Monday 19 February
Cuenca
We’re all set for the early visit to the laundry and leaving
Back at Cabanas Yanuncay, we break the bad news to MM whose washing was also to be done, and then, just before 09.00, witness the first of the final minutes of that pig. It will be this afternoon’s carnival feast. Led to the slaughter by Humberto’s brother (who lives off site), it is trussed up and despatched after much squealing by a young slick-haired man who we’ve never seen before. The knife goes in under the beast, behind the front right leg.
In the next 90 minutes, several men cart the carcase to the open sink which generally houses the clothes and dish washing. There it is bled and eviscerated before being lifted back the 30m to that lean-to-cum-garage that was done out for Friday’s party, and is still done out for the pig roast. Lifted on to a small A-frame, The pig looks out at us in all its glory, though life, and its entire innards, have all departed. Then the flaming begins, powered by a large flame-thrower fuelled by a big gas bottle. Many men take duties over the next hour or more, but we do not see the next stage, when the beast is barbequed from below.
We keep an eye on all this as we do that job that should have been done yesterday – we unpack MM’s ‘shed’ and re-pack it with our security gates underneath the assorted boxes/genny/hosepipe/suitcase…
After having a cuppa and then filling with water and dumping the loos. we pull out on to the road. Our next move is to confront Humberto, and we think being out of the compound makes sense!
In reality, the meeting with him does not come to fisticuffs. After some vigorous debate, he makes an abject surrender with the words “Pay me what you like!” and “I don’t want this: I want my life to be tranquillo”. So we do pay him what we like – less than he wanted, much more than I thought reasonable, but sufficient for him not to be humiliated. He didn’t even check the money, wandering off as we counted it out as if in some grand strop. But when we left the house after him, he walked with us to the vans and recovered his bonhomie within seconds, plying us with advice for the run north.
That will not start for another hour. We drive round the houses (and through innumerable aqua assaults) to the SuperMaxi on Avenida Las Americas and top up with essentials first. It’s very shortly after midday when we begin the great circumnavigation of
Free at last!! It feels wonderful!!!!
The pranks continue as we drive. One feature of them is that they are commonly mobile. Numerous adults, who should know better, are driving pick-ups laden with youths armed with water – and there are some normal cars too doing the same thing. One good thing: the greatest pleasure is in scoring a hit on similar groups, rather than hitting
We reach Azogues by 12.50 and find a piece of scruffy land on which to park up for lunch. The view over the city is excellent and we spend 90 minutes there. We’re almost at today’s destination. H has advised that, after Biblian (only 10-20 minutes away), the road starts to climb steeply – and given our bronchial condition, it does not seem sensible to get too high.
But the inevitable happens. We’re climbing before we know it, and steep hills means radically fewer opportunities to park up. Margaret is not best pleased and, just as I’m ready to give in and retreat, we discover a blissful locale – a lay-by backed by a piece of grassy, flat land with the most outstanding view back down the valley from which we have come. We are in deepest, green Andes, and it’s gorgeous, even though it is at just over 3,000m and consequently has less oxygen and offers a much colder night than in
We have several hours of the afternoon to enjoy the views, to sup tea, to chat with the local police commandant who comes to take the view and not to chide us for illegal parking, to watch yet more Bleak House, and to get to grips with processing photos on this new computer. It remains tolerably warm until late afternoon, with a stiff breeze, but we put the blinds and insulating windscreen covers up soon after 18.00 to keep in the day’s gain. At the same time, I’m cooking so this makes a significant difference to the internal temp.
We eat after 19.00 – beef ribs, which are pretty tough and gristle-full even if they are tasty (he local dogs - we’re in the middle of nowhere but there are packs – will get a rare treat), with fried onions and carrots alongside asparagus… the best part of the meal and mighty cheap. Strawberries follow.
Tuesday 20 February
Beyond Biblian to Ingapirca, El Tambo, and then some
Our threesome’s condition precludes a pre-determined start time. We get up soon after 07.00 which means that we’ve had the best part of 10.5 hours in bed, the pattern since illness struck many days ago. And I promise: we are sleeping well during that time.
It’s cool this morning, but was far warmer overnight than expected. The first light temperature outside is 7°C, 2 warmer than both of the last 2 mornings in
We’re ready by 09.00, but there’s no message from MM… though she is up and about. It’s soon after 10.00 when communication leads to action and movement. Meanwhile, we’ve had a soporific time observing two of the boys from the nearby house having a top time with a wheelbarrow, and worried about their family’s health as their daily milk pail, delivered by pick-up (what else?), is assaulted by one of the dog pack. Mind you, they probably have immunity to dog saliva in their milk.
