Old McDonald had a farm...and so does Otavalo. The alarm clock blared out Merengue at 7 am this morning at which point Rachel and I hit the streets for the reknowned Otavalo animal market. Here, traditionally clad women dangle fluffy white and khaki colored guinea pigs by the neck, shouting out bargain prices. A few feet over other women clutch clucking chickens by the feet and still others parade lambs and sheep around the open air market. Nearby pigs and cows for sale sit tied to pittiful little wooden yardsticks. Much to the relief of the US customs officers, neither Rachel nor I made a purchase. We did, however, capture some priceless photos.
The animal market wrapped up around 10 at which point our massive souvenir shopping began. Rachel and I flashed through rows and rows of brightly colored embroidered goods, clay pottery, and artwork in search of the perfect gifts. Being as indecisive as I am, the market began to close down before I had a single thing in my knapsack! Out of sheer panic, I grabbed a couple things and called it done. I hope no one wanted a personal guinea pig roaster or shrunken head after all.
Wiped and shopped-out, Rachel and I boarded a bus back to Quito. The bus ride was one in true Ecuadorian style--meaning the maximum capacity of the bus was well exceeded and the aisle in between the seats was packed with passengers. The highlight of the ride back was thus when we passed through a police check point and the driver instructed all the standing passengers to duck. We skirted through the checkpoint unscathed. Oh, the power of ducking.
My time in Ecuador is now limited. Rachel and I head to the Quito International Airport at 4:30 am tomorrow, returning to Boston via Panama City, Panama, and Newark, New Jersey. The trip has been phenomenal. The terrifically traveled duo shall now return to the real world.
I will post one final time, adding the promised photos, when I am back in Boston.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
Preparing to Shop Untill I Drop
The trek down was not nearly as bad as the trek up. Then again, how could it have possibly been any worse? I am safely back on solid ground and can officially say that I shall never hike again. No, I hereby declare that I SHALL NEVER, EVER, EVER HIKE AGAIN. My experience in Timbuktoo i.e. the cloud forest has also led me to declare myself an official urban/suburbanite. Life with no hot water, no electricity, no sanitation, and no human interaction is just not for me.
Rachel and I boarded a bus back to Quito at noon today. Once in Quito we transfered to a bus bound for Otavalo. Otavalo hosts one of South America´s most impressive markets. Every Saturday villagers travel from all over the region to partake in this event. Vendors cram the narrow streets selling ducks, chickens, cows, ponchos, tapestries, hammocks, carvings, jewelry, fake shrunken heads, embroidered goods and woven mats.
Rachel and I have contrived a specific plan of attack. We will hit the livestock section in the wee morning hours then meanander our way down to the produce, embroidered goods, pottery, and craft sections by midday. Both Rachel and I have saved our entire shopping list for tomorrow so it´s going to be one massive shopping spree of a day. I am currently taking orders for shrunken heads and roasted guinea pig roasters. Any takers?
Rachel and I boarded a bus back to Quito at noon today. Once in Quito we transfered to a bus bound for Otavalo. Otavalo hosts one of South America´s most impressive markets. Every Saturday villagers travel from all over the region to partake in this event. Vendors cram the narrow streets selling ducks, chickens, cows, ponchos, tapestries, hammocks, carvings, jewelry, fake shrunken heads, embroidered goods and woven mats.
Rachel and I have contrived a specific plan of attack. We will hit the livestock section in the wee morning hours then meanander our way down to the produce, embroidered goods, pottery, and craft sections by midday. Both Rachel and I have saved our entire shopping list for tomorrow so it´s going to be one massive shopping spree of a day. I am currently taking orders for shrunken heads and roasted guinea pig roasters. Any takers?
Post Traumatic Hike Disorder
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Santa lucia…quite possible the worst $45 a night I´ve ever spent. The trek up the mountain yesterday was trecherous. The trail consisted of an endless, vertical, poorly miantained slough of mud with the consistency of feces. Palms, vines, and pines jutted out and water trickled down the branches splashing my nose, and stinging my eyes. Bugs hoovered all around. I had hoped the hike wouldn´t be as bad as the Quilotoa Loop, but oh, was it ever. Luckily the torture only lasted an hour rather than last weeks 6. Sporting ill-fitting rubber boots that nipped at my heels I panted, snarled, griped and groaned the entire way up to the top. Rachel was extremely supportive and offered a hand whenéver the trail became exceedingly slick. Rachel has been amazingly patient with me throughout my development and chronic Post Traumatic Hike Disorder. It takes a truly special person to put up with all my whining and complaining. For that, I am truly grateful for Rachel and her tremendous spirit.
The lodge itself is very primative. There is running water, but that´s about it. There is no electricity and the showers and toilets…err…holes covered with modern plastic toilet seats are outside. Rachel and I are the only guests. We have a private non-English speaking ¨English-speaking¨ guide. I am not terribly disappointed, however, because after last nights trek up and this morning´s disasterous hike to the sugar cane plantation, I won´t be hiking any more.
I originally had intentions of embarking on an afternoon toucan watching walk but my post traumatic hike disorder has enabled me to fully appreciate the beauty of Toucan Sam on the Fruit Loops cereal box. Toucan Sam will suffice and there is therefore no need to torture myself with any further hiking. I can push my grocery cart with ease, straight through the heart of the cereal aisle in the supermarket and see a toucan each and everyday when I return to the States. I can even run to CVS and catch a glimpse of Sam on my lunch break, or pull up his website on my computer and save his colorful, smiling face to my desktop. There will clearly be no bird walks in my future.
Instead, I will be lounging in a hammock outside the rustic, wooden lodge with a good book and a hot cup of tea for the remainder of the day. Thankfully we depart tomorrow morning. (Make that THANKFULLY in all capitals). I think I will be utilizing the services of Manuel Mule to manuever my way down to civiliazion... regardless of the price.
