Ecuador
QUITO
After three weeks hanging out with Xavier and his friends in Puerto Rico, it was time for me to move on again. Looking at the beautiful Riomar Resort from the appartment's terasse, I started pondering the idea of ditching my flight, but I realized I really had to get going again and so, rather reluctantly, I left the Caribbean and got on a plane to Quito.
Ecuador's capital is a city I have mixed feelings about. On the plus side, it looks a bit like Mexico City, owing to the fact that both cities sit right next to a volcano and are nested at approximately the same altitude; they are also both pleasantly dotted with wooded hills and they stretch out all the way to the horizon. Flying in at night is really quite impressive, for the airport is very close to the city. On the downside however, Quito is also quite dangerous. Now, I've been to places that are considered rather unsafe, namely in Nepal, Cambodia and Auckland, but nothing comes even close to what you see or hear about this place.
It is no urban legend that a lot of people get mobbed, robbed, strangled or shot in broad daylight. Nothing justifies not traveling by taxi. Security is a real issue and the private guards equipped with bullet proof vests and massive assault weapons standing in front of every single popular bar or restaurant are a testimony to this fact. To my unprepared mind, this came as a bit of a surprise, for I had genuinely believed Ecuador to be a nice and cosy country with lots of pretty scenery and relaxed people. Listening to other travellers and warned by locals, I had to come to the abrupt conclusion that in Quito at least, life is as wild as one would expect it to be in neighbouring Colombia.
The morning after my arrival, I wanted to see the city and decided to strike a deal with a taxi driver to give me a private sightseeing tour of the place. After we'd settled on a price, we drove for a couple of hours through the meandering streets in various parts of the capital; he impressed me with his extensive knowledge about the town's history.
He also informed me that one of the main attractions around Quito is the Equator line, which crosses just a bit further up North at a place called "Ciudad Mitad del Mundo". He offered to drive me there but I decided to keep it real and next morning, I boarded the public bus to get there. I was the only non-Ecuadorian person on the coach for a long time, but as we reached the outskirts of Quito, the bus got pretty empty and I was alone. I shifted my gaze from the chickens carried by old women inside the coach to the ones scratching around outside the bus.
The scenery wasn't particularly pretty, with a few barren hills here and there and couple of mules to break the monotony of it all. Over the course of my travels in the Southern Hemisphere, I have gotten used to dust and rubble and shanty towns. But on this ride, for some reason, I had set my expectations a bit higher. Given the fact I was on board of the "trans-hemisferico" I was hoping my schizophrenic destination would offer an illustration of the gap between the North and the South. Perhaps would there be some green pastries on one side and dried mud on the other? But no. It was just the same derilict desert everywhere. Crossing from Cambodia into Vietnam, or looking at pictures of Berlin prior to 1989 is much more rewarding if you are a fan of visual contrasts.
"Ciudad Mitad del Mundo" (a place which best translates as the "Middlonowhere City") with its drab and dusty mountains, is a place that would quite clearly never ever have attracted a single tourist without a bit of an incentive. So, some time ago, the government decided to give tourists a reason to come, and based on the work of a French scientist, Charles De La Condamine, who had calculated the equator's location in 1731, proceeded with the creation of a large monument. Nobody ever the questioned the scientist´s accuracy. At least not until someone showed up onsite with a GPS about a decade ago. It turned out that De La Condamine had been mistaken by a mere 150 meters. Not bad, given the antiquated tools he had at his disposal and nothing to be really ashamed of (well at least that is what you would say if you were French).
You probably wouldn't be quite as forgiving if you were the Ecuadorian government and had heavily invested in the construction of a Disney Landish complex to celebrate the peculiar location. This is not like a few branches spilling over your fence into your neighbour's property which you could easily cut out; no, this is a case that requires the work of a demolition squad.
What is more, the place is full of what I call "industrial handicrap" that is, useless crap that is being cloned ad infinitum and only available in such pretentious tourist locales. So, for the really keen, it is possible to obtain a pompous certificate which declares you "an official citizen of the Equator"; this 10$ piece of s**t paper is undersigned by the Sun Gods themselves, none less.
Anyway, the small sun museum is actually quite interesting. There, besides standing with one nut in each hemisphere, you can also get to see the Corriolis theory in action. As most of you probably know, water spirals down in opposite directions on each hemisphere. Well, just a few meters away from the equator line you are able to witness this phenomenon, which is pretty casual. The museum also houses a lot of information about the indigenous people and their solar tools. But I was most impressed with the genuine shrunken head on display, which made me realize that, surrounded by Indians who used to boil foreigners in pots, it wouldn't be a bad idea to get the hell out of these parts.
Sun Museum
Moving on to another topic, and noteworthy only for context setting purposes, I'll say that the types of travellers I generally tend to eschew are the dreadlocked types with their Che Guevara prints and tribal pants. I´m still undecided about Che Guevara by the way. I would need to read a few objective books about his life to make up my mind about him. Still, you´d never see me wear a t-shirt with someone´s face on it without knowing what this peson has accomplished. Traveler types do just that, which in my book is just utterly stupid.
So, unfortunately, the Mariscal area - Quito's main tourist centre- was crawling with plenty of these louts and I will categorically state here that I have not met a single member of that community who had any form of ambition in life. It is quite the contrary really. Had I not been to Puerto Rico, the prospect of dealing with this bunch would have been quite depressing, but with my batteries fully charged, I was ready to pounce. I was in no mood to hang out with them so I checked into a hostel that was a bit more expensive than their standards. The beauty of South America is the difference one dollar makes. While the members of the nose-ringed dreadlock brigade, tight-fisted as they are, heartedly pat each other on the back for having sniffed out the cheapest squat in town, you often only have to pay an additional dollar (the ultimate white rasta repellent) to enter a world of clean rooms and private bathrooms which is pleasantly lacking in anti-globalisation types.