The road – and if I haven’t said this already, this is THE road through the Andes in Ecuador, the Pan-Americana, a real tarmac spine – continues upwards to over 3,500m through open land which is invariably green and supporting dairy cattle. We’ve seen a lot of the
We’re on the lookout now for an unmade road that will take us off to the right in a swing of c30kms, allowing us to visit Ingapirca and then to return to the major road at El Tambo. By the time we meet a police stop, it looks as if we’ve missed it, but it appears within a few hundred metres, accompanied by a massive pictorial sign for Ingapirca, and it’s paved. It offers a delightful, mazy run through the innumerable homesteads and their fields of potatoes, maize, broad beans etc. Many of the people here are indigenous, wearing trilbies and later a small, close-fitting hat with an upturned brim. Think 1stWW German soldiers. The baggy, colourful skirt of Andean women is much in evidence and backpacks are de rigeur.
Ingapirca is reached at 11.30. It’s
It’s not a spectacular place but it is pleasing and it is interesting.
We have a good wander round for 90 minutes or more and MM in particular is really tired by the end. So are we as it turns out: we have lunch and then flake out on our beds for well over an hour, sleeping some of that time.
So it’s just before 15.00 when we leave to continue that country by-pass we started some 20kms earlier. We descend into the small town of
The possibilities for an early nightstop are supremely limited. Properties occupy every inch up to the edge of the road and are protected by gates, fences, barbed wire – and very often by an uncrossable storm drain. But soon after 16.00, there it is, a big and very ugly patch of dirt which looks as if it could be the entry to a quarry (but isn’t), and just sufficiently off the road to give some relief from traffic noise.
We park up and I begin to make chicken curry whilst M visits MM for tea. We eat all together at about 18.30 and the dish is a big hit. I’ve included fresh ginger for the first time, based the sauce on onions and tomatoes, and the curry flavour level is pronounced but not over-hot.
Bed’s at the now-regulation time of 20.30 or so.
Wednesday 21 February
Joyagshi to Lago Coltas
On a glorious sunny morning with none of the swirling, white low cloud we encountered last evening, it’s possible to make a more upbeat assessment of our nightstop. True, there’s a small pile of rubbish, and the ground is bare and brown, but to the front, we have a superb view into a precipitous valley and to the left there are lovely hillsides with clear evidence of ancient (Incan?) terracing, long neglected.
We’re also next to a small village, Joyagshi, which is round a blind corner from the turning we made last night. I walk around. It’s poor, has a variety of shops (including a facility for sending giros to the
The road is as scenic as we expect: in this morning session, it’s characterised by dramatic slopes, deep, deep valleys, and farming at ridiculous angles. Because of the terrain, there’s an enormous amount of lengthy winding up valley sides and then down again having crossed the river. Two special features of the first 15 or so minutes are a view (not to be repeated) of the snowy top of a major volcano, and a panorama westwards over the coastal plain… unfortunately entirely cloud-covered some 1-2,000m below.
Farming at ridiculous angles? Here’s a small and unnamed village seen from across one of the impassable valleys. The farming is all done in the patchwork of fields above, and the incline is beyond belief… plus the distance from top to bottom might well be >500m.
Now look at the third, large field immediately above the village, the one above the second, horizontal field boundary. In the top right hand corner of the field, to the right of a green ellipse, is a short more or less horizontal line.
What is it? Photo 2 shows it more clearly. It is a line of c20 brightly–garbed indigenous people armed with hoes and progressing upwards, tilling the land!
We pass through Chanchi, and over the hill on a road that is in poor condition, come to the larger town of
The climb out of Alausi is of the epic variety. It’s very steep and continues upwards without respite until we have climbed 500m. The engine is hot, hot, hot, and we put the cab heater on to dissipate the heat.
We’re over 3,000m at this stage and the landscape changes markedly. We’re on something much closer to being a plateau and the rock is straight beach, a combo of pebbles and sand. It’s weak on farming though there are some tree plantations, and gradually, agriculture returns with alfalfa, broad beans, quinoa in evidence. The people are largely indigenous peasant farmers, poor and with uninviting homesteads, and this has been true since we left Joyagshi, very different form the area around Ingapirca.