Santa lucia…quite possible the worst $45 a night I´ve ever spent. The trek up the mountain yesterday was trecherous. The trail consisted of an endless, vertical, poorly miantained slough of mud with the consistency of feces. Palms, vines, and pines jutted out and water trickled down the branches splashing my nose, and stinging my eyes. Bugs hoovered all around. I had hoped the hike wouldn´t be as bad as the Quilotoa Loop, but oh, was it ever. Luckily the torture only lasted an hour rather than last weeks 6. Sporting ill-fitting rubber boots that nipped at my heels I panted, snarled, griped and groaned the entire way up to the top. Rachel was extremely supportive and offered a hand whenéver the trail became exceedingly slick. Rachel has been amazingly patient with me throughout my development and chronic Post Traumatic Hike Disorder. It takes a truly special person to put up with all my whining and complaining. For that, I am truly grateful for Rachel and her tremendous spirit.
The lodge itself is very primative. There is running water, but that´s about it. There is no electricity and the showers and toilets…err…holes covered with modern plastic toilet seats are outside. Rachel and I are the only guests. We have a private non-English speaking ¨English-speaking¨ guide. I am not terribly disappointed, however, because after last nights trek up and this morning´s disasterous hike to the sugar cane plantation, I won´t be hiking any more.
I originally had intentions of embarking on an afternoon toucan watching walk but my post traumatic hike disorder has enabled me to fully appreciate the beauty of Toucan Sam on the Fruit Loops cereal box. Toucan Sam will suffice and there is therefore no need to torture myself with any further hiking. I can push my grocery cart with ease, straight through the heart of the cereal aisle in the supermarket and see a toucan each and everyday when I return to the States. I can even run to CVS and catch a glimpse of Sam on my lunch break, or pull up his website on my computer and save his colorful, smiling face to my desktop. There will clearly be no bird walks in my future.
Instead, I will be lounging in a hammock outside the rustic, wooden lodge with a good book and a hot cup of tea for the remainder of the day. Thankfully we depart tomorrow morning. (Make that THANKFULLY in all capitals). I think I will be utilizing the services of Manuel Mule to manuever my way down to civiliazion... regardless of the price.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Up in a Cloud...Hopefully.
I am preparing myself mentally and physically for the trek up to the cloud forest. Mules are my friends...
I just checked the cloud forest´s website and they note the absence of electricity. Thus, for more information on where Rachel and I will be for the next 2 nights, please visit the lodge´s website at http://www.santaluciaecuador.com/Ingles/aboutus.htm
If I never post again, I died enroute.
I just checked the cloud forest´s website and they note the absence of electricity. Thus, for more information on where Rachel and I will be for the next 2 nights, please visit the lodge´s website at http://www.santaluciaecuador.com/Ingles/aboutus.htm
If I never post again, I died enroute.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Greetings from the Center of the World
I have just ventured into the northern hemisphere for the first time in nearly 2 weeks. Rachel and I set out for the center of the world i.e. the equator early this morning. Last night the two of us had trouble falling asleep because we were busy concocting ideas as to what the best possible way to photograph what may be our once in a lifetime opportunity to straddle the equator. I will post the results as soon as I am back in the states! There´s nothing like a little suspense once in awhile.
After visiting the equator monument, we went to a little museum funded by an organization dedicated to shifting the common astrological position on the earth´s center of rotation. The researcher gave a very compelling speech and spoke English phenomenally well, but I maintain some reservations as to his theory that the earth does not rotate at 23 degrees from the sun. I was, however, fascinated by the Incan and Saquichua...pardon the spelling...history and ties to the original discovery of the equator. The guy also explained the origins of the star-like symbol popular on 18th and 19th century American quilts and throughout South American art. Little did I know..I mean, I thought the symbol was just a pretty clump of triangles that loosely resembled a star.
Tomorrow Rachel and I depart the capital city and head north to the cloud forest of Santa Lucia. I regret to say this, but this cloud forest is only accessible by foot. I know, I know, I said I would never hike again and here I go setting out on a 2 hour hike to a rural ecolodge nestled deep in the mountains. The owners of the ecolodge are prepared to meet me and Rachel and a bus stop in the town of Nanengal with a 4wd vehicle. They will drive us to start of the foot trail where mules will transport our belongings and we will trek 1.5 to 2 hours up a steep, damp, trail. My legs have hardly recovered from last week´s monstrosity. I sure hope they hold up. If not, I´m hiring myself a mule...no, seriously.
After visiting the equator monument, we went to a little museum funded by an organization dedicated to shifting the common astrological position on the earth´s center of rotation. The researcher gave a very compelling speech and spoke English phenomenally well, but I maintain some reservations as to his theory that the earth does not rotate at 23 degrees from the sun. I was, however, fascinated by the Incan and Saquichua...pardon the spelling...history and ties to the original discovery of the equator. The guy also explained the origins of the star-like symbol popular on 18th and 19th century American quilts and throughout South American art. Little did I know..I mean, I thought the symbol was just a pretty clump of triangles that loosely resembled a star.
Tomorrow Rachel and I depart the capital city and head north to the cloud forest of Santa Lucia. I regret to say this, but this cloud forest is only accessible by foot. I know, I know, I said I would never hike again and here I go setting out on a 2 hour hike to a rural ecolodge nestled deep in the mountains. The owners of the ecolodge are prepared to meet me and Rachel and a bus stop in the town of Nanengal with a 4wd vehicle. They will drive us to start of the foot trail where mules will transport our belongings and we will trek 1.5 to 2 hours up a steep, damp, trail. My legs have hardly recovered from last week´s monstrosity. I sure hope they hold up. If not, I´m hiring myself a mule...no, seriously.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Back on Track
The dynamic traveling duo are back on track. After a naseating night that cost me my favorite pair of pajama pants and my only pair of thermal bottoms, I woke up feeling much better. Thank goodness.
Today Rachel and I explored the city of Cuenca. This city is a real treat with its cobblestone roads, old fashioned churches, and bustling marketplaces. We began the day at the shop of the famous 80 something year old Panama hat maker, Alberto Pulla. I say he´s famous because Rachel assures me he is, but I have to admit, I had actually never heard of the guy or even a ¨Panama hat¨ until I dove into the Ecuador guidebook a couple months ago. Anyhow, I tried on a hat and posed next to this famous dude for a photo but did not buy a hat. Sorry, sir.
After a quick stop at the hat shop, Rachel and I meandered through town to the market. On market days, the roads are blocked and rows and rows of street vendors line the streets. Women stand nose-deep in mounds of bananas, peaches, mangos, radishes, cabbages, and carrots. In other sections women cook up and serve boiling soups and stews. In yet other sections, vendors sell exotic animals, embroidered goods, and junk, for a lack of a better term. Shoppers cram into the narrow alleyways creating extreme chaos and excitement. I love it.
