My memories of my visit to the middle of the world are hazy to say the least, but here is what I do remember: a butterfly landing on my shoulder at the thermal baths, a very embarrassing tribal dance with the Quechuan people in the jungle, watching Face/Off at the foot of Cotopaxi in the minibus in an effort to keep warm and getting pretty drunk wearing our new Ecuador football shirts on our last night in Quito. The last memory was in danger of being repeated.
We arrived in Quito late at night and jumped in a cab to our first stop, The Secret Garden Hostel. Blatantly ignoring the sign saying “reception is on the roof terrace, drop your heavy bags here!”, we lugged our backpacks up five very windy sets of stairs, huffing and puffing with the increase in altitude each step took us to. Even in the dark the view over Quito from the roof terrace was breath-taking, and we went to bed excited to be in a new country and to see what the next day would bring.
As we expected, the view in the morning was even more inspiring than it had been in the dark, and I instantly recognised the Virgin of Quito perched on top of El Panecillo and the impressive gothic Basilica, perhaps I remembered more than I thought. We set about exploring the Old Town, which was teeming with Ecuadorians taking advantage of the Catholic public holiday during Carnaval, and meandered through the square taking in the picture perfect sixteenth-century architecture and being really quite gobsmacked at just how tiny the Ecuadorians are (especially the men); I know someone who would feel right at home here, although he may have to purchase some stacks for his shoes to keep eye level with them (HI DAD!) The serenity of the morning was somewhat ruined when we were waiting to cross the road and were doused from head to toe in foam by a car whizzing past, apparently an Ecuadorian tradition at Carnaval along with water-throwing. Great.
After we’d recovered from the vicious foam attack, we braved the cities buses only to find that they were an obvious target for the renegade water throwers, and narrowly escaped being drenched every time the doors opened to let someone on or off. Three very nerve-wracking buses later and we arrived at the Mitad del Mundo. I had previously been to the monument on the Equator with school, and we all happily posed for photos with one foot on either side of the line (“Look, I’m in two places at once!”) indicating the middle of the world, so you can imagine my dismay when my trusty Rough Guide informed me that the real Equator lies approximately 300m further along the main road. Determined not to be duped, we ignored the very busy Fakecuator, and headed to the Museo Solar Inti Nan, where thanks to GPS the real Equator is now known to be. We explored the very cool and pretty little museum with a guide who showed us the various experiments that can be performed on the Equator, such as the water going down the plug hole and balancing an egg on the head of the nail, even harder than it sounds despite the benefit of reduced gravity! There was also an interesting exhibition on indigenous housing complete with some cute fluffy guinea pigs (to be boiled, skewed and roasted) and an extremely weird step-by-step guide on how to make a shrunken head, which I’m still not sure I fully understand, or whether I even want to. After the obligatory photos straddling the Equator and receiving our certificates and passport stamps, it was time to brave the bus back to the hostel for dinner and drinks with a view.
A gloomy and cold Shrove Tuesday in Quito was marvellously improved by pancakes for breakfast at the hostel and a trip to the Thermal Baths. ‘About two hours from Quito’, as everything was said to be but never actually was, Las Termas de Papallacta are located in the beautiful Andean highlands, which of course entails a scary windy bus ride overtaking anything that stands in your way despite the 100 foot drop. I have found that closing my eyes and pretending that I’m on a rollercoaster rather than a road helps with the fear, and the reward of a day relaxing in thermal springs with a massage at the end doesn’t hurt either! No butterfly this time, but a beautiful day none the less.
When we woke the next morning, the view from the roof terrace was obscured by sheeting rain (pun perhaps intended) so there was nothing else for it but to head to Gringolandia and watch the football in an Irish pub. I have already stated my disgust at the lack of Magners in my last post, but feel that it is quite necessary to reiterate this – it is a fallacy to reward yourself with the name ‘Finn McCool’s Irish Pub’ if you’re not going to have Magners, not cool Finn McCool, not cool at all. After beers and burgers in the New Town, we headed back to the hostel for an early night as we were getting up early to go to Cotopaxi. Forrest had other ideas though, and it wasn’t long before we were playing Kings with three Australians (never a good sign) and back in the New Town dancing to Thriller.