We reach Guamote by mid-afternoon. This is where the newly-made road starts and travels, via the :Parque Nacional Sangay, SE to Macas, on the edge of the tropical, Amazonian oriente. We’ve seen a sign for it way back and read about it in the guidebook – but there is no evidence of any metalled road off to our right, let alone a major new highway. We plod on for over 20kms. Still no sign.
We arrive at Lago Coltas, a large lake by local standards. Mind you, any lake is a novelty. Lago Coltas hosts much activity, not on the lake but by its side, and football is the top thing. Next to the first match (it transpires it’s a tournament over 2 days), there’s lots of lovely flat parking, and as it’s 16.15, and MM in particular has felt drained all day, we choose to make it our nightstop.
The lake is almost surrounded by reed beds, and houses duck, grebe and coot. After a quick birdwatch, I return to the footie. The list of participating teams is impressive. Barca, PSV and Real Madrid are all on the day-long programme, alongside
We have a simple tea, banana and a roll, before settling down to some video-watching, photo-downloading and diary-writing and then bed, though Margaret’s actually in bed watching the vid by 19.30!
Thursday 22 February
Lago Coltas to Penipe
As we worked ourselves up to another demanding 09.00 start, something amazing happened. As the football tournament is about to resume, I realise that straightforward I can see –albeit vaguely, like an apparition – the colossal, snowy volcano (6,800m) that is
Just before, I had taken the opportunity to do what I should have done yesterday – asked the locals exactly where that elusive road to Macas is. And they confirmed what the guidebook says: it starts from Guamote. We agreed that we’d go back the 25kms/30 minutes to find it.
So off we went, along the same, flat, agriculturally-rich corridor we’d travelled yesterday afternoon. In Guamote, the first thing we saw was a sign to Macas. Small yes, but a sign nonetheless. Had we missed one coming the other way? Perhaps not. This sign says “Macas (en construccion)”, so it’s little wonder we did not see - and even now are not seeing - the 2-lane metalled road we were expecting. We enquire at the gasolinera. The attendant says that the turn opposite the fuel station is indeed the road even though it is far from convincing. “Is the road good?”. I ask. “Malo” is the answer.
That more or less settles it: we’re not going to Macas and the oriente, and we re-trace our route northwards.
On the edge of
We don’t let it bother us though, and plod on through Riobamaba to catch a side road that skirts through the countryside to the east of the major route and incorporates a visit to Banos, yet another
The run takes us through yet more steep valleys and we begin to follow the course of the Rio Chambo. Soon after midday, we find a good stop next to the river itself and by a bridge crossing. It looks just the ticket: it might even be our nightstop!
And this is how it turns out. After lunch, we have a brief nap (it’s clear that we all have some way to go to get over our illnesses) and I have a wander along the course of the river, seeing nothing in particular. In the later afternoon, MM emerges from her sleep and we chat for some time before she goes off to cook us the dinner she started last night. Evidence if needed that she’s still not herself – but is making slow progress.
As it turned out, it was a goodie – methi chicken no less! Thanks MM!!
Friday 23 February
Penipe to Banos via Tungurahua
At 09.00, we set out over the river bridge and up the short, steep hill where sits the small town of
The road was good but quite a mess. What appeared to be gully works had been half-undertaken: the rubbish – mainly dusty filth – had been shovelled out but then left neatly piled on the road, reducing its width by 20%. No matter though: this road is VERY quiet. However, the road became gradually more lost in a layer of dust, unpleasant stuff that meant MM kept back a very lengthy distance indeed for fear of losing visibility completely/being propelled into an asthma attack.
After what may have been 10kms, the dust was completely obliterating the road surface and we were beginning to clock that there was a problem. There was indeed. We negotiated the first of what were to grow to 5 U-detours over small valleys, the detours being necessary because the bridges across the valleys had simply disappeared. Since none of the valleys housed rivers, even small ones, by driving right and up the valley side, one could then pull sharp left on compacted dust, and then left again to get back on track.
However, ‘back on track’ is perhaps the wrong expression. It was becoming increasingly clear that the old, metalled road was not what we were following. The new route had been hacked out of the new terrain created by some might cataclysm. But what?
After the first couple of valley detours, we then met the first of two major landslips (?). The first was the biggest. The ‘road’ crossed a 400m wide alluvial fan – except that the fan consisted of compacted, and not-so-compacted, dust. This is the second.