In the afternoon we visited a museum dedicated to the various ethnic groups of Ecuador. It was informative...the handful of English descriptions that existed that is. I must say, though, Rachel and I are doing a stellar job of assimilating to the culture. We have started interchanging English and Spanish, and we have completely trained ourselves to throw our toiletpaper in the trash can next to the toilet and not in the toilet. Fortunately for our other 2 roommates, and the Somerville recycling department, we don´t intend on continuing the tradition when back in the states.
After fully experiencing the joy of Ecuadorian bus travel, Rachel and I decided to fly back to Quito from Cuenca and boared a flight at 6:40 pm tonight. Americans have a lot to learn from Ecuadorian aviation standards. First off, you are always served food, regardless of flying time. Second of all, airline personnel open both the back and front doors when boarding and deplaning the aircraft. Thirdly, you are able to take anything and everything on the plane with you...how scandalous to carry a weapon as deadly as a water bottle on a plane! The only thing I don´t like about Ecuadorian aviation standards is the fact that the pilots don´t seem to brake at all before landing so when you hit the ground you feel as though you are going to jet straight out of the airport and into town. After zoooming at 500 mph on the ground for 5 minutes they eventually come to a halt. I´m glad they have long runways to accomodate this.
Our latest flight back to Quito from Cuenca makes flight number 11 for this trip alone. The best flight was the one from the mainland to the Galapagos last week. As we soared over the water and began our hasty, abrupt descent onto the island, the non-english speaking flight attendant muttered something in Spanish and then said ¨...please use the lifevest under your seat for flotation.¨ I glanced around me in a panic as did all of the gringos. Many started to fidget and reach under their seats. I wasn´t sure if I should wake Rachel to have her adorn a lifevest, but I couldn´t help but notice that the spanish speakers didn´t seem at all alarmed. I quickly put two and two together and realized that the flight attendant had simply read the wrong line of her flight attendant instruction card. What a mean and traumatizing Ingles error for us Gringos.
Tomorrow Rachel and I are headed to the center of the world, or the ecuator. There´s a neat little museum there. Now that we´re in the capital for a day, I´m hoping to grab a good bite to eat--deep fried guinea pig just didn´t cut it tonight.
Today Rachel and I explored the city of Cuenca. This city is a real treat with its cobblestone roads, old fashioned churches, and bustling marketplaces. We began the day at the shop of the famous 80 something year old Panama hat maker, Alberto Pulla. I say he´s famous because Rachel assures me he is, but I have to admit, I had actually never heard of the guy or even a ¨Panama hat¨ until I dove into the Ecuador guidebook a couple months ago. Anyhow, I tried on a hat and posed next to this famous dude for a photo but did not buy a hat. Sorry, sir.
After a quick stop at the hat shop, Rachel and I meandered through town to the market. On market days, the roads are blocked and rows and rows of street vendors line the streets. Women stand nose-deep in mounds of bananas, peaches, mangos, radishes, cabbages, and carrots. In other sections women cook up and serve boiling soups and stews. In yet other sections, vendors sell exotic animals, embroidered goods, and junk, for a lack of a better term. Shoppers cram into the narrow alleyways creating extreme chaos and excitement. I love it.
In the afternoon we visited a museum dedicated to the various ethnic groups of Ecuador. It was informative...the handful of English descriptions that existed that is. I must say, though, Rachel and I are doing a stellar job of assimilating to the culture. We have started interchanging English and Spanish, and we have completely trained ourselves to throw our toiletpaper in the trash can next to the toilet and not in the toilet. Fortunately for our other 2 roommates, and the Somerville recycling department, we don´t intend on continuing the tradition when back in the states.
After fully experiencing the joy of Ecuadorian bus travel, Rachel and I decided to fly back to Quito from Cuenca and boared a flight at 6:40 pm tonight. Americans have a lot to learn from Ecuadorian aviation standards. First off, you are always served food, regardless of flying time. Second of all, airline personnel open both the back and front doors when boarding and deplaning the aircraft. Thirdly, you are able to take anything and everything on the plane with you...how scandalous to carry a weapon as deadly as a water bottle on a plane! The only thing I don´t like about Ecuadorian aviation standards is the fact that the pilots don´t seem to brake at all before landing so when you hit the ground you feel as though you are going to jet straight out of the airport and into town. After zoooming at 500 mph on the ground for 5 minutes they eventually come to a halt. I´m glad they have long runways to accomodate this.
Our latest flight back to Quito from Cuenca makes flight number 11 for this trip alone. The best flight was the one from the mainland to the Galapagos last week. As we soared over the water and began our hasty, abrupt descent onto the island, the non-english speaking flight attendant muttered something in Spanish and then said ¨...please use the lifevest under your seat for flotation.¨ I glanced around me in a panic as did all of the gringos. Many started to fidget and reach under their seats. I wasn´t sure if I should wake Rachel to have her adorn a lifevest, but I couldn´t help but notice that the spanish speakers didn´t seem at all alarmed. I quickly put two and two together and realized that the flight attendant had simply read the wrong line of her flight attendant instruction card. What a mean and traumatizing Ingles error for us Gringos.
Tomorrow Rachel and I are headed to the center of the world, or the ecuator. There´s a neat little museum there. Now that we´re in the capital for a day, I´m hoping to grab a good bite to eat--deep fried guinea pig just didn´t cut it tonight.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Derailing Trains
The train derailed. There was a thump, thump, thump, and we were off the track. Our 5 hour train ride turned into a 9 hour adventure. The conductor had no tools to fix the train so he used logs and rocks. I swear things like this only happen to Rachel and I....
I woke up last night feeling really ill. It must have been that bull penis soup I unknowingly ate yesterday. It took all the will power I could muster up to walk to the train station at 5:30 am. I could hardly make it up to the roof of the train and when I did, I simply passed out. Rachel directed traffic around my sleeping body. After I woke up I needed to puke. I sat up to puke over the side of the train much to the disgust of fellow passengers but luckily there was nothing in me to puke. It was a disaster.