When I took the decision to leave Quito, I was quite excited, although I resented the prospect of travelling down on a junction of the gringo trail dotted with a lot of volcanoes and consequently equally as many tourists. I was in an adventurous mood and so I went to a travel agency where I booked a cheap last minute flight, not really concerned about its destination. I should point out that, although I lug a guidebook around, I really only rarely read it. I play by ear and I like to just randomly land in an outlandish place before clawing my way back to civilization. The plane, as it turned out, would take me a few hours later to a small city sitting in the middle of the Amazon. Coca sounded as good enough a name to quench my thirst for a bit of adventure.
COCA
As I boarded the small twelve-seat propeller jet later in the afternoon, it immediately struck me just how much the whole experience had a drug-smuggler feel to it. The destination city's name, combined with the fishy look of the flight attendant -who resembled one of Tony Montana's cronies in Scarface- made me suspect that Ecuador's national airline had recently purchased the whole lot – a packaged deal including plane, staff and route- from the smuggling circles in nearby Colombia. Indeed, an article recently featured in Times Magazine about the lost war on drugs informed me that, in the wake of 911, the neighbouring drugloards had profoundly restructured their logistics department. So, with help of a management consultant firm, they ditched the most scrutinized air routes and diverted their operations to take advantage of the rather porous sea routes of Western Africa.
Still, the plane had a few military representatives on board and so I concluded that everything was going to be just fine; that is, until I looked out of the window at the lush stretch of underlying jungle. This looked terribly malarial and I grew a bit nervous about the fact that my Malarone medicine had recently been reduced to a useless pile of dust. The subject of Malaria is an interesting one, particularly owing to the fact that it sounds really exotic and makes you look terrifically adventurous in a pub discussion. If only for that reason, I believe the topic deserves a couple of paragraphs here.
There are half a dozen treatments available to cure the symptoms of Malaria and all of them come with various advantages and drawbacks. The most versatile treatment is Lariam, which on the plus side requires only weekly intakes; this is great for anyone with only half a brain and incapable of remembering to pop a pill daily. On the downside, it leads to some pretty nasty and long lasting mental disorders. So, unless you're the type to fancy paranoid psychosis and its associated vivid dreams, the Lariam experience is an experience better left inexperienced. The US Army has some considerable Lariam-related mutinery problems with the troops deployed in Irak. Which leads us to an interesting statistic: in the jungle, the odds of you dying from a snake bite are actually quite lower than the ones of encountering a psycho with a chainsaw and a Lariam flashback.
Nevertheless, I had categorically ruled out Lariam and decided to opt for Malarone, a treatment that offers considerably fewer health problems; pharmaceutical companies have had the decency to concentrate virtually all the damage onto you wallet. Indeed, at a going rate of five Euros a pop, these pills are rather expensive. Nonetheless, you can always make some profit and sell them as ecstasy to a traveller type once you are done with the jungle. On a more serious note though, it's worth pointing out that the Malarone treatment is only effective if it is started four days before penetrating the risk-zone. So, courtesy to my impulsive decision to reach Coca within two hours, I was left totally defenceless against Malaria.
The naturalist guide at my jungle lodge assured me that I needed not fret, for there had been no case of malaria in this area, ever. There were some reports of dengue fever here and there, but nothing to worry about, he pursued. Although I dropped the case against malaria, the mention of dengue fever (against which there is yet no treatment) alarmed me, for I've had the pleasure to experience a form of dengue fever during a trip to Indonesia a few years ago.
The prospect of suffering from a delirious fever combined with utter exhaustion and pounding migraines is not terrifically appealing. Besides, you have to be extremely alert to prevent dengue because, unlike their malarial counterparts, the dengue fever-carrying mosquitoes also hunt for blood during the daytime. So, despite the balmy heat, I took every possible precaution to avoid mosquito bites. Every single one of my pores was sprayed with high concentrations of DEET; on top of this, I was also wearing long sleeves and went so far as to tuck my trousers into my hiking boots. Fashion TV types should take note of the latter. I'm really convinced that this look might soon be in spotted on catwalks across of the world. I have seen this grotesque look in the not too particularly fashion-sensitive New Zealand, where everyone (and I mean everyone) tucks their jeans into their furry boots. It may be only a matter of time before kiwis, which appear to have held on to a style in vogue since the days of ABBA, steal the thunder of catwalks from Paris to NY. But anyway, back to the jungle. Did these precautions help? Of course not. Jungle mosquitoes are far too voracious for that.
I was staying at Yarina Lodge, located east of Coca and roughly one hour by boat down the Napo . It is situated on a bluff and consists of about 20 double cabins with private bathrooms, built in traditional Quechua style with typical materials found in that area. A larger main building serves as the dining and social area of the complex. The only trouble was that, when I arrived, there was absolutely nobody else apart from a German couple. They were as nice as they could be in their German-couple-in-the-jungle kind of way.
After three weeks hanging out with Xavier and his friends in Puerto Rico, it was time for me to move on again. Looking at the beautiful Riomar Resort from the appartment's terasse, I started pondering the idea of ditching my flight, but I realized I really had to get going again and so, rather reluctantly, I left the Caribbean and got on a plane to Quito.
Ecuador's capital is a city I have mixed feelings about. On the plus side, it looks a bit like Mexico City, owing to the fact that both cities sit right next to a volcano and are nested at approximately the same altitude; they are also both pleasantly dotted with wooded hills and they stretch out all the way to the horizon. Flying in at night is really quite impressive, for the airport is very close to the city. On the downside however, Quito is also quite dangerous. Now, I've been to places that are considered rather unsafe, namely in Nepal, Cambodia and Auckland, but nothing comes even close to what you see or hear about this place.
It is no urban legend that a lot of people get mobbed, robbed, strangled or shot in broad daylight. Nothing justifies not traveling by taxi. Security is a real issue and the private guards equipped with bullet proof vests and massive assault weapons standing in front of every single popular bar or restaurant are a testimony to this fact. To my unprepared mind, this came as a bit of a surprise, for I had genuinely believed Ecuador to be a nice and cosy country with lots of pretty scenery and relaxed people. Listening to other travellers and warned by locals, I had to come to the abrupt conclusion that in Quito at least, life is as wild as one would expect it to be in neighbouring Colombia.
