other way and as usual we gave a cheery wave in recognition of another mad individual. Moments later he honed up behind us and flashed us over to the side. We introduced ourselves and Ricardo failed to notice that our names coincided with those that appeared on the emails he had been corresponding over the last couple of weeks. Yes, as we had hit the outskirts of Quito we had met the one person that we had heard of or in any way knew in town. Amazing. We arranged to meet up later and regretted the fact that he was heading out of town to visit a hotel he owns and so cold not guide us to our destination.
We continued into the maze alone. When faced with signs offering ìQuito Southî or a load of other stuff that you donít recognise and arenít on the maps, which one do you go for? We went for the second and were pleasantly surprised when there was a ìQuito Centreî sign shortly down the road. Then those signs disappeared and we began to wonder if we had done right or wrong. We headed East, North and West with a hint of South thrown in. This did not seem convincing. Road names (where we could see them) were meaningless and we were on fast busy roads with no one at the side to ask. By complete fortune we actually ended up were we wanted to be separated only from our destination by the central reservation of a dual carriageway with no way to double back. I try not to use biking tactics (to whit taking no notice whatsoever of road markings and ìno u-turnî signs) as much as possible to avoid clashes with the old Bill and so set off on a backstreet mission to reverse our direction. Suffice to say we were in our usual foul mood when we reached the hostel. Still, we had a nice room already booked for once.