It goes without saying that instead of visiting an active volcano the next day, we spent the day in bed extremely hungover with a KFC.
Keen to shake of the Kings hangover which was still niggling me somewhere between my eyes, despite sleeping the entire day previously, we organised a trip to Mindo for some extreme adventure with Karla and Laine, the two Aussie girls we’d been out with two nights before. The morning’s adrenaline fix came from Mindo Canopy Adventure, for zip-lining along thirteen cables high above the forest, the highest and longest being 400m long and god knows how high. Although I was a little terrified of the cables snapping under my weight, once I was assured that not even I could snap stainless steel, it was great fun, and it wasn’t long before we were doing ‘Superman’ poses as we flew through the forest, and even the death-defying upside down Mariposa (Butterfly) pose.
Desperate for our next adrenaline fix, our next stop was the even scarier ‘Leeeeeap Ooooooffffffff Faaaaaaiiiiiith’! This involved a similar sort of cable/zip-lining set up but only this time rather than getting in to position and slowly sliding, we had to take a running jump over a canyon. You might think that with all my extreme bungy-jumping experience I would find this a doddle? No siree! It is never an easy thing to throw yourself off the side of a cliff with the hope that some so called ‘stainless steel’ is going to catch you and zip-line you to safety. I would probably say that mine was less a leap of faith, more a hesitant mistrust. But as you can tell, we lived to tell the tale and daringly even did another jump (again less of a jump, more of a stumble). Forrest says that his day in Mindo has given him a little more optimism for his impending bungy-jump in Cairns – watch this space! After Forrest braved the glacial waters of the Mindo waterfalls to experience the waterslide in the rocks, and after bidding adieu to our Australian buddies, we headed back to Quito for an early night – we really were going to Cotopaxi the next day!
When I was fifteen the idea of climbing the 5897m of Cotopaxi was not appealing, and I have to admit that as the picture-perfect symmetrical cone-shaped volcano loomed in to view, at twenty-three I still don’t feel the need to do so. I am more than happy to admire its beauty from afar and drink hot chocolate laced with rum in front of a log fire. The Secret Garden Cotopaxi was definitely the most homely and warm place we have stayed, even if we were staying in a tent! We were greeted with homemade minestrone soup and an exquisite view of the Avenue of Volcanoes. That afternoon we went on a short walk to some nearby waterfalls and relaxed in front of the fire with a glass of red wine and a good book before a dinner of burgers and jacket potatoes. Just like being back in England – bliss!
Forrest somehow persuaded me to walk up part of Cotopaxi, to the refuge located at the edge of the glacier at 4800m. Not as difficult as it sounds as we were driven practically to the front door of the refuge, however the half hour slog up the ashy side of the volcano was no mean feat due to the altitude, but with a rest after every ten steps I finally made it to the refuge for hot chocolate and very delicious banana cake. The views, as you can imagine, were breathtaking. If you ignored the snow-capped peaks in every direction, the verdant paramo (Andean grasslands) could have been mistaken for the rolling green hills of our beautiful Ribble Valley, and made me somewhat nostalgic for home and the view of Pendle Hill from Rock House.
The plan was to mountain bike back down from the jeep all the way back to the hostel, an activity I was less than thrilled about, being still a little unsteady on a bicycle after the Great Bike Race Incident in Gisburn Forest all those years ago. So, you can imagine my disappointment when it was discovered that our guide had only brought enough bikes for five people rather than the six planning to do the mountain biking. It was with great dignity and gallantry that I stepped aside and offered to ride back in the jeep so that another less-fortunate person than I would have the opportunity to take a bike, I’m not sure that I have mentioned that I had after all already been to Ecuador on a previous occasion. After a shaky start where Forrest discovered his brakes didn’t work, not exactly ideal when you’re about to zoom down the side of a volcano, we followed the bikers in the jeep as they navigated their way through the moon-like terrain at breakneck speed. We all met up again when we hit flat land, and I have to admit that I was a little jealous of their flushed faces and stupid grinning mouths, and perhaps should have been a little braver and joined in. If only I wasn’t psychologically scarred from being forced to enter a competitive bike race down a dangerous limestone track when I was just a tiny little girl. It obviously wasn’t long before Forrest’s luck ran out and he took a tumble on the track when his chain fell off. Luckily the jeep was still behind the bikes at this stage, and he was a very bwave boy despite his grazed hands and arms and simply jumped in the car with us. I personally think he was worried that I would eat all the food back at the hostel before the bikers even got back.