After the train ride we hopped on a bus to Cuenca, the colonial jem of the south. The bus ride took 5 hours..it should have been much shorter. I´m going to bed. Tomorrow must be better.
I woke up last night feeling really ill. It must have been that bull penis soup I unknowingly ate yesterday. It took all the will power I could muster up to walk to the train station at 5:30 am. I could hardly make it up to the roof of the train and when I did, I simply passed out. Rachel directed traffic around my sleeping body. After I woke up I needed to puke. I sat up to puke over the side of the train much to the disgust of fellow passengers but luckily there was nothing in me to puke. It was a disaster.
After the train ride we hopped on a bus to Cuenca, the colonial jem of the south. The bus ride took 5 hours..it should have been much shorter. I´m going to bed. Tomorrow must be better.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Buses, Trains, and Milkmen
Note: Read past 2 blog postings first!
Rachel and I have safely arrived in the town of Riobamba. The two of us and our Italian Co-Gringos ate breakfast together this morning in anticipation of the arrival of the milk truck...the only means of transport from village to village in this region of the country. Prior to the milkman´s arrival, however, a pick up truck happended to swing by and we all hopped on the back for another exhiliaring trip down the unpaved, windy roads of the Andes. The pick up dropped us off in a village 30 or so kilometers down the road that happened to be on a bus route. Rachel and I jumped on the bus, while the Italians stayed put.
This bus ride was once again interesting. The bus itself was pretty much a dilapidated grey hound with no apparent maximum capacity. I stood for part of the journey, and sat on Rachel´s lap, sandwiched between the driver and 9 others in the front stairwell of the bus for the remaining 2 hours of the trip. It was a tight squeeze.
After I take a long, long, scalding hot shower, it´s going to be an early night. Rachel and I board the ¨Devil´s Nose Train¨ at 6 am tomorrow. The most exciting part of this train ride (aside from the fact that passengers ride on the roof rather than in the cars) is the hair-raising descent down a death-defying stretch of track throughout the Andes. Supposedly several people died during construction. A series of switchbacks hane been carved into rock, and the completiton of the first ride was considered the most incredible feat of railroad engineering the world has seen). I can´t wait. There did happen to be a..umm...minor avalanche last week, however, and the train derailed. Let´s hope for no avalanches tomorrow.
Rachel and I have safely arrived in the town of Riobamba. The two of us and our Italian Co-Gringos ate breakfast together this morning in anticipation of the arrival of the milk truck...the only means of transport from village to village in this region of the country. Prior to the milkman´s arrival, however, a pick up truck happended to swing by and we all hopped on the back for another exhiliaring trip down the unpaved, windy roads of the Andes. The pick up dropped us off in a village 30 or so kilometers down the road that happened to be on a bus route. Rachel and I jumped on the bus, while the Italians stayed put.
This bus ride was once again interesting. The bus itself was pretty much a dilapidated grey hound with no apparent maximum capacity. I stood for part of the journey, and sat on Rachel´s lap, sandwiched between the driver and 9 others in the front stairwell of the bus for the remaining 2 hours of the trip. It was a tight squeeze.
After I take a long, long, scalding hot shower, it´s going to be an early night. Rachel and I board the ¨Devil´s Nose Train¨ at 6 am tomorrow. The most exciting part of this train ride (aside from the fact that passengers ride on the roof rather than in the cars) is the hair-raising descent down a death-defying stretch of track throughout the Andes. Supposedly several people died during construction. A series of switchbacks hane been carved into rock, and the completiton of the first ride was considered the most incredible feat of railroad engineering the world has seen). I can´t wait. There did happen to be a..umm...minor avalanche last week, however, and the train derailed. Let´s hope for no avalanches tomorrow.
HIKE is a four letter word
I am paralyzed from the waist down. I cannot feel my toes. My nose is frostbitten. My jeans are coated in dirt. My hands are pierced with thorns. I will never, ever, ever hike again.
Rachel and I woke this morning with ambitions of hiking around the Quilotoa crater, trekking down to the Quilotoa lagoon, renting kayaks, and hiking back up. According to our trusty Lonely Planet guide, the hike takes around 4-5 hours, and the crater is one of the most exhilarating sites in all of Ecuador. I was excited about the hike, but a little nervous, as I´m not a big hiking fanatic. I trusted Rachel and the guide books, though, and went along with the plan. I even bought a gorgeous painting of the crater for Flavio as I imagined it looking stunning on his wall.
Five minutes into the hike I had flashbacks of the horrible hikes my parents dragged me on and quickly remembered why I abstained from the wretched activity for the last 20 years.
The hike was torture. Sheer torture. Even Rachel, the triathelete, agreed. Mere minutes into the hike, the dirt trail jetted straight up the side of the mountain. Straight up. The use of all four limbs was not an option, but a necessity. Right hand, left hand, right foot, left foot. I grasped weeds, bushes, and rocks to propel myself forward; I slid down hills of slippery rocks, and stumbled to maintain some sort of balance.
There was no sun. It was cold. My teeth chattered until they froze. My nose ran until it turned purple. My hair dripped down the sides of my head. I panted, and gasped for air. I tried to remain positive for Rachel´s sake, but as we got farther and farther out, I became more and more miserable. My legs threatened to fold, and my mittens turned to chards of wool, pierced by thorns.
Just when I thought things could not possibly get any worse, we lost site of the trail.
Around the time the trail vanished, Rachel and I met up with an Italian couple, Anna and Paolo, who were equally confused as to which direction to go. Anna chose to go with Rachel and I, while Paolo took a different path.
The three of us ladies knew we were in trouble within minutes and began screaming ¨PAOLO! PAOLO!¨for help. There was no response. We forged ahead. I started humming ¨If I only had a horse¨ to the tune of ¨If I only had a brain¨ from the wizard of OZ to try to distract myself from the possibility of dying out in middle of a volcanic crater and never seeing civilization again. Rachel asked me a couple times if I´would ever forgive her for taking me on this trail. I did not have enough energy to respond. My only ray of hope came in the shape of occansional donkey turd… at least there was another life form out there somewhere.
With little other choice, Rachel, Anna, and I eventually decided to climb the at least 250 meters straight up a wall of rocks and make it to the top of the crater. From there, hopefully, we would be able to spot some sort of trail. The ascent was treacherous. Just as I started to make progress, I hit a patch of sand and slipped down 10 feet. One wrong step and one would plunge 15,000 feet to a horrific death. The three of us took turns crying out for Paolo.