The morning after my arrival, I wanted to see the city and decided to strike a deal with a taxi driver to give me a private sightseeing tour of the place. After we'd settled on a price, we drove for a couple of hours through the meandering streets in various parts of the capital; he impressed me with his extensive knowledge about the town's history.
He also informed me that one of the main attractions around Quito is the Equator line, which crosses just a bit further up North at a place called "Ciudad Mitad del Mundo". He offered to drive me there but I decided to keep it real and next morning, I boarded the public bus to get there. I was the only non-Ecuadorian person on the coach for a long time, but as we reached the outskirts of Quito, the bus got pretty empty and I was alone. I shifted my gaze from the chickens carried by old women inside the coach to the ones scratching around outside the bus.
The scenery wasn't particularly pretty, with a few barren hills here and there and couple of mules to break the monotony of it all. Over the course of my travels in the Southern Hemisphere, I have gotten used to dust and rubble and shanty towns. But on this ride, for some reason, I had set my expectations a bit higher. Given the fact I was on board of the "trans-hemisferico" I was hoping my schizophrenic destination would offer an illustration of the gap between the North and the South. Perhaps would there be some green pastries on one side and dried mud on the other? But no. It was just the same derilict desert everywhere. Crossing from Cambodia into Vietnam, or looking at pictures of Berlin prior to 1989 is much more rewarding if you are a fan of visual contrasts.
"Ciudad Mitad del Mundo" (a place which best translates as the "Middlonowhere City") with its drab and dusty mountains, is a place that would quite clearly never ever have attracted a single tourist without a bit of an incentive. So, some time ago, the government decided to give tourists a reason to come, and based on the work of a French scientist, Charles De La Condamine, who had calculated the equator's location in 1731, proceeded with the creation of a large monument. Nobody ever the questioned the scientist´s accuracy. At least not until someone showed up onsite with a GPS about a decade ago. It turned out that De La Condamine had been mistaken by a mere 150 meters. Not bad, given the antiquated tools he had at his disposal and nothing to be really ashamed of (well at least that is what you would say if you were French).
You probably wouldn't be quite as forgiving if you were the Ecuadorian government and had heavily invested in the construction of a Disney Landish complex to celebrate the peculiar location. This is not like a few branches spilling over your fence into your neighbour's property which you could easily cut out; no, this is a case that requires the work of a demolition squad.
What is more, the place is full of what I call "industrial handicrap" that is, useless crap that is being cloned ad infinitum and only available in such pretentious tourist locales. So, for the really keen, it is possible to obtain a pompous certificate which declares you "an official citizen of the Equator"; this 10$ piece of s**t paper is undersigned by the Sun Gods themselves, none less.
Anyway, the small sun museum is actually quite interesting. There, besides standing with one nut in each hemisphere, you can also get to see the Corriolis theory in action. As most of you probably know, water spirals down in opposite directions on each hemisphere. Well, just a few meters away from the equator line you are able to witness this phenomenon, which is pretty casual. The museum also houses a lot of information about the indigenous people and their solar tools. But I was most impressed with the genuine shrunken head on display, which made me realize that, surrounded by Indians who used to boil foreigners in pots, it wouldn't be a bad idea to get the hell out of these parts.
Sun Museum
Moving on to another topic, and noteworthy only for context setting purposes, I'll say that the types of travellers I generally tend to eschew are the dreadlocked types with their Che Guevara prints and tribal pants. I´m still undecided about Che Guevara by the way. I would need to read a few objective books about his life to make up my mind about him. Still, you´d never see me wear a t-shirt with someone´s face on it without knowing what this peson has accomplished. Traveler types do just that, which in my book is just utterly stupid.
So, unfortunately, the Mariscal area - Quito's main tourist centre- was crawling with plenty of these louts and I will categorically state here that I have not met a single member of that community who had any form of ambition in life. It is quite the contrary really. Had I not been to Puerto Rico, the prospect of dealing with this bunch would have been quite depressing, but with my batteries fully charged, I was ready to pounce. I was in no mood to hang out with them so I checked into a hostel that was a bit more expensive than their standards. The beauty of South America is the difference one dollar makes. While the members of the nose-ringed dreadlock brigade, tight-fisted as they are, heartedly pat each other on the back for having sniffed out the cheapest squat in town, you often only have to pay an additional dollar (the ultimate white rasta repellent) to enter a world of clean rooms and private bathrooms which is pleasantly lacking in anti-globalisation types.
When I took the decision to leave Quito, I was quite excited, although I resented the prospect of travelling down on a junction of the gringo trail dotted with a lot of volcanoes and consequently equally as many tourists. I was in an adventurous mood and so I went to a travel agency where I booked a cheap last minute flight, not really concerned about its destination. I should point out that, although I lug a guidebook around, I really only rarely read it. I play by ear and I like to just randomly land in an outlandish place before clawing my way back to civilization. The plane, as it turned out, would take me a few hours later to a small city sitting in the middle of the Amazon. Coca sounded as good enough a name to quench my thirst for a bit of adventure.
COCA
As I boarded the small twelve-seat propeller jet later in the afternoon, it immediately struck me just how much the whole experience had a drug-smuggler feel to it. The destination city's name, combined with the fishy look of the flight attendant -who resembled one of Tony Montana's cronies in Scarface- made me suspect that Ecuador's national airline had recently purchased the whole lot – a packaged deal including plane, staff and route- from the smuggling circles in nearby Colombia. Indeed, an article recently featured in Times Magazine about the lost war on drugs informed me that, in the wake of 911, the neighbouring drugloards had profoundly restructured their logistics department. So, with help of a management consultant firm, they ditched the most scrutinized air routes and diverted their operations to take advantage of the rather porous sea routes of Western Africa.