Unfortunately, Forrest’s luck went from bad to worse as his quick ascent and descent up and down Cotopaxi meant that the dreaded altitude sickness took hold and not even a strongly brewed cup of Coca tea was able to curb the nightmare that was to follow. I most certainly will not divulge the effects of altitude sickness on the body, for those of you who would like to know there are far more appropriate mediums such as the NHS website, but it meant that our little tent and access to an organic compost ‘toilet’ was no longer a suitable form of accommodation, and I moved a very weak and dazed Forrest to a beautiful honeymoon cabana complete with sunken bathtub and log fire, and most importantly a flushing toilet. I am pleased to report that I was a dutiful and attentive nurse throughout the night, supplying copious amounts of rehydrating liquids and even a hot water bottle, and was not even bitter in the slightest that it was looking as though we were not going to be able to do the horse-riding the following morning. Although Forrest was pretty devastated that he missed pizza night!
My Florence Nightingale behaviour during the night worked, and although Forrest was still feeling pretty ropey we decided it was probably best to get back to Quito rather than another sleepless night at altitude. A wise decision indeed, and Forrest spent the afternoon recuperating whilst I planned the next stage of our adventure, mainly to get Forrest back to an altitude he could cope with: sea level! Despite scary murmurings of a tsunami hitting the Ecuadorian coast after the devastating events in Japan, Ecuador had escaped unscathed, so it was back to the beach for us for sun, surf and ceviche.
Forrest's Final Thought… red red wine (stay close to me)
Bea has brought up an interesting point whilst deriding the lack of cider on the trip thus far, however, whilst I am partial to the odd glass of fermented apple juice every once in a while, it is not the lack of cider that has caused me grave disappointment and sleepless nights, it is the lack of decent red wine. To those of you who know me well, you will know that there are three loves in my life; red wine, friends & family, and football and to those of you who know me really well, you will know that they they go in that order.
The first stop was Brazil, a country boarding Argentina, whom arguably produces some of the finest red wines in the world. It would be logical to presume therefore that some of these wines would manage to make it over the border and supply Brazil’s burgeoning middle class with some decent Malbec, Cabernet Sauvignon et al. It was not to be the case. Red wine was scarce in Brazil and when it was found, it turned out to be disappointing to say the least. An example of this would be our eight day trip up the Amazon. Imagine my surprise when I was informed that the boat sold, of all things, red wine! The wine in question was a Brazilian wine known as Suave and supposedly very popular amongst the locals. And so with our bags safely put away in our cabin, I wasted no time in heading upstairs to the bar. The first thing I noticed was the temperature of the bottle; coming straight out of the fridge it was too cold for my liking, however with warm sun above us, it was only a matter of time before this was rectified. The second thing I noticed however was the taste. This could not be rectified. It was if someone had previously opened the bottle and inserted 7000 tea spoons of sugar along with full bottle of toilet cleaner. Disgusting.
Colombia proved to be much of the same with the exception of the supermarket chain, Exito. Exito, a very fine supermarket indeed, had a good selection of wines from around the world. However, my dismay and desperation were not to cease here. The wines although good were extortionately expensive and when travelling on a budget, extortionately expensive means too expensive. To give you an idea of prices, a bottle of Verve Clique, usually circa £40 in the UK was a cool £300 in Colombia. Disgusting.
I was rather disheartened by the time we reached the dizzying heights of Ecuador’s capital Quito and after drinking a glass of the house red in the bar (from a carton I might add – a carton!!!) I made a vow; I was not going to drink red wine, or any type of wine for that matter, until we reached the promised land of Argentina. So from now on, that’s 5 weeks without red wine. Disgusting.