Finally, we spotted Paolo. He made his way over to us and helped pull us up over the side of the mountain. If I hadn´t seen him at that precise moment, I think I would jumped off the side of the crater.
After 6 harrowing hours, we made it back to the village. The Lonely Planet author who claimed the hike was a peaceful 4 hour walk will most certainly be hearing from me…
Our near death experience on the trail created a deep bond between both Rachel and I and Anna and Paolo. The four of us, (and 2 of their other friends who joined us later) spent the afternoon together, and ended up renting rooms at the same hostal in a nearby village. We all ate dinner together and then became an audience for a group of dancing Ecuadorian 7 year old girls. They were all adorned in their precious native outfits: bright yellow sequined hair bandanas, bold yellow, green and red skirts, and white peasant blouses with purple and green flowers embroidered on the neckline. I loved the show.
The music paused 15 minutes into the show and one of the dancers stuck her hand out either to shake my hand or to ask for tip money---I was not sure. I reached into my pocket for some change when I felt her tugging on my arm. The next thing I knew, I was up, twirling, and swirling around the room in a circle of 10 or so 7 year old girls. It was big Gringo me in my still dusty jeans, and sweat stained face, and lovely little them. I had a blast and luckily caught a bit on camera. Judging by the photos or the looks of the dance, no one would ever known that I nearly died only hours before.
Rachel and I woke this morning with ambitions of hiking around the Quilotoa crater, trekking down to the Quilotoa lagoon, renting kayaks, and hiking back up. According to our trusty Lonely Planet guide, the hike takes around 4-5 hours, and the crater is one of the most exhilarating sites in all of Ecuador. I was excited about the hike, but a little nervous, as I´m not a big hiking fanatic. I trusted Rachel and the guide books, though, and went along with the plan. I even bought a gorgeous painting of the crater for Flavio as I imagined it looking stunning on his wall.
Five minutes into the hike I had flashbacks of the horrible hikes my parents dragged me on and quickly remembered why I abstained from the wretched activity for the last 20 years.
The hike was torture. Sheer torture. Even Rachel, the triathelete, agreed. Mere minutes into the hike, the dirt trail jetted straight up the side of the mountain. Straight up. The use of all four limbs was not an option, but a necessity. Right hand, left hand, right foot, left foot. I grasped weeds, bushes, and rocks to propel myself forward; I slid down hills of slippery rocks, and stumbled to maintain some sort of balance.
There was no sun. It was cold. My teeth chattered until they froze. My nose ran until it turned purple. My hair dripped down the sides of my head. I panted, and gasped for air. I tried to remain positive for Rachel´s sake, but as we got farther and farther out, I became more and more miserable. My legs threatened to fold, and my mittens turned to chards of wool, pierced by thorns.
Just when I thought things could not possibly get any worse, we lost site of the trail.
Around the time the trail vanished, Rachel and I met up with an Italian couple, Anna and Paolo, who were equally confused as to which direction to go. Anna chose to go with Rachel and I, while Paolo took a different path.
The three of us ladies knew we were in trouble within minutes and began screaming ¨PAOLO! PAOLO!¨for help. There was no response. We forged ahead. I started humming ¨If I only had a horse¨ to the tune of ¨If I only had a brain¨ from the wizard of OZ to try to distract myself from the possibility of dying out in middle of a volcanic crater and never seeing civilization again. Rachel asked me a couple times if I´would ever forgive her for taking me on this trail. I did not have enough energy to respond. My only ray of hope came in the shape of occansional donkey turd… at least there was another life form out there somewhere.
With little other choice, Rachel, Anna, and I eventually decided to climb the at least 250 meters straight up a wall of rocks and make it to the top of the crater. From there, hopefully, we would be able to spot some sort of trail. The ascent was treacherous. Just as I started to make progress, I hit a patch of sand and slipped down 10 feet. One wrong step and one would plunge 15,000 feet to a horrific death. The three of us took turns crying out for Paolo.
Finally, we spotted Paolo. He made his way over to us and helped pull us up over the side of the mountain. If I hadn´t seen him at that precise moment, I think I would jumped off the side of the crater.
After 6 harrowing hours, we made it back to the village. The Lonely Planet author who claimed the hike was a peaceful 4 hour walk will most certainly be hearing from me…
Our near death experience on the trail created a deep bond between both Rachel and I and Anna and Paolo. The four of us, (and 2 of their other friends who joined us later) spent the afternoon together, and ended up renting rooms at the same hostal in a nearby village. We all ate dinner together and then became an audience for a group of dancing Ecuadorian 7 year old girls. They were all adorned in their precious native outfits: bright yellow sequined hair bandanas, bold yellow, green and red skirts, and white peasant blouses with purple and green flowers embroidered on the neckline. I loved the show.
The music paused 15 minutes into the show and one of the dancers stuck her hand out either to shake my hand or to ask for tip money---I was not sure. I reached into my pocket for some change when I felt her tugging on my arm. The next thing I knew, I was up, twirling, and swirling around the room in a circle of 10 or so 7 year old girls. It was big Gringo me in my still dusty jeans, and sweat stained face, and lovely little them. I had a blast and luckily caught a bit on camera. Judging by the photos or the looks of the dance, no one would ever known that I nearly died only hours before.
Marvelous Modes of Transportation
I love the chaos of bus travel in foreign countries. In Ecuador, for example, they do not appear to believe in bus stops, though they do have 1 major bus terminal per BIG city. In lieu of marked bus stops, you simply stand on the street and wave down a bus headed in the direction you wish to travel….
Rachel and I left Quito early this morning. We headed to Sasquisili, a tiny villiage in the heart of Ecuador. The town is known for its bustling Thursday morning market. We asked our bus driver to drop us off in the villiage when we boarded the bus in Quito, as with the lack of established bus stops, us non-natives have no way of knowing when we have reached our destination. Rachel was sound asleep at the time I noticed the driver motioning for us to get off. I was a bit concerned because the driver appeared to be ejecting us in the middle of no where. Rachel and I got off as instructed, though. We stared blankly at each other for a couple minutes until a nice Ecuadorian man in a pick up truck drove up to us an offered us a ride to the villiage. He ushered us into the back of his truck where we stood for the next 15 minutes, bouncing and bobbling along with each and every rock and pothole on the unpaved road. It was quite the experience, although it must have been an equally interesting experience for the natives who witnessed a truck of gringo girls bouncing, bumping, and thumping into town.