Still, the plane had a few military representatives on board and so I concluded that everything was going to be just fine; that is, until I looked out of the window at the lush stretch of underlying jungle. This looked terribly malarial and I grew a bit nervous about the fact that my Malarone medicine had recently been reduced to a useless pile of dust. The subject of Malaria is an interesting one, particularly owing to the fact that it sounds really exotic and makes you look terrifically adventurous in a pub discussion. If only for that reason, I believe the topic deserves a couple of paragraphs here.
There are half a dozen treatments available to cure the symptoms of Malaria and all of them come with various advantages and drawbacks. The most versatile treatment is Lariam, which on the plus side requires only weekly intakes; this is great for anyone with only half a brain and incapable of remembering to pop a pill daily. On the downside, it leads to some pretty nasty and long lasting mental disorders. So, unless you're the type to fancy paranoid psychosis and its associated vivid dreams, the Lariam experience is an experience better left inexperienced. The US Army has some considerable Lariam-related mutinery problems with the troops deployed in Irak. Which leads us to an interesting statistic: in the jungle, the odds of you dying from a snake bite are actually quite lower than the ones of encountering a psycho with a chainsaw and a Lariam flashback.
Nevertheless, I had categorically ruled out Lariam and decided to opt for Malarone, a treatment that offers considerably fewer health problems; pharmaceutical companies have had the decency to concentrate virtually all the damage onto you wallet. Indeed, at a going rate of five Euros a pop, these pills are rather expensive. Nonetheless, you can always make some profit and sell them as ecstasy to a traveller type once you are done with the jungle. On a more serious note though, it's worth pointing out that the Malarone treatment is only effective if it is started four days before penetrating the risk-zone. So, courtesy to my impulsive decision to reach Coca within two hours, I was left totally defenceless against Malaria.
The naturalist guide at my jungle lodge assured me that I needed not fret, for there had been no case of malaria in this area, ever. There were some reports of dengue fever here and there, but nothing to worry about, he pursued. Although I dropped the case against malaria, the mention of dengue fever (against which there is yet no treatment) alarmed me, for I've had the pleasure to experience a form of dengue fever during a trip to Indonesia a few years ago.
The prospect of suffering from a delirious fever combined with utter exhaustion and pounding migraines is not terrifically appealing. Besides, you have to be extremely alert to prevent dengue because, unlike their malarial counterparts, the dengue fever-carrying mosquitoes also hunt for blood during the daytime. So, despite the balmy heat, I took every possible precaution to avoid mosquito bites. Every single one of my pores was sprayed with high concentrations of DEET; on top of this, I was also wearing long sleeves and went so far as to tuck my trousers into my hiking boots. Fashion TV types should take note of the latter. I'm really convinced that this look might soon be in spotted on catwalks across of the world. I have seen this grotesque look in the not too particularly fashion-sensitive New Zealand, where everyone (and I mean everyone) tucks their jeans into their furry boots. It may be only a matter of time before kiwis, which appear to have held on to a style in vogue since the days of ABBA, steal the thunder of catwalks from Paris to NY. But anyway, back to the jungle. Did these precautions help? Of course not. Jungle mosquitoes are far too voracious for that.
I was staying at Yarina Lodge, located east of Coca and roughly one hour by boat down the Napo . It is situated on a bluff and consists of about 20 double cabins with private bathrooms, built in traditional Quechua style with typical materials found in that area. A larger main building serves as the dining and social area of the complex. The only trouble was that, when I arrived, there was absolutely nobody else apart from a German couple. They were as nice as they could be in their German-couple-in-the-jungle kind of way.
As soon as the night rolled in (and the diesel powered electricity generator was turned off), the jungle really woke up in an overwhelming buzz. After sunset, and accompanied by my guide, I did a few night hikes in search of wildlife. This place is clearly a source of inspiration for sci-fi flicks. These oversized insects, sometimes easily a foot long, have protruding antennas which give them a distinct alien look. We also spotted a couple of caimans, but those were unlikely to impress me, for I later realized that nothing could give me a bigger adrenaline rush than having a massive tarantula hanging in ambush further down the path and materializing inches away under my torch.
During our morning stroll, the guide suddenly froze in his steps and instructed me, on the count of three, to join him in yelling as loud as I possibly could. He assured me something unexpected would ensue, and indeed it did. While our tribal scream died in the distance, an odd sounding military march picked up and grew louder and intenser at every iteration. I inquired if this was the distorted echo of our war cry, but he told me it wasn't and he pointed his finger towards a wasp nest hanging in the nearby tree. He informed me that the wasps had been disturbed and were aggressively clapping their wings as a prelude to battle. When I asked him long we had before being swarmed he simply told me that in about two minutes, the soldiers would come out and hunt us as the enemy. I equally simply informed him that, courtesy of my allergy to wasp stings, I would most certainly die if I happened to be stung more than ten times. His reply: "Ah, ok. Perhaps we'd better get going then". Casual.
On the third day, my mosquito bite count was nearing the upper forties (a statistical bracket at which the probability of avoiding a contaminated bite gets close to zero) and, not being particularly keen on spending a few weeks or more in bed, I decided to leave my jungle experience to that. I was quite impressed with this part of the Amazon, especially while sitting in a canoe and fishing piranhas in the morning sun.
I took a small boat out of the lodge to reach the nearby city of Coca which, I discovered as we navigated past some oil refineries, is a city whose sole attribute is to be sitting on a fossil fuel reserve. Mercifully, Ecuador's current President, Alfredo Palacio, has the good sense not to sport a moustache, for this would quickly bring the oil field's potential to the attention of Halliburton's board of directors who´d soon lobby to point missiles on Ecuador. So although Coca is pleasantly devoid of US marines (and also of Brazilian lumberjacks) I wouldn't rate it as a particularly charming place; quite the opposite really. It is a place where, unless you work in the oil industry, you would not really want to linger.