In general, traction was ok, but the dust levels under and at the back of the van were amongst the highest we have ever encountered.
It took a couple of hours to get through but it was several more hours before we found out what we had experienced, courtesy of our lunchtime waiter.
The road we were on sits at the base of an active volcano, Mt Tungurahua. In 1999, the town of
When we finally came to the end of the 5 non-existent bridges and 2 dusty fans, there were a couple of confusing signs – one was so grand, it had to signify that under the dust, we were on that metalled road – and we chose to go left rather than to sample yet more of the hellish track.
The road soon tumbled down hill to a bridge over a small, fine gorge, and here we cleaned the back of the van and took tea. We congratulated ourselves on negotiating the awful route without mishap, but as we were leaving, I managed to get myself comprehensively stuck in the dust and had to be towed out by 4x4 MM.
The now-cobbled/dust road climbed for an age, and steeply, out of the valley. At the time we did not know, but this was not the (metalled) route we had been intending to take: it turned out to be a secondary road, and the original route only appeared again later. After we had finally made a very good metalled road – the one which joins the major city of
Banos is not a large town but it is a big resort in Ecuadorian terms. There are lots of hotels, restaurants, melcocha (toffee) shops; indeed a solid tourist infrastructure. It was way after 13.00 when we arrived and we headed for the “excellent food” at Le Petit Restaurant and had a very, very good meal indeed of guacamole, chicken livers, trout, spinach pancake, chocolate mousse and a chocolate pancake. We were the only guests enjoying the feast in the setting of a room in a fine semi-tropical garden. We’d spotted a laundry en route, so that was the next job, and our washing was done by 18.30, so great service.
The afternoon also gave us chance to marvel at the miracles of Our Virgin of Holy Water (these include quelling major urban fires) in the basilica which is built of daunting black lava rock, and the on-street production of that melcocha – young men pull and push the stuff rather like pasta makers, but the mix is hooked on to a rather grubby metal hook attached to an even grubbier door jamb, which hardly impresses.
I get leave of absence to tackle the internet work and I am relieved to crack the ‘can’t send the diary problem’ even if it does take 90 minutes together with other stuff. Meanwhile, MM and Margaret have tackled the collection and sorting of the laundry (much harder work) and when I get back to the van there’s still some way to go.
We have a banana for tea before Margaret completes the bed-making as I get in another messaging session to friends and rellies worldwide. It’s 20.00 (!!!!so late!!!!) before I crack this diary and we turn the lights out. We’re parked in a one-way street on the edge of town, beautifully flat and very quiet. We expect, and get, a good night’s sleep.
Saturday 24 February
Banos to Guaranda via Ambato
Morning is domestic. We shop, small time, at the supermarket and then drive out of Banos, not very far, to the car wash. This is a good move. The dust from yesterday’s crossing of the wastes needs to be removed. Indeed it may be the cause of an electrical problem we have. Our step and toilet fan feed off the same cable from the 12v battery, and the fuse has blown. Two further fuses have blown in the process of trying to right the thing. Could it be that the step has locked because of muck, and that this precipitated the problem?
Our 2 washes take the best part of 90 minutes. The step remains obdurately problematic, and so we disconnect it in favour of a sweeter toileting experience.
From here, we head over the Banos ‘alluvial [dust] fan’ back on to the good tarmac and a stiff and long climb to
That’s clearly enough good luck for one day. Out of town, we pull into a fuel station for diesel. The place appears to be advertising ‘Super Extra Diesel’, and indeed selling only the one fuel. But at the pump, there’s Extra and Diesel. I’m a bit confused, but after a short discussion, it become clear that Extra is petrol and Diesel is diesel. So I order the latter.
After picking up my cash from the van, I return to the attendant, who is filling us with Extra! Not only that, but he has already put in the tank 6.6 American gallons or about 25 litres. This represents almost 20% of tank capacity. Now this is not necessarily fatal: from experience in well below freezing conditions in Iran and Turkey when the diesel thickens without an additive, we know that petrol (an additive) can be added to your tank and that Merc even state that up to 20% is ok. HOWEVER, our experience also tells us that 15% (which was our target maximum) can lead to problems. We simply conked out at the top of a hill in
So we filled up with diesel and left the station with our fingers crossed. (They were none too pleased that we refused to pay the petrol bill). We parked up for lunch very soon after.