After a quick lunch in the market, we caught a bus to Zimbahua, where we hoped to hire a driver to get us to Quilotoa where we planned to spend the night. On the bus, a 22 year old kid who spoke no English whatsoever offered to drive us himself. Rachel and I agreed and ended up in a car with him, his father, and his younger sister en route to a fiesta of drunk Ecuadorians. Who knew?
On another note, the countryside in the Quilotoa region of Ecuador is gorgeous. Lush, rolling green hills, cow pastures, and pines decorate the region. The villiagers all dress in native attire. Women, for example, don forest green top hats with a solo peacock feather in the back, brightly colored wool ponchos, black velvet skirts with small flowers embroidered around the hem, pale earth-toned knee socks, and black, close-toed shoes. Most women wear their hair in a thick, single black braid and wrap a florescent, multicolored ribbon around it.
Our 22 year old personal chauffeur who I couldn´t help but notice was reading a driver´s ed manual on the bus next to me did manage to get us to a hostal. The hostal is cold, and barren. There is no better way to say it. I immediately changed into thermals, a fleece, my winter jacket, a winter ski cap, and mittens, yet I could still see my breath as I spoke. You know you´re in for trouble when you arrive at a lodge and your bed is hidden under 4 wool blankets and an electric blanket…
Rachel and I left Quito early this morning. We headed to Sasquisili, a tiny villiage in the heart of Ecuador. The town is known for its bustling Thursday morning market. We asked our bus driver to drop us off in the villiage when we boarded the bus in Quito, as with the lack of established bus stops, us non-natives have no way of knowing when we have reached our destination. Rachel was sound asleep at the time I noticed the driver motioning for us to get off. I was a bit concerned because the driver appeared to be ejecting us in the middle of no where. Rachel and I got off as instructed, though. We stared blankly at each other for a couple minutes until a nice Ecuadorian man in a pick up truck drove up to us an offered us a ride to the villiage. He ushered us into the back of his truck where we stood for the next 15 minutes, bouncing and bobbling along with each and every rock and pothole on the unpaved road. It was quite the experience, although it must have been an equally interesting experience for the natives who witnessed a truck of gringo girls bouncing, bumping, and thumping into town.
After a quick lunch in the market, we caught a bus to Zimbahua, where we hoped to hire a driver to get us to Quilotoa where we planned to spend the night. On the bus, a 22 year old kid who spoke no English whatsoever offered to drive us himself. Rachel and I agreed and ended up in a car with him, his father, and his younger sister en route to a fiesta of drunk Ecuadorians. Who knew?
On another note, the countryside in the Quilotoa region of Ecuador is gorgeous. Lush, rolling green hills, cow pastures, and pines decorate the region. The villiagers all dress in native attire. Women, for example, don forest green top hats with a solo peacock feather in the back, brightly colored wool ponchos, black velvet skirts with small flowers embroidered around the hem, pale earth-toned knee socks, and black, close-toed shoes. Most women wear their hair in a thick, single black braid and wrap a florescent, multicolored ribbon around it.
Our 22 year old personal chauffeur who I couldn´t help but notice was reading a driver´s ed manual on the bus next to me did manage to get us to a hostal. The hostal is cold, and barren. There is no better way to say it. I immediately changed into thermals, a fleece, my winter jacket, a winter ski cap, and mittens, yet I could still see my breath as I spoke. You know you´re in for trouble when you arrive at a lodge and your bed is hidden under 4 wool blankets and an electric blanket…
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Back to Civilization
Rachel and I have made our way back to solid ground. Our beds are no longer swaying, sea lions are no longer belching, our bathroom no longer reeks of sewage and the ocean waves are no longer knocking us off our feet. As soon as we hopped off the plane we jetted off to a laundromat. Tomorrow we will sport clean clothes for the first time in a week in a half. Hallelujah! The folks on the bus will surely be grateful.
It´s nearly midnight and Rachel and I are going to be kicked out of this internet cafe in a matter of minutes so this is it for tonight. We set out on the Quilotoa Loop tomorrow. This may entail hitching rides on milk trucks and sleeping with indigenous families...who knows. Make sure to catch up on all of our adventures in the Galapagos thus far in the previous entries! I´ll try to add a couple photos soon.
Galavanting through the Galapago: Day 6
It was another rough night at sea. We woke on the island of Espanola. Rachel and I sat on the white sand beach, soaking in the beauty of the turquoise water and sea lion colonies before taking a quick swim around Gardener Bay. I got scared of the ¨beach master¨¨ sea lion, or the ¨bitch master¨if you have a heavy Spànish accent like our guide does, and fell on a jagged rock on my way back to shore. Yowch. Now my left leg is home to a red fluffy pancake of a wasp bite (yes, it is that bad. One of ladies on the trip asked if I thought the mark might be permament...) and a gaping hole on my heel where I tripped on the rock. As fascinating as it is to swim with large mammals and sea turtles, they can be quite intimidating indeed. Then again, maybe I´m just a wuss.
In the afternoon we explored more of Espanola. There is an albatross ¨airport¨, a large blowhole in the lava rock, and a billion Christmas iguanas. (They´re red and greenish.) I was most fascinated by the itty-bitty, black and fuzzy sea lion pups. Some were born mere hours ago and were still attached to the placenta and umbilical cord. The little guys were so adorable that I wanted to pack one in my pillow case and take him home with me.
Galavanting through the Galapagos: Day 5
It was a rough night at sea. Water thrashed violently against the hull of the boat, and the engine roared. The cabin windows rattled and my stomach rose and fell with each passing wave. Needless to say, I did not sleep well.
In the morning, we explored the island of Floreana. There´s a mailbox here where tourists place unstamped postcards for fellow tourists to take and hand deliver. It´s some tradition leftover from the sailor-era. Anyhow, Rachel and I grabbed a Boston-bound postcard and placed 2 self-addressed cards in the box. I wonder when they´ll arrive in Somerville...or maybe I should say, I wonder IF they´ll arrive in Somerville.