TENA TEENAGE
I left Coca on an early afternoon bus. The bus was ramshackle, but squeaking aside, reasonably pleasant. Less pleasant was the lack of skills of the driver, whose girlfriend shared the front seat with him. In a bid to impress her, he interpreted every single danger sign along this unpaved road as a challenge. Gravel was flying everywhere and the suspension was tested to its utter limits. Although she may have fallen for it, I wasn't the least bit impressed, for not only was I dreading the prospect of being delayed for hours in the middle of this derilict desert with a broken suspension or to simply die in a really gruesome accident. Nothing would dick me off more than dying unstylishly in the hands of such an amateur. So, at the first stop, he hopped out and I followed him. I offered him a fag, which he gratefully accepted, and we had a little eyeball-to-eyball chat. I assured him that, being one of the only passengers on the coach I really couldn't care less if we arrived with a bit late in Tena (which I was only stopping in to spend the night anyway). He explained that he was in a hurry because he had to be back on the road early in the morning and didn't want to waste his short night driving this bus (all he really wanted was to get laid). "And I do this for 10 miserable dollars" he pursued. Although I agreed that his boss was a bit tight fisted, I reminded him that what was of paramount importance was avoiding finding the bus aflame in the middle of nowhere due to some reckless driving. Juan Manuel Schumi decided to tone it down.
Once we pulled into Tena at around midnight, things became a bit more agitated again. JMS started to hunk his horn frenetically. He pulled over at every street block to pick up teenagers dressed in their Sunday's best; the coach rapidly filled up with oily hair and shining kids on their way to the party. The mixture of perfumes was hanging in the air pulled me out of my lazy reverie. I had only just come out of the jungle, and I really couldn't hide it; my clothes were dotted with mud spots, my hands were dirty and any brand of cheap cologne would have bettered my smell. In a neat inversion to the norm, I was the crusty one and, for the first time, I came to realize how the locals must feel when the bus fills up with spanking foreigners throwing condescending looks at their rugged outfits. To think that only ten days earlier I was living a jet set life in Puerto Rico made me realize just how much ground I already covered.
BANOS
It is fair to say that the first Spaniards to ever set foot in South America where not of a very creative nature. This is quite apparent when you start paying attention to the names of places. A river would be called "Negro", "Grande" or "Alto" depending on the how lazy the first observer was. The same slacker's attitude was adopted to name lakes, hills and mountains. Cities didn't escape the random branding either. Consequently, some names are a bit ironic (i.e. La Paz is just as 'peaceful' as metropolitan Buenos Aires is 'unpolluted'). Nonetheless, Banos is aptly named. It is a touristy town where you can slouch in thermal baths that are supposedly rejuvenating. Banos is the Spanish name for a toilet, so I guess that nicely sums it up.
it was my springboard to nearby Riobamba, a city located further down South, which I reached by taxi driving through a spectacular canyon.
RIOBAMBA AND NARIZ DEL DIABLO
I went to the dreary city of Riobamba with the sole purpose of riding the famed Trans-Andean train to the devil's nose.
Like many cities in the Ecuadorian Andes, Riobamba sits in shadow of a giant volcano -El Chimborazo- which enjoys the distinctions of being Ecuador's highest peak and the furthest point from the centre of the earth, thanks to the bulge at the equator. The train travels south from Riobamba through a few small towns and large expanses of open country before arriving at Alausi, where it begins its descent of the Devil's Nose. This nearly vertical wall of rock was the greatest natural obstacle engineers encountered during construction of the Southern Railway.
In retrospect, the mistake of going over instead of around the Devil's Nose has become a point of engineering pride. A team of engineers came up with an ingenious solution of carving a series of tight zigzags into the side of the mountain, which allows the train to climb by going forwards then backwards up the tracks.
Most travellers sit on top of the rail cars to take advantage of the reasonably spectacular vistas. The whole experience is a bit overrated though. First of all because you have to show up at the station at 6AM (and I can't help but wonder who wakes up so fucking early!?) then you climb on the roof and squeeze in amongst 600 tourists who have woken up with the exact same idea that morning. Then, just to make sure you are properly prepared, you check out what kind of gear everyone is wearing. Owners of adventure stores around the world must be making a fortune out of this bunch. It is unbelievable. Okay, it is true that with all their Gore-Tex, polar fleeces and unzippable multipocketed trousers, these louts looked terrifically outdoorsy and adventurous. But was the roof ride worth the Marco Polo gear? Of course not!
I shyly have to admit that I had decided to do this trip because I couldn't think of many other train operators encouraging you to ride on the roof. Anyhow, I soon wondered why there were no locals on the ride and concluded that it is probably because locals usually don't read the Lonely Planet, and if they need to go to Cuenca, at least they are sensible enough to take the bus (or to travel by mule)
Nariz del Diablo
John, my neighbour on the roof, was really not enjoying himself. I asked him what his expectations were and he gave me his Lonely Planet. I read the part describing the ride and really wondered if the writer had actually ever done this trip. He made it look like a rollercoaster ride suitable only to real daredevils (I threw a glance at the granny sitting on my right side) on which local macho types stand while passing through tunnels (there were none) with hardly any space to keep their sombrero on their head. I looked up, and the only local fitting the description was the friggin' food vendor. Yes, Guide books can sometimes defeat their very purpose and really mislead you, as it had with John, who was going to back trail to Riobamba the very same day, although this time by bus.
CUENCA
Cuenca is a rather quaint city of cobblestone streets, flowering plazas and pleasant colonial buildings. It is part of the ever-growing list of UNESCO World Heritage Sites. I met up with Peter, a Kiwi and our discussion was pleasantly bringing back fond memories of NZ, but soon enough, my attention was drawn to the fact that the three attractive Ecuadorian girls sitting at a table nearby were properly (and rather boldly by any other culture's standard) checking us out. This behaviour is very common with Latin girls and we invited ourselves at their table. Less common though was the fact that all three of them spoke absolutely perfect English; this, I quickly discovered, was attributed to their American College degrees.
