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Link #17
15 June - 27 July, 2000
Quito and Thereabouts, Ecuador
After three days of taxing my bladder and taking quasi-catnaps aboard
rattrap buses and third rate airlines trying to get from Iguazú
Falls to Quito, I became a born-again cyclist. Nothing beats rolling your
own schedule and traveling on your own wheels.
In a rare stroke of forethought, I had called ahead and made reservations
at Villa Nancy, a recommendation from another traveler. Rachel and Victor
were at the Quito airport waiting to whisk us, our bikes, and Bob away
to the sanctuary of their hostel. After a siesta and a long hot shower,
we could begin to enjoy Rachel's Swiss hospitality and Victor's enthusiasm
for Ecuador. Soon we were sunning ourselves on the porch, snacking on
fried plantains dipped in guacamole, and sucking down fresh papaya. It
felt mighty fine to finally be at 9300 feet, in the world's second highest
capital city. Panoramic
After a couple day search, we found a third story apartment and great
one-on-one Spanish classes. Both were located on the northern edge of
the Mariscal area, aka "Gringoland" for all its trendy restaurants,
gazillion internet cafes, and a disproportionately high European/American
population. The apartment had everything we needed: a small kitchen, plenty
of sunlight, space for the bikes, and a stunning 2400 volt electric showerhead
that required the operator be fully awake before operating lest he or
she be made fully awake. To top it off, it was smack dab in the middle
of Latin America's blender repair capital (Bob now has a vintage Osterizer
bolted fast to his side).
During our six week stay in Quito, we got to know the city and even learned
a little Spanish. It was a magic time for us. From our terrace overlooking
the city we studied under the warm equatorial sun and enjoyed many an
airy evening meal with other travelers from the apartments below. One
memoriable potluck could have passed as a modern reenactment of the biblical
myth of The Tower of Babel - over the din of enthusiastic eating could
be heard the constant buzz of various tongues: Swiss, French, German,
Belgian, Welsh tainted English, German, Spanish, Japanese, and American
English. During those lazy Quito days we formed quite a few friends: Genevieve
from Belgium, Nori from Japan, Garret from Wales and Louise from England,
Laurence from Scotland, and Alex from Switzerland.
Otavalo
One weekend, Rachel and Victor invited us up to Otavalo (two hours
driving north of Quito in a verdant Andean valley) for the annual Fiesta
de San Juan. Of all the Andean festivals, this was Victor's favorite.
We arrived Friday night with the fiesta already well under way. On almost
every corner different groups of fervent youths danced in circles and
played stringed instruments and pan pipes. The men wore traditional ponchos
and women woolen skirts or anacos. Some donned masks with double
faces - one side looking forward, to the future; the other side looking
back, to the past, saying good-bye to things they want to leave behind.
Victor told us they would dance in their customary tight-packed wheel
through the night and the next day, and so on for the next 72 hours. They
would sing prayers and drink chicha (a brew
made from fermented corn or potatoes) for strength to stay awake and keep
the dance alive. A vigilant effort would be rewarded with good weather
and successful crops for their home village. One group from the nearby
village of Peguche invited Nicole and I to increase their wheel by two.
It didn't take long to conclude that even with the help of the chicha,
our gringo legs couldn't go the distance. We bid them strength and retreated
to our beds. They would still be at it when we woke.
The next morning we spent walking through the Indian market. From Plaza
Poncho the market sprawls through Otavalo's narrow cobblestone streets
and flows outward to the edges of town. Every Saturday and Wednesday the
local Indians descend from the steep Andean highlands toting and towing
their handmade crafts, homegrown produce, and animals to sell and trade.
With half sleeping babies slung on their backs the Indian women appear
to do 90% of work, for the men are often still finishing off the dregs
of last night's chicha.
The heart of the market hosts the finest crafts and is generally where
the gringos swarm. One booth after the next teems with brilliant artisan
crafts: paintings done in vibrant acrylics, simple leaf art, tight woven
blankets, hammocks, fedora hats, leather belts, intricate textiles, alpaca
wool sweaters, pan flutes and guitars made from armadillo shells, red
ceramic bowls, gorgeous chess sets, clay pipes, and jewelry of every kind.
To increase the probability of a sale, many of the indigenous have picked
up some English over the years. They use it, along with a mix of Spanish
and Quichua, (the ancient language of the Inca empire spoken by
two million Ecuadorians in Andean and Amazonian communities), to surprise
and then reel in a meandering, color-struck tourist.