Later we snorkelled in bone-chillingly cold water. Wetsuits are great but they certainly do not work miracles for the scrawny. The current was rough and it took 2 cups of hot tea and a bowl of soup for me to restore my body temperature. Our shower is hot, but the bathroom reeks of sewage which makes for an unpleasant shower. I seriously have to plug my nose while I pee. Neither Rachel or I can figure out what the problem is.
In the afternoon we observed black frigate birds as they swept down to a white sand beach and snatched baby turtle eggs. Just beyond the beach we found a toilet-brown lagoon full of flaming pink flamingos. We were supposed to have a ¨wet landing¨on the beach for this exploration, but our dinghy driver has figured out that I have no balance and am one seriously wobbly woman so he threw me on his back and gave me a personal ¨dry landing¨ aka a piggyback ride to shore. It was great.
Galavanting throught the Galapagos: Day 3 and 4
The entire boat rose at 5:45 am to catch the sunrise...unfortunately our boat drifted behind a large rock just as the sun made its debut. Darn rock. At preciesely 6:29 am we left the boat for a hike across North Seymore island. Here birds soar overhead and blue footed boobies color the desert terrain. This island is home to flocks of black frigate birds. During mating season the males sport a tomato-red, eggplant-sized balloon underneath their beaks. I longed to go poke one with my index finger, like those kids poke the pillsbury dough boy in cookie commericals, but touching animals is strictly forbidden, of course. I don´t think I really want to know the precise content of those sacks either.
Half of our boat mates concluded their trip in the Galapagos today. I made the British girls give me a lesson in British English prior to their departure. It was great. When someone´s ¨got a cob on¨ he or she is in a bad mood, and a jacket is not a jacket but a ¨jumper¨, and a bathing suit is not a bathing suit but a ¨swim costume.¨ I love it. Once they left, a new crew joined the boat and we set sail for a wild mangrove tree adventure. I felt like I was on the jungle boat cruise at Disneyland. Rough murky waters quickly gave way to a quiet, deep green sea lagoon where giant sea turtles glided beneath the boat, pelicans caapaulted into the water beside us, white tip sharks raced by, puffer fish popped and hissed as they splashed out of the water, and sea lions belched. The sun beat down on my back and I dodged mangrove tree branches. Rachel being the desginated photographer (as she never found a replacement camera) snapped pictures while I remained focused on shooing away mosquitoes. What an adventure. It was truly the jungle boat cruise come to life.
Galavanting throught the Galapagos: Day 2
This morning a gray inflated dinghy departed from our yacht at 8 am for an early morning penguin spotting adventure. Forty minutes and a couple penguins later, the dinghy dropped us off on the island of Santiago where we trekked across billowy, jet-black lava rock. The lava rock was amazing. Some of the rock was round, while other patches were twisted like black licorice. I crawled into a lava bubble for a quick photo shoot. Why not begin a modeling career from inside a lava tube out in the middle of no where? I´m sure that´s how all models make it big.
Later we suited up and hit the sea for more snorkeling. I had my wet suit half way up my legs when a bloody evil wasp the size of a mini-weiner pierced my thigh. Ouch. I froze—terrified that my leg was about to snap off. Luckily one of the fathers on the trip had a bottle of benadryl on him. He suddenly became my new best friend. I am still recovering.
The snorkeling was once again astonishing. We snorkeled around Pinnacle rock off the island of Bartolome, which borders the island of Santiago. We swam with fuzzy black and white penguins, kelly-green speckled sea turtles, and more sea lions. Some of the penguins posed for photographs on the rocks. I made sure to snap a couple. Overhead giant white pelicans dove into the water and devoured fish, while an occasional blue-footed boobie (a Galapagos native with pretty baby-blue feet) dropped by for a visit.
After snorkeling, I took a scalding hot shower to warm up. It´s either ¨agua caliente¨or ¨agua fria¨ on this boat...caliente is clearly the way to go.
In the afternoon we boarded the dingy for Bartolome island once again—this time to climb 372 steps to the island´s highest peak. I sure got my quadricep workout in. The view from the top was phenomenal: volcanoes, craters, and tiny islands scattered throughout the sea like crumbs on a linoleum floor. The Galapagos islands are completely uninhabited by people and there are only 83 boats allowed in the water surrounding the islands at all times. Once on the islands, there are very few places places for tourists to meander...if only the same were true for wasps.
Galavanting throught the Galapagos: Day 1
We awoke this morning on the island of Santa Cruz. It does not take stellar vision to realize that the Galapagos is no tropical paradise, but a string of islandic eye-sores. The terrain (or terrafirma as our British boatmates say) is a hybrid of black lava rock much like the big island of Hawaii and the desert of Africa: dead, ivory weeds and shrubs, leafless trees, and cacti. It´s thus no surprise that animal life is these islands´ claim to fame.
After a brief morning hike through Santa Cruz, our boat sailed to the island of Rabida. Here we waded through maroon sand beaches and lagoons. Rachel and I snorkeled with sea lions and sharks...yes, sharks. Our renowned level three naturalist guide assured us it was safe...with an oh-so-reasuuring chuckle. I struggled to get my snorkeling gear on and turned to Rachel for help. She burst into giggles. I then realized the mask was upside down and the nose hole was on my forehead. Oops. The gearing up humiliation was well worth it, though. The water was turqoiuse yet crystal clear, schools of shimmering fish glided through intricate coral rock formation, and sea lions bolted by like silver bullets. Nearby, fire engine-red crabs climbed on the black lava rocks as canary yellow and orange land iguanas with short stubbly mohawks stood guard. Quite spectacular to say the least...even to me, the non animal enthusiast. The day ended with a yacht-wide salsa dance. Yes, even I got up off the seat and moved my feet.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Galavanting through the Galapagos
I have officially arrived in the Galapagos. It took a 6:40 am departure from the hotel, an 8 am flight, a mini pit-stop to refuel in Guyiaquil, a bus ride, a ferry ride, and a small boat ride to reach our yacht, but I am here. The swaying back and forth of the boat may soon nauseate me to death, but so far no retching--this is a good thing because the toilet in my cabin does not appear to be working. One big wave and Rachel and I will surely drown in a sea of urine. I suppose either Rachel or I should probably mention this to someone.