The bar closed rather early and they invited us to join them to explore some other parts of town. We accepted and soon found ourselves sipping pisco sours in a hip part of town. The night drew on and our libations added up. At some point on the way back to the hotel, the police had setup a roadblock, presumably to test on DUI. The girls, who were at this point quite tanked, approached this situation with a level of cockiness I had never witnessed before. Usually, when faced with a similar situation, people remain rather low-profile. Not quite so with these girls, who decided to stop the car, get out of the vehicle in order to swap seats right in front of the cops. The new driver rode the car through the blocade and then stopped it a meter or two thereafter to swap seats again. This examplary feat was bettered ten minutes later when a cop pulled the girl over again, smelled her breath and ordered her to follow him to the station. This time I really thought she´d had it but no, the cop let her walk on the basis the offense would invole too much paper work, and he couldn´t really be arsed. Only in South America!
MONTANITA
I spent a few days in Montanita to chill out on the beach before heading south to Lima. Montanita is a surfer's town and is a place that could give similar towns throughout Laos and Thailand a run for their money (banana pancake anyone?). Arriving there brought me right back in one of the grubbier corners of South East Asia where you could 'enjoy' mellow tunes and surfer chat, which usually is rather hollow. When I discovered that the whole place is a hotbed of crack consumption though, I didn't wait a split second to bail out.
PERU
Another mud brick in the wall
It would be an understament to observe that contemporary Peruvian cities require the urban equivalent of an extreme makeover. Take for example Tumbes in the North, or Juliaca in the South; each can house - or rather shack- well over 20.000 people, the majority living in conditions not seen in the First World since the early days of the Industrial Revolution.
In a typical building, the roof is a rusty sheet of corrugated iron slung over four (sometimes three) tottering walls, where the unfinished brickwork is particularly bad (well there is your window), and from which long reinforcing iron spikes still protrude. When it rains, I suspect everybody gets wet; when the sun shines, everybody bakes. There is no gloss to be put on this kind of poverty: it is raw and for many, unrelenting. It is quite unsettling, and you really would like to offer these people some kind of help. Nevertheless, the fact that every ramshackle building seems to be equipped with cable TV is not enough of an incentive to convince any visitor to stay.
Contemporary municipal standards demonstrate how much was lost when the Spaniards vanquished the Incas. In only four centuries, the trademark of the Incas -stone masonry- has declined (or rather plummeted) from a world-class status to something that one could hardly even describe as downright amateurish. Okay, I admit that the latter is perhaps a bit unfair, for nobody is poor out of choice. And I really feel for those people whose ancestors came to face a bunch of god-bothering assholes who tore apart their cities and built crappy shining churches on top of their prime real estate. And what really dicks me off most is the fact that the Spaniards were really only after the gold. Couldn't they have just plundered it and left these people alone? No, they had to force Christianity through the Indian's throats; therewith unashamedly destroying their culture.
So contemporary Peruvians are actually a bastardized residue (and I should spell that with a capital B) of their Inca ancestors. I find it hardly surprising that Peruvians resent foreigners, and take advantage of whatever is attracting them to their country. I´m sure there are some really nice Peruvians, but I have never met any, and this is precisely the reason why I don´t like that country. No other place personifies Peruvian´s incipient greed better than the border crossing near Tumbes.
TUMBES: Tu me baises?
I reached the border in the early afternoon and walked purposefully towards the international bridge, where I expected the immigration office to be located. I had been forewarned about the dangers and annoyances involved with crossing from Ecuador to Peru at this particular point and so, I came forearmed. My rucksack, which I had packed extremely tight to prevent slicing, was firmly strapped to my shoulders; all my valuables were neatly tucked in and protected with padlocks. I held a fast pace through what appeared to be a chaotic market, but was soon flanked by a tall Peruvian man.
He followed me unrelentlessly and was not only notable for his large belly but also for the equally large array of services he had on offer. "Want change money? No / Want prostitue? No / airplane ticket? No / Taxi? NO!" I was wary he would soon offer me a BJ but mercifully he didn't. He suddenly froze in his steps, faced me and said "OK, so you don't want anything, fine. Not even shake my hand? That is free!" then he grinned, I grinned back and extended my hand. The man introduced himself as Pepe (his real name was Jose, but he insited on being called Pepe). I knew I would need a taxi to cover the four kilometres separating the two border posts, he looked like good enough a chap to fulfil the role.
So, in front of a police officer we agreed on a price of 20 Soles (roughly 7 USD) for the 30 minutes drive to Tumbes. At both border posts, in order to ease my suspicion at seeing him take off with my pack, he gave me the keys of the car and accompanied me to the immigration office. Formalities were quick and straightforward. Altogether it took no more than a couple of minutes.
Back in the car and with the crossing cleared, our discussion was pleasant and soon enough we found ourselves swapping jokes. His radio screeched on and he tuned it into a station playing unpleasant Reggaeton (the kind of music you obtain when you mate Gangsta Rap with Carribean beats and really have nothing of interest to put in the lyrics). At the 15th iteration of the track "La Gazolina", the conversation, unlike the arrow straight desert-road, took a radical turn. Pepe, in a fashion that is not uncommon with Peruvian taxi drivers, started a rant about the steep price of gasoline. This, he blamed on his government's policy of exporting nearby crude reserves and re-importing the finished product from US refineries.
Our escapade to Tumbes, he assured me, would cost him 20 dollars for the roundtrip. I had a fair idea where he was headed and decided to play dumb. Since I wasn't swallowing his bait, Pepe's irritation grew and he decided to show his teeth. He told me that he would charge me 30 dollars for the whole trip. I ordered him to pull over. If there is one thing I hate it is people who come back on a transaction when the deal is sealed, and Peruvians are experts in this field. So, as soon as the car came to a stop he looked around at the desert and flashed me a nasty grin which seemed to be asking me what I was going to do. I
've seen this sort of behaviour over and over in South East Asia where (with the exception of Vietnam) at least they have the decency to agree on a price beforehand and then stick to it. Peruvian practices are more aligned with India. So it was immediately clear that I was back in Peru ; and in this stretch of desert, I contemplated my options and quickly concluded that there weren't many choices, for traffic was scarce and it didn't look as though a bus would soon drive by.