For the following hour, during which uphill was again the order of the day, the van performed well, but over the period until we parked up in Guaranda soon after 17.00, we had some hairy moments. By and large – and perversely – power and smooth running were at their best when we were climbing, and worst at the bottom of a hill as a corner was rounded to face the next. We were really struggling on only 2-3 occasions, and the worst of times was when the exhaust spat out alternate black then blue smoke before an explosion and flame!
It seems clear from this and our previous experience – and this also is perverse – that diesel and petrol do not mix, or do not mix well, in our tank.
But what of the ride and the views? After all, this was meant to be a trip around the western side of Volcan Chimborazo, that apparition I saw briefly last Thursday. Chimborazo is certainly
But can we see it? No. Visibility is poor and the cloud is thick and low. We even get a little rain. But soon after 15.00, at over 4,000m (we’ve now climbed 2,300m today to get here!), the cloud thins to the right of the mountain and we have glimpses of perhaps a quarter of the entire peak for the briefest of moments.
This, and the sight of the roadside carrot washers, constitute the high spots of the run.
Guaranda is described as “quaint” in the guidebook. It’s not. It’s small, run down and poor and has nothing to recommend it. We head for the plaza where we think it likely there’ll be flat parking places on broadish thoroughfares, and there are. For the hour or more before sundown, people-watching keeps me occupied. A man and two women tussle with a huge pig which squealingly refuses to go where it is bidden. The technique of beating its already bleeding leg does not work: grabbing its tail and forcing it upwards and forwards does the trick. Three 9-10 year old girls who live on the plaza occupy a small tree in one of the planted beds and are systematically destroying it, with nobody bothered to tell them it’s wrong. A woman sets up a fast food stall at one corner in front of the very big church, and does a brisk trade. A large group of indigenous people almost block the entrance to the church by taking up residence all along the wide top step of the stairway.
Cooking calls and between 18.30 and 19.30 we make our most successful cauli cheese yet in this continent of tasteless cheeses,
Sunday 25 February
Guaranda to Patain, north of Ambato
We decide that we shall re-trace our steps today, but not all the way to
From Guaranda which stands at about 2,800m, there’s a 1,400m climb to the desolate and flattish plateau under the immediate gaze of
When we were here yesterday, the weather was blustery and cool. Today, it’s very windy and cold. There’s lots of cloud around, and has been since Guaranda, but visibility has been good until we turn off on to the round-trip road, signed to
But remarkably, we drove out of the cloud into sunshine and good long-distance views, and soon, we were seeing the southern face of the volcano, and the view was fine if not first class. White cloud was constantly and rapidly swirling over the peak from east to west, and a huge perpendicular curl of cloud sat forward and left (west) of the mountain. Not only did we not expect to see so much, we were unprepared for the lack of snow on this face, and also (curiously) the presence of a major glacier.
We stopped 3-4 times over a relatively short period to soak up the views and took photos as the angle and the cloud conditions changed.
The road now descended rapidly until we reached our core N-S road at around 11.30 and then easily negotiated the edge of
By 12.30 when we arrived, we’d made a very long climb up and entered lousy weather. It was moderately wet but also very cold, 11°C in fact, the same as at 4,400m. It was also filthy weather. Later I went on the roof of the van and found it had a coating of black, and when I was up there, it started ‘raining’ (albeit very lightly) sand!
Mariadiocelina turns out to be a small, unprepossessing and slightly uncomfortable barn of a place serving traditional fare with a strong hand in cuy. There’s a big rotisserie behind glass at the back of the dining room and you can watch lots of bare guinea pigs succumb to the fire.
This is not to every English person’s taste, and Margaret and MM order chicken and chips. I have the cuy with potatoes (lots of them). I’ve had it before but thought that dish poorly cooked. This one is not. Despite that, cuy – ‘the food of the Inca’ – is pretty poor fare. It tastes ok, but not as good as a good piece of chicken (which it resembles) and the meat content is far surpassed by bone. I get two lots of ribs (some meat, equivalent to that on , say, 2 chicken wings) and a head (revolting to look at and almost protein-free).
We all agree that we can’t see why Mariadiocelina gets a recommendation, and as we leave the restaurant car park, a new mechanical problem presents itself. The power steering is in trouble, though later inspection shows it’s only a loose belt. Nonetheless tight manoeuvres are very difficult though open road driving is easy.