"Señor, for you fine chompers (sweaters), sombreros,
hamacas, all handmade. What you like? For you, un precio especial,
una descuenta."
Despite minds heavy with thoughts of pushing bulging bikes up Andean
passes, we still were not immune from the vendors' charm and colorful
crafts. We came away with a few small pieces of art, a tablecloth, a small
tapestry, and a few small gifts.
On the borders of the plaza old women cook and 'cue and fry up a frenzy
of local dishes. Beans of every color and size, pots of mote (corn
burst), pans of sizzling yuca (manioc or cassava root), mountains
of rice, cauldrons of aji (like Mexican salsa but different, sharper,
and with stringy red onions), trout fried whole, surprised looking cuy
(Andean guinea pigs; pronounced COO-EY) on skewers running tail to head,
golden breasts of rotisseried chicken, and the "other white meat"
carved from a glazey-eyed, splayed carcass. To whet your appetite, there's
the ubiquitous thick-bottled Coca Cola, orange Fanta, or Club, the local
lager.
As we wandered farther away from Plaza Poncho, we soon became the only
pink in a sea of brown. In those narrow streets we found a more genuine
market with boisterous commerce under way. Peddlers shouted prices and
vendors barked the benefits of their wares. Young boys snickered and whipped
obstinate mules. Tethered chickens squawked and unrestrained roosters
crowed. Pickups, decades old and wobbly, honked their way through impenetrable
crowds.
There was order and there was complete absence thereof. Young girls sat
guard atop mounds of green leafy vegetables and peered out between pyramids
of grapefruit. A thickly packed mob rifled through a heap of socks and
underwear and T-shirts. A tidy series of fifty pound sacks with tops rolled
back revealed an array of beans and young grains. Onions, oranges, broccoli
and beets were tossed together on a bright blue tarp creating the visual
effect of a giant garish stir-fry. Steady hands built neat towers of red,
green, and yellow bananas, some short and squat, others long and awkward;
for each variety Ecuadorians have a unique name, perhaps not unlike the
dozen names for snow known by Eskimos.
Ecuadorian Amazon
From the dugout canoe we marveled at the green explosion of jungle
on the shores of the Napo river. A tributary of the Amazon, the Napo is
generally broad and shallow - in some places our canoe bottomed out forcing
us to get out and push it along. Thick vegetation overflowed into the
fast moving water, apparently unable to contain itself. Trees and bushes
and plants in raging diversity, as densely packed as Monday morning on
a Tokyo subway.
Miguel, one of our Quito Spanish teachers had arranged a three day stay
on the western fringe of the Ecuadorian Amazon. Our canoe pilot was a
local out of Misahuallí, a small village on the upper reaches of
the Napo, the same town we were based out of. Map
After about an hour of motoring down river, we tied off
to a tree branch and Miguel led us up a steep path cutting up a muddy
cliff. With a full sun overhead and 100% humidity, that short hike had
us lathered. At the top we surfaced in an indigenous family's front yard.
There we met our guide for a short trek through the jungle.
Lenny led us into the dense rain forest that lay at bay five meters from
his back door. Swinging a machete half his size, he cleared a path and
led us through the thick of it, and never once losing his footing (the
same could not be said for us). We made our way down a slope and started
to walk along a sandbar of a tiny creek. Seconds before I traipsed through
them, Lenny pointed out jaguar prints in the sand.
Every few paces he paused to tell us about this tree and that shrub.
Sap from one cures the common cough, bark from another settles a stomach.
"That tree is very hard and is used for making spears, the one next
to it for furniture, and that type of bamboo stalk is for blow darts."
This large tree forms a canopy and allows these smaller trees to grow
up around it.
He stopped by a short tree and picked up a strange spotted red-orange
fruit from the forest floor. Cacao blanco. After slicing it with
his machete, he handed it to us and told us to suck and NOT chew on the
white gooey seeds inside. It was sweet with hints of chocolate and turned
Nicole's lips bright pink. Chewing, I learned, turns your mouth into a
desiccated puckering pocket of cigarette ashes.
At a clearing, Lenny dropped his machete, letting the sharp end sink
into the soft jungle floor, and reached for the branch of a nearby bush.