After we reached the boat, we took a mini trip to Porta Ayorta, the biggest and only real town out here. This is my last opportunity to connect to the real world until next Wednesday. Our naturalist guide informed us it would simply be us and the wilderness for the next couple days. We visited some ginormous tortoises and the Charles Darwin research center. The island is gorgeous, as is the water. It´s the most amazing shade of green.
The others on the boat seem friendly. Most are from England--I felt like a weirdo eating pizza with a fork and knife, but I went along with the flow.
Anyhow, once back on land, my next major project will be to figure out my financial delemma. Bank of America has blocked my atm card and I´m completely moneyless. I might have to join the herd of pre-pubescent boys begging to shoe shine, or sell pieces of rotten candy out in Quito in order to make it home....
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Exlporing Quito
It was an action packed day here in Quito. After a breakfast of vanilla yogurt, fresh papaya and melon, Rachel and I navigated our way to TeleferiQo, or Quito´s latest tourist attraction. The attraction consists of a gondola ride to the top of a mountain overlooking the historic city. Rachel initially had aspirations to climb to some peak far beyond the upper gondola station, but rumors of slayings of innocent gringos like ourselves nipped that desire right in the bud. Unlike those unlucky gringos, however, Rachel and I managed to make it down the mountain safely. Phew. Rachel´s camera, on the other hand, was not so lucky. When, where, and how it vanished, we do not know. As I type away, she is frantically shopping for a replacement.
Anyhow, after a pathetic lunch at the clucking chicken or some Ecuadorian KFC equivalent (we were starving and it was this or no lunch. I swear these Ecuadorians have some uncanny fascination with fast-food chicken joints) Rachel and I explored the cobblestone roads, old churches, and gardens of Quito. We eventually wound our way to a monstrous basilica on the edge of town. At this point the weather turned wicked and a sporadic "hurricane" pounded the city. Sans umbrella, Rachel and I decided to hike to the top of the basilica. This was no simple feat. The trek to the top entailed climbing hand-over-hand up a rusted ladder made of chicken wire, balancing across a narrow, rickety wooden swinging bridge that longed to give way, and winding up flight after flight of narrow, damp, and dark spiral staircases. Liability, pshaw!
Tomorrow we fly out of Quito for the Galapagos. We´ll join a group of 14 or so others and reside on a yacht for the next 8 nights, cruising from island to island with a level 111 naturalist guide. I´ve got my underwater camera ready.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Oversold Situations
Sometimes you don´t even have to leave the country for an adventure…Rachel and I arrived at the Boston airport this morning to what the ticket agent described as an "oversold situation." In other words, a traveling nightmare. Out of all 200 plus seats on the flight, and not just the first flight, mind you, but all 3 flights, our two seats were the lucky 2 oversold. Some gracious fellow passengers sacrificed their seats for us, however, and we made it to Houston—15 minutes into our measly 35 minute layover. With little time to spare, Rachel and I catapulted ourselves off the plane, dodged the inevitable lethargic overhead bin abusers, and hitched a ride on a speeding golf cart in a desperate attempt to make our connecting flight. The gate appeared ominously shut when we arrived, but a Continental dude was nice enough to let us on. Seconds later another couple rushed up behind us, however, and we were given the boot. In a matter of moments we were on and then we were off. Then we were on again and off again. Rachel and I exchanged utterly confused glances. Then, for reasons unbeknownst to us, we were on and Mr. Patel in 5B was off. Who needs organization? We eventually got on with instructions to scour the plane for any vacant seat.
Mid-flight I excused myself from my cramped middle seat sandwiched in between two fat men to use the lavatory. Midstream I heard ¨Would passenger Laura Burnett please push the flight attendant call button?" I was a bit surprised to hear my name being called. I knew the seat belt sign was on and all, but there certainly wasn´t enough turbulence to warrant paging me back to my seat and I swear I wasn´t taking long enough to warrant that kind of restroom removal act. I stepped out and asked a flight attendant what was going on. Luckily it was just their way of finding me to deliver my meal tray. Bizarre.
Anyway, Rachel and I, have officially arrived in Quito. Better yet, so have our bags! Miraculous!
Mid-flight I excused myself from my cramped middle seat sandwiched in between two fat men to use the lavatory. Midstream I heard ¨Would passenger Laura Burnett please push the flight attendant call button?" I was a bit surprised to hear my name being called. I knew the seat belt sign was on and all, but there certainly wasn´t enough turbulence to warrant paging me back to my seat and I swear I wasn´t taking long enough to warrant that kind of restroom removal act. I stepped out and asked a flight attendant what was going on. Luckily it was just their way of finding me to deliver my meal tray. Bizarre.
Anyway, Rachel and I, have officially arrived in Quito. Better yet, so have our bags! Miraculous!
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Ready or not, off we go!
The dynamic traveling duo are setting out again…this time bound for the land of blue-footed boobies, bull penis soup, finches, alpacas and sea lions.
Our flight departs Boston tomorrow at 5:35 am and stops in Houston, where a measly 35 minute layover leaves us with little choice but to charge recklessly across two terminals, trample any and all idle fellow travelers, and hurl ourselves onto a connecting Panama City-bound flight. Should the Houston Hustle prove successful, we will arrive in Quito at 9 pm local time (10 pm for those in the east, 7 pm for those in the west). If, however, our gallivant soaring, sprinting, and scurrying efforts prove insufficient, we will revert to plan B...precisely what that entails, however, we do not know. Only time and our friends at Continental airlines will tell. Somehow or another, bags, or no bags, we will arrive in Quito within the next 48 hours!
Our flight departs Boston tomorrow at 5:35 am and stops in Houston, where a measly 35 minute layover leaves us with little choice but to charge recklessly across two terminals, trample any and all idle fellow travelers, and hurl ourselves onto a connecting Panama City-bound flight. Should the Houston Hustle prove successful, we will arrive in Quito at 9 pm local time (10 pm for those in the east, 7 pm for those in the west). If, however, our gallivant soaring, sprinting, and scurrying efforts prove insufficient, we will revert to plan B...precisely what that entails, however, we do not know. Only time and our friends at Continental airlines will tell. Somehow or another, bags, or no bags, we will arrive in Quito within the next 48 hours!
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