It’s still foul outside. We drive on to the next fuel station and top up with c12 American gallons of diesel. This should mean that the petrol content of the tanks has reduced to c12%. Satisfactory: though I have been astonished by how well the motor coped (at high altitudes and on demanding slopes!) with the proportion of the ‘wrong’ fuel it was fed.
Water’s taken on board too, and we’re off. Not far though. We cross the very large city of
We have a shower despite the cold, have a snack for tea, and get under the covers asap thereafter.
Monday 26 February
Patain to Pujili
The night is indeed peaceful. Whether in Guaranda or Patain, folks are not at all worried if you park in
We leave at 09.05 and just up the road at Salcedo (aka San Miguel), we start to hunt for a garage (for the power-assisted steering problem) and the auto-electrician (for MM’s leisure batteries and our step). The one leads to the other. The former is found and a couple of enthusiastic young men identify the problem as loose fixings not a knackered belt. In turn, the loose fixing has occurred because a bolt has simply worked loose and disappeared. So it’s a quick $10 job. The lads then recommend an auto-electrician just 100m up the road.
This visit is much more long-winded largely because papa is not around and he is the battery expert. Our step problem is sorted in very short order: it’s a poor connection in the up/down switch. When papa finally arrives, in late morning, it takes some time to do the necessary tests, but MM’s 12v inverter-dedicated batteries (which she failed to leave on charge during our 5 months in the UK) are pronounced dead – and this workshop cannot supply leisure batteries (as opposed to vehicle batteries) so a visit to Quito will be required. In the course of his inspection, papa made a useful discovery, a broken bolt on a vehicle battery terminal, and repaired it, and the wait for papa gave MM the chance to inspect her shock absorbers and find that one is wildly adrift.
So after the electricians, we return to our original workshop. It’s lunchtime, so whilst the workers graft, we pop next door for their good set-menu almuerzo, tasty (!) corn soup, a simple but pleasing steak cutlet, with rice, fried banana, and more corn, and a fresh tropical fruit juice drink. $5 for the 3 of us.
It takes a long time and $40 to get the shocker done and we don’t leave town until 14.45 or so. But we have some successful repairs under our belt, and MM knows what the electrical issue is in her van. We’re soon in the larger city of Latacunga and by dint of judicious questioning as we go, we identify the (major but totally unsigned) turning that we need to start us on the allegedly-lovely Quilota circuit which should deliver great views, beautiful villages, a volcanic crater and a terrific indigenous market.
Our first port of call is reached within 15 minutes. It is the astonishingly well-signposted , large
However, when we do make the plaza on which it stands, we realise we have come to a little treasure, a place that makes the last two places we stayed look like hovels (which they were). Beautifully presented with recently installed big tile squares set in the pavements, this plaza plays host to a nice church with a lovely multi-coloured roof, and a stunning municipal building. And it soon becomes clear (because his name is EVERYWHERE), that we have to thank for this (and much more) the mayor, one Sr Brook! Well, Arroyo actually, but they mean the same.
We walk around and off the plaza and discover yet more monuments to our namesake who will be mayor until 2009, having first taken office in 1996. He helped fund the very nice crafts’ centre – some good stuff here including ceramics with lively local scenes and paintings on very thin leather – and he’s pedestrianised 2 of the thoroughfares that border the town hall. Not to mention creating new municipal toilets! The crafts’ centre man sings the mayor’s praises, and soon we see more reasons to agree with him.
You can walk through the ‘town hall’ which is typically built around several courtyards. Within these, there are some superb permanent exhibits – a lengthy wall of huge and fine portraits of local and national heroes and dignitaries, and a glazed wall containing the most exquisite lifesize-ish bandsmen carved in wood.
This Brook geezer has drive, organisational ability, and style. A credit to the family!
Margaret and MM now settle down to a lengthy tea break in MM’s van (we’re already committed to staying here, our third plaza stopover in 3 days) but I do a little more wandering. A couple of blocks from the pretty square is the main working square: big and bustling with lots of shops and a number of stalls though it isn’t market day today. I get some produce including a big bunch of the smallest type of bananas for just $0.50 and I also identify an internet point on my way back to the van. I go back soon after. It’s pleasantly small, quiet, and very fast and at (the usual rate of) $1 an hour, is a third of the price in touristy Banos.
We have a snack tea just before 19.00, then MM comes round to share the internet gossip before we two settle down to video and computer scribbling.
By now, our plaza is gloriously floodlit, and, after more of Sr Arroyo’s beneficence (music, broadcast from the town hall) is done, it’s gloriously quiet.