After a fairly long haggle with Pepe, I settled to round off my price at 10 USD. I know I could have held to my guns but since my bill was a tenner I had very little hopes of seeing him return my change. Besides, before our discussion had taken this unpleasant turn, I had decided to give Pepe the tip he clearly deserved for his help in my smooth passage at a notoriously sketchy border. There is something terribly Peruvian in making absolutely certain that what should be a very amicable transaction turns into sour antagonism. I wonder what happens when Peruvians deal with Israelis. I suppose fists and insults fly all over the shop (but that is a whole other topic altogether).
Nevertheless, I wouldn't let my high spirits with the prospect of reaching Lima be dented by this prick's greed. Not that Lima is attractive in its own right (I have already shared my distaste for the place in a previous entry); but I was going there to meet my parents, who were flying in the next day.
Meet the Parents
My parent's appearance at the airport filled me with a joy of extraordinary proportions. Regardless of where you are in the world, seeing your parents puts you right back home. And not only was I really, really happy to see them for the first time in ten months, I was also quite relieved that they had made it to Peru, for a national strike had been called in Belgium on their departure date and their flight was one of the last ones to sneak out of the country on that day.
The airport was also soon flooded with a plane-load of Belgians, who on account of their rather cretinous discussions were clearly not the brightest stars in the firmament. Still, in my travels, if there is one nationality I haven't come across much, it is the Belgies, which is a shame, because I really love them. Nevertheless, I was quite certain I would see at least one person of that bunch in Cusco holding an agitated conversation about how a kind Peruvian had helped him clean his trousers after spilling a fair amount of ketchup on it, before disappearing with his wallet, money belt and camera. Their overall sense of loss was quite apparent and made them the prime target for such practices.
Anyway, we went our way and checked into our hotel in Miraflores after which we spend the better part of the first week catching up. We visited places I'd already been to ( Cusco, Titicaca and La Paz) and so I'll spare you the read.
Once in La Paz though, we decided to get to a more pleasant altitude and booked a flight to Germany , err... I mean Paraguay, and arrived in Asuncion a few hours later, on a plane filled with missionaries and Mennonites.
Many cities look their best when the sun has set, and this statement is particularly fitting for Asuncion. Our long drive from the airport to the centre of town gave us the opportunity to witness the Teutonic tidiness of the place. Everything looks orderly and clean. The colonial architecture is pleasantly lit and the streets are nicely laid-out. What struck us as particularly odd was the amount of German cars around; Benzos and Beamers appear to be the norm for the homesick locals.
The next morning, things became a bit more real and Latino though; Asuncion was starting to show her real face. In broad daylight, we saw that those buildings which had looked enchanting the night before were mostly covered in mould; the paint was pealing off the window frames in most places. In all fairness, the rain didn't really help doing the city any justice either. So Asuncion is not only ugly, it is actually "Coyote Ugly" (this term was made famous by the film of the same name; it describes a girl who is so ugly that her partner would rather gnaw off his arm if she was sleeping on it rather than to risk waking her during his escape)
So we didn't feel like seeing Asuncion in her morning glory and quickly found a driver to take us to some more exciting corners of Paraguay (if any exist, please mail me). When you drive through Paraguay, you it quickly becomes obvious that this place is not touristy; and the reason for this is that there is not much there if you're not a) a German, b) a Jesuit or c) a bootlegger.
HOLY SHIT !
Landlocked Paraguay 's economy is marked by a large "informal sector" and therefore accurate economic measures are difficult to obtain. It is clearly quite poor and a large percentage of the population derives their living from agricultural activity, often on a subsistence basis. As the scenery was rolling past our window, it struck me how much it reminded me of some bucolic corners of Belgium.
Upon arrival in Ciudad Del Este however, all that Pennsylvanian style religiousness vanished and Paraguay suddenly became the den of vice it notoriously is. Let me share with you what I dug out in the CIA world fact book about Paraguay :
"The unruly region at the convergence of Argentina-Brazil-Paraguay borders is locus of money laundering, smuggling, arms, illegal narcotics trafficking, and fundraising for extremist organizations"
Jesus!
And then:
" Paraguay is a major illicit producer of cannabis, most or all of which is consumed in Brazil , Argentina , and Chile; it is a transhipment country for Andean cocaine headed for Brazil , other Southern Cone markets, Europe , and US; there is corruption and some money-laundering activity, especially in the Tri-Border Area"
It is true that Ciudad Del Este is an absolute shithole but I guess even the Menonites shouldn't be deprived their right to smoke spliffs and to buy cheap electronics. So even if I'd really like to give a place like that a bit of bashing in these pages, who am I to judge such holy shit?
Nevertheless, being so clearly on the outskirts of the legal system can make you forget there are certain rules in border crossings. Our driver tried blatantly to serve up the fact that we didn't need to go through any formalities. I was puzzled. Thirty border-crossings this year have taught me the procedure and so, regardless of how porous this grotty bridge separating Paraguay and Brazil looked, we had him drive back to get our stamps. I really didn't want to ruin my parent's holiday with an extended tour of the Brazilian carceral system for being there illegally.
FOZ DO IGUAZU
Anyway, we soon arrived in the intensely unpleasant city of Foz Do Iguazu which, if you take a look at the picture hereunder, is crawling with members of the KKK.
Nevertheless, however objectionable this town may be, it is remarkable only due to its location right next to waterfalls baring the same name. The Iguazu cataracts are by far the most spectacular piece of natural hydraulic engineering I have ever set my eyes on. It has dozens of separate falls and an incredible amount of water plummets down every single second. The falls are located on the Argentinean bank of the river and so from the Brazilian side, you just look at them from a distance. However, an hour's drive later and you arrive on the Argentinean side where things become a bit more up-close and personal.