He tore off a leaf and then snapped open the barely noticeable pod at
its base. Inside swarmed a family of tiny ants, scurrying madly in the
sudden burst of sunlight like moviegoers after a matinee. "Lemon
ants," Lenny said. Without as much as a smile he casually added,
"They taste good. Like lemon. Try them." The tone of his voice
must have carried with it jungle voodoo because without a second's hesitation
my tongue was licking the inside of the pod, swallowing the whole wriggling
family live. Lemon indeed.
After a while I tried to find particularly weird, obscure looking objects
from the forest floor. To Lenny I would offer my find accompanied with
a quizzical look, then, with a quick lift of my brows I would challenge
him for an explanation. After a momentary pause he would expound at length
what plant or tree or animal the object came from, how it came to be there,
and how long it had likely been there. He would then continue to explain
any medicinal or cultural value the object possessed.
With that my search intensified until I found what I thought was the
crown jewel of obscurity: a hairy, dull hued rock looking object with
a soft underside. No doubt I had him stumped this time. After a few seconds
of turning it over in his hands, he responded, "This is a pod from
the crown of the Blah blah palm. When it was still part of the tree, small
flowers grew inside. Now, the fungus that grows out from the remains of
the remains of the flowers is poisonous. Be careful." Oh.
This type of wisdom might be expected from a 70 year old sage. We had
commented amongst ourselves how young he looked but were astounded when
we later learned that Lenny is a ripe 14 years old. A veritable Doogie
Howser, MD of the Jungle.
The next day we swam in the river, hiked two hours through ten to 16
inch Amazon mud to a majestic waterfall, and rode donkeyback along a smaller
river.
Uncle Wind, Father Fog
"Third Person Polite of the verb poner is... pon?"
"No."
"Ponge?"
"No."
Agggh. Concentrating on the various forms of the imperative tense was
impossible when over the shoulder of my Spanish instructor I had a clear
shot to the perfect cone of Cotopaxi.
For almost as long as Nicole and I had been planning this trip, the summits
of Ecuador's big volcanoes had been calling my name. First it was through
climbing magazines, and later through climber/cyclist friends Gus and
Brian (who came to be partial inspirations for our trip), that I had come
to know the hallowed names of these Andean masterpieces - Cayambe,
Cotopaxi, Chimborazo. All active volcanoes, all over
19,000 ft.
With Mt. Shasta (14,167 ft.) in northern California being my highest
achievement, and that being five years ago, I had some refreshing to do.
Further, I realized that despite having been on the bike for five months,
proper acclimatization to the altitude was crucial. Through the South
American Explorer's Club in Quito I met Laurence, a high school physics
teacher from Inverness, Scotland. Over maps and guide books we made plans
for a couple acclimatization climbs. He'd trekked in the Himalayas, but
hadn't got over 16,000 ft. Neither of us knew how the altitude would effect
us and yet both knew that it didn't have much to do with what kind of
shape you're in. Some people have problems, others don't - even with today's
advances in medicine, the effects of altitude on the human body remains
largely a mystery.
Volcano Imbabura, out of Otavalo, was first on our list. At 15,120
ft. it didn't have any snow and therefore was not too technical; yet its
5,000 ft. elevation gain would definitely get the legs and lungs going.
We started out early hoping to avoid the typical cloud cover that formed
by noon. It turned out not to matter because by eight in the morning we
were in the clouds. Pushing on through the howling wind we made to the
base of its rocky pinnacle and took a short rest. Having gone light we
didn't have much to keep us warm and therefore opted to scramble up the
last pitch before we lost too much body heat. The weather was worse up
top and the view was naught. The good news was that we both felt good;
apart from light-headedness, we had no signs of AMS, Acute Mountain Sickness.
With ice forming on the summit outcrops, we decided a quick descent was
well in order.
Less than 24 hours later we were hiking up the steep approach ridge of
the Illinizas - a pair of summits a couple hours south of Quito.
This time we had a little more gear: plastic boots, ice ax, crampons,
sleeping bags, and extra clothing. We made it to the mountain refuge which
sits in the saddle between the two peaks at 15,200 ft. Again, the weather
was foul, even worse than Imbabura, but we hoped it would improve by morning.
The idea was to sleep there that night and blast up Illiniza Norte (16,700
ft.) early the next day. Sleep at such heights proved to be restless at
best. I woke at midnight with a smashing headache, popped a couple Tylenol
and managed a few more hours of rack. When the alarm went off at 5:30,
my head was only a little better and Laurence lay moaning under his breath.