Tuesday 27 February
Pujili to Chugchilan
Earlyish in the morning, I try once again to see inside the church. Rumour – a young boy of Pujili – had suggested that it will be open at 06.30, but the man in the crafts’ centre was definite that it was open yesterday afternoon, and both were/are wrong.
But there’s a real treat afoot. Around 08.30, the sound of drums can be heard and it transpires that this is Independence Day (or perhaps one of several
Watching the march – not to mention being held up by it – keeps us occupied until about 09.30 when we move off. We work our way round the town, encountering the marchers again as they enter their school yard, and then we’re off, on the slowish up, up, uphill road to Zumbahua. The view down over the excellent Pujili shows a decent sized town on the edges of which are three major plastic greenhouse complexes. These are quite common in the sierra, but, for obvious reasons, it’s not clear what they grow.
After we have wound our way upwards (from c2,900m to over 4,000m at one stage), the road reverts to rather less demanding uphill/downhill stuff. On the highest lands, indigenous mixed farming rules the roost – at one point we see a shepherded herd which includes, a cow, a donkey, a dog, many sheep and several llamas.
The thatched buildings (barns, houses, clamps…) are especially interesting, and appear to be a class above those we have seems elsewhere. Neolithic nonetheless.
At a location above any cultivation, we come across a party of 15-20 people collectively excavating a new irrigation channel. And then, at a slightly lower elevation and in more sheltered valleys, the agriculture becomes more arable, and at times great swathes of land are under the plough.
We miss Zumbahua at first pass. Naturally, there’s no sign for our right turn into and through the town, but the junction is also obscured by the sort of daft driving that you commonly encounter here. In this case (but it really is common), a bus overtakes us and then pulls in to let off passengers. In doing so he blocks the road. He then moves when we protest, but in doing so blocks our view of the junction and distracts us from our proper job which is to be alert to where we are and where we are going.
We’re well up the next hill on a road with few turning places when we realise we may have blundered. Finally, we take advice, and we have indeed messed up. The round trip back ends up being 8kms.
We stop for lunch just through Zumbahua and take the road again at 13.45. It’s a short hop to our objective, the crater and
This turns out to be a lovely spot, if not the best crater/lake we’ve ever visited. The crater’s big but not that deep (300m), and the lack of sun means that the emerald green of the water is not evident, other than at the very edges. The ladies who brave the very windy and cool conditions to sell their wares come off best: both MM and Margaret buy stuff which is good but inexpensive. After a cuppa, we’re off again, but the road immediately takes a turn for the worse. We’ve had metal and a few kms of good dirt since Latacunga: now we are on seriously rutted compacted earth and dust. It is high concentration driving with some very slow, seriously bumpy bits. On such tracks, we rock and roll, and it’s not pleasant. The 22kms to Chugchilan takes 1 hour 40 minutes (= 13kph = 8mph). Our guidebook says that “only a few sections of the [entire Quilatoa] loop are cobbled or rough”. Joke. We’re told later that we can expect another 3 hours of this tomorrow!
When we get to Chugchilan at 17.30, we discover a large rock between our wheels and this has to be extracted (by roping it and then ‘towing’ it out), so it’s 18.00 before we park up in the town. But it’s a very good spot: flat and paved, in a cul de sac.
Dinner was going to be fish, but a more relaxed evening is what Margaret and MM want. We end up at the Cloud Forest Hostel, and they put on a good 3 course veggie dinner (the thick veg and cheese soup is especially good) for which they only as $2 per head. Remarkable.
Wednesday 28 February
Chugchilan to Saquisili
Our top spot gives us another excellent night’s sleep, and at 08.00, we’re off. 08.00!!?? A calculated early start based on the info that the road will be bad for several hours, and that, whilst we need to get on, we will also need a couple of breaks.
At the bottom of the hill out of the village, we stop at the entrance to the Black Sheep Hostel. We came down here last night to see if we could get a meal there (“Recommended” in the guidebook) and then discovered that stone in the tyres. Whilst we were preparing to extract it, the young American proprietor of the BS came out to see us. No, we couldn’t eat there, but, Hey, tell me all about your travels!