After having explored the rather well laid-out park, we got on a boat that took us right in the middle of the action, therewith soaking any part of our attire that the rain had not drenched. This is the part of the day where you really come to grips with the brutal force of water and really, really get wet.
The waterfalls are extremely impressive, but after two days, you have properly ticked that box. And so we drove back to despicable Ciudad Del Este to catch our flight to Buenos Aires.
I should point out at this stage this was our fifth flight of the week since I had only managed to convince my parents to take the bus once along Lake Titicaca and the experience had not been convincing to my rather impatint old man. But I have to hand it to airlines: they drastically change your travel experience. Had I travelled this way during the course of the year, I would have been sitting at home with a six-pack and a remote control for quite a long time by now.
Nevertheless, I also find that travelling long haul distorts your sense of space. You enter a metallic tube, sit down, have a crap meal and then you walk out in a completely different geographic setting and climate.
URUGUAY
We arrived in Buenos Aires but left to Punta Del Este in Uruguay to take in a bit of beach time at the end of my parent's holidays. Punta Del Este is a cross between California and Ibiza . It consists in a narrow peninsula straddling the Antlantic Ocean and the Rio de la Plata. This is a place that could have been abolutely beautiful had the city council fired the architect of the place, who clearly had a nack for Soviet urbanism. This ghastly collection of unimaginatively assembled concrete blocks looks exactly like the backdrop where Stalin would have loved to be photographed in on a Soviet seaside paradise. So, although Punta Del Este has an aggreable climate, I find it quite hard to believe that this is the hangout of the international fashion set. Still, it demonstrates just how bad the taste of rich South Americans usually is.
BUENOS AIRES
Buenos Aires is the world's most sleep deprived city. It is absolutely fixated with the night; Portenos can't get enough of it. This is only fitting: after all, this is the "Terra Australis" - the Antipode- where it rains upwards, where people stand downward, where night becomes day.
The waterfalls are extremely impressive, but after two days, you have properly ticked that box. And so we drove back to despicable Ciudad Del Este to catch our flight to Buenos Aires.
I should point out at this stage this was our fifth flight of the week since I had only managed to convince my parents to take the bus once along Lake Titicaca and the experience had not been convincing to my rather impatint old man. But I have to hand it to airlines: they drastically change your travel experience. Had I travelled this way during the course of the year, I would have been sitting at home with a six-pack and a remote control for quite a long time by now.
Nevertheless, I also find that travelling long haul distorts your sense of space. You enter a metallic tube, sit down, have a crap meal and then you walk out in a completely different geographic setting and climate.
URUGUAY
We arrived in Buenos Aires but left to Punta Del Este in Uruguay to take in a bit of beach time at the end of my parent's holidays. Punta Del Este is a cross between California and Ibiza . It consists in a narrow peninsula straddling the Antlantic Ocean and the Rio de la Plata. This is a place that could have been abolutely beautiful had the city council fired the architect of the place, who clearly had a nack for Soviet urbanism. This ghastly collection of unimaginatively assembled concrete blocks looks exactly like the backdrop where Stalin would have loved to be photographed in on a Soviet seaside paradise. So, although Punta Del Este has an aggreable climate, I find it quite hard to believe that this is the hangout of the international fashion set. Still, it demonstrates just how bad the taste of rich South Americans usually is.
BUENOS AIRES
Buenos Aires is the world's most sleep deprived city. It is absolutely fixated with the night; Portenos can't get enough of it. This is only fitting: after all, this is the "Terra Australis" - the Antipode- where it rains upwards, where people stand downward, where night becomes day.
At night fall, just like Asuncion (but in a much prettier way) Buenos Aires is a city that is transformed. Lines start forming in front of restaurants at around 1AM, cobbled streets around plazas become the stage for improvised tango shows, mellow tunes blast out of cafes until dawn. From the comfortable benches in the shadow of ombu trees, you can observe street performers at the markets and watch people stroll into the surrounding cafes. The city is full of good places to sit down and waste time. It is also an extremely cosmopolitan place and so, unless you are limited to speaking Tajik, chances are that you'll always find people to socialize with.
Those civic-minded folks at the City Council offer free guided tours where you explore the city on foot to most highlights of the capital. The greatest thing to do in Buenos Aires is simply hang out and watch life go by though. I find the Portenos to be quite charming people, which is unexpected for a city of this size. And, the girls? don't even get me started...they are stupefying!
In a lot of restaurants in Buenos Aires, deciding what you want for supper means choosing between 'jugoso' (rare) and 'bien cocido' (well done), and while meat clearly rules, the capital's culinary repertoire caters the taste of a discerning clientele. Homesick immigrants have introduced the full range pastas and pizzas into BA's foodscape, thereby giving legitimacy to the city's claim of being the southernmost European city in the world. Service can be slow in this unrushed town, but it usually compensates in warmth and character what it lacks in speed and efficiency.
In case it wasn't particularly clear at this point, I really, really love Buenos Aires and also envy the expatriates living there. (If you know how I could make the hint more obvious to my employer, feel free to tell me)
USHUAIA
USHUAIA
Blind Pew and Captain Hook wouldn't have felt out of place in Ushuaia. The city is located at the tip of the South American cone on the Beagle channel. Most of the notorious navigators have crossed Cape Horn on their way from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The penisula was initially named ´terra de Humos`(Land of the smoke) due to the signals the indians sent to each other when strangers penetrated their land. The king of Spain wisely concluded there could be no smoke without fire and named the area ´la tierra del fuego´
I cannot think of any place on earth that sounds better than the land of fire. And Ushuaia must be the coolest sounding city name on the planet. In the next entry to this blog, we will explore this mythical region and the beauties of surrounding Patagonia.
In the meantime, take care.
See you soon.
Remco.
posted by Remco @ 3:40 AM
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