His noggin was thumping stomach a bit sloshy. Oxygen was making its lack
of presence known. Outside the refuge the climate was as nasty as ours.
Visibility was conservative at 20 feet and everything was covered in a
thin sheet of ice. We crawled back into the bags and knocked back another
hour hoping both climates would improve. Sixty minutes later, it was lighter
outside, but the clouds and ice were still there and Laurence's head was
no better. And so down we went. After that, Laurence decided he'd stick
to lower elevations for his last few weeks in Ecuador. Having a bit more
time to acclimate, I decided I wouldn't say "uncle" just yet.
From the Ilinizas Laurence and I caught a few buses and met up with Nicole
and Genevieve at Lake Quilitoa. Incredible. We held our jaws as we walked
around the torquoise lake that rests in the crater of a dormant volcano.
The next day we took a three hour cruise hike down into a deep
sandy canyon, hoping for a more scenic walk than along the road back to
the nearest town with buses back to Quito. After many failed attempts
to extricate ourselves from the slot canyon, we met an old barefoot man
walking a donkey along a creek bed. He didn't speak Spanish, but pointed
very well with his stick. A few hours later, we gained a foot trail that
led us out.
A few days later Utahn friends John and Carolyn arrived. Before hopping
on the bikes they wanted to see some of the local heights. So after a
few days acclimatizing to Quito, we got out of the city and stretched
our legs a bit. First we hiked around Lake Cuicocha outside Otavalo, then
went up to Papallacta (east of Quito) for a couple more hikes and a soak
in the hot springs. There we met Heidi and Bill, two very cool teachers
from Bozeman, Montana. They had just come from Cayambe, the most technical
of the big volcanoes due to its heavily crevassed faces and more technical
approach. For them, the weather had been tough, but not severe enough
to prevent them from continuing to the top. After getting iced off of
Illiniza Norte and hearing many second-hand stories of failed summit bids
from other climbers, it was nice to finally receive a positive report.
With the name of Heidi and Bill's highly recommendeded guide, we decided
we'd give it a shot.
We returned to Quito and decided for a final acclimitazation climb, we'd
try Gua Gua Pichincha (15,700 ft.). On the rare clear day, you
can see it's craggy crest from downtown Quito. Besides being a gorgeous
mountain, it's also one of the two most active volcanoes in Ecuador. Early
the next morning we started our almost 6,000 ft ascent up the south flank
of the volcano. At about eight o'clock in the morning Carolyn pointed
out a rather large billowing cloud on the other side of the upper ridge.
At first we thought that the wind must be howling up there due to how
fast the cloud was moving. When the cloud turned a faint yellow we realized
it wasn't a cloud at all but a massive emission from the caldera. Being
a physical science teacher, Carolyn has a bit more sense than the rest
of us and therefore talked us into laying low and watching the volcano
for a while to see what would happen next. After twenty minutes of nothing,
she was unable to contain us any longer. Hoping to see a fiery caldera
at the top, we bounded up the rest of the way. Yet again, the weather
was set against us and we were robbed of any views from the summit. Hardly
daunted, we returned to Quito and made plans for Cayambe. Deciding not
to press her luck with her knee, Nicole chose to stay in Quito.
Owing to my aforementioned record with mountains and weather it will
probably come as a surprise to no one that we did NOT reach the summit
of Cayambe. Alas indeed. The worst part was, we all felt great - we had
made it through the night at the 15,500 ft. refuge and were ready to charge.
The blow of yet another defeat was lessened when our guide mentioned that
he had hosted the likes of Joe Simpson (author of "Touching the Void"
and very famous British climber) at the same refuge on a day like ours
and they didn't get passed the refuge either.
Nonetheless it was a travel adventure in our customary vein - complete
with a breakdown of our guide's 1972 Land Rover on the way up; a farmer's
strike that blocked the road to the mountain for about an hour, at least
until the local militia broke up the pitchforked mob with tear gas; gale
force winds, which we estimated between 80 and 120 mph, carrying sleet
and snow that started at 4 pm and did not stop before we fled the next
morning at 10 am; and a frozen truck radiator and refuge gate, both of
which were remedied by John "McGuyver" Ambrey when he whipped
out his water bottle and applied the hot water which he had just happened
to fill up with before departing the refuge.
And so with that, we said a great "UNCLE," packed up our apartment
life, and lubed our chains.
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