This morning, 2 young men stand at the same spot and thumb a lift. Unusually, we give them one. They are Toby (German, studying in
In reality, the road is marginally less foul than yesterday. By and large, it’s the same mix – rutted, compacted dust with some especially crappy bits – but it’s wider and so one’s choice of poisonous surface is increased. Until Sigchos (reached at around 11.00?), the road is almost devoid of traffic. After, there are plenty of lorries and buses, and a great stand-off with one of the latter who flew round a corner at us and, in consequence, could not get through whilst I could not advance. I invited him to retire back to the (wider) corner. He declined. I switched off. In the end, he did reverse (YES!) and I was able to get through without entering the dust ditch he wanted me to get stuck in.
The conversation and need to concentrate on the road surface detracted from the enjoyment of the scenery somewhat, but sufficient to say that there were plenty of wonderful vistas over the deeply valley-cut and very steep hills. We had to climb up to the upper 3,000s, and went down to well under 2,500m at one stage at a time when the sun was very hot and the windows were closed to keep out the dreaded polvo [dust].
We took one long and one short stop, and it was nearing 12.30 when we finally made tarmac. It was a false alarm, and so was the second coming. We finally arrived at civilisation (we saw only 1 significant settlement [Sigchos] before 12.30) 15-20 minutes later and found it impenetrable because a bridge was down. A local directed us 5-10 minutes back up the road where vehicles emerging from a dusty gap signalled that there was a way to cross the river (it was a ford) and eventually re-join the metalled road.
We never again saw, nor identified, the ‘civilisation’ we’d almost crossed, and in not time at all, arrived in Toacazo. We’d had enough, and would have had lunch out but for the absence of inviting providers. Instead we announced to our passengers that this was to be a major break and they started to scout for transport down to nearby Latacunga on the main N-S road. This they found rapidly and so bid us farewell.
After a major dust off, outside and in, we had a more than adequate cheese and salad lunch which included a blistering avocado. Just the ticket. And this was followed by a rest and some scribbling on my part.
At 15.00, we left intent on getting to our destination, the Thursday market town of Saquisili. Not too far, we thought, as Latacunga, beyond and on the main road, is only half an hour by bus according to Toby and Nolan.
It took about 20 minutes to get there, and that included a visit to a ‘false Saquisili’, a tiny village whose massive church seemed, from afar, to promise much. But it turned out to have another miraculous Christian personage – Jesus of the Tree (?!) – as a resident, which explained the awkward mismatch in size between settlement and place of worship.
The real Saquisili was down the hill and on the flatlands that house Latacunga and the PanAmericana road. It’s a modest-sized town with a peeling, grubby aspect. But it has a national reputation for the market which occupies 5 different squares. Where the markets are and where best to park now occupies us. I pootle across the main plaza where we park up temporarily. The municipalidad houses the biblioteca, and a library seems a good place to find info. In this place, you’re certainly more likely to find info than books which are not present in abundance. But one of the 3 librarians is most helpful. No, he doesn’t have a map of the town (why did I bother even asking?!) but he is able to give me a very clear hand-gesture picture of 5 squares encircling this plaza mayor, and tells me they all specialise in one range of goods – there are two for (different) animals, a clothes market, one for veg… and it seems the leather goods’ sellers have a niche somewhere too. So where we are is an excellent market-visiting location, except that it really doesn’t appear to be the type of square you’d camp on. Much too busy.
It doesn’t take long to find the right spot. I go for a walk. Just off the plaza is a fuel station with a very good-sized back lot. We take the van in to fuel and water up and ask if we can stay. There’s no hesitation: of course we can. In short order, MM joins us from the temporary parking. This is a good spot though with a dusty surface and no views: the really great news is that the station does not operate during the night, and the level of security should be well above the average street parking spot when we go market-wandering tomorrow.
Watering up takes ages and we then have a lengthy tea session with MM before I get down to some serious cooking for the first time in a long time. My fish risotto has a last minute conversion to being Mediterranean Fish, a dish which was a staple of ours until many moons ago when, for reasons unknown, it fell out of fishion.
If you ask me, it’s very good with bags of oniony/garlicy/tomatoey/herby/lemony flavour – but if you ask Margaret, she will tell you she doesn’t like the taste of the corvina [sea bream]. Oh well. The stewed plums for pud are jointly acknowledged to be terrific.
I’ve saved the big news of the day till the end. Firstly, I have bad sunburn on my bald pate, and it was contracted 2 days ago when we were getting our vans sorted. Standing outside the van with no hat, even when the sun is not shining and there’s even an occasional very light shower, can cause sunburn!
Secondly, I’m 63 today, but clearly – as the sunburn story shows - just as daft as ever.
