Link #18
28 July - 8 August, 2000
Quito, Ecuador to the Peruvian border (406 km)
"Do you have anything in size 12?" I asked again.
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Size 12? Please, the largest I have is a nine."
After six months of daily abuse, or approximately 3360 hours of foot-time,
my shoes look little better than the locals' Goodyear-treaded sandals.
I'm sure they smell far worse. The seams are no longer seams but crevasses.
Strands of thread and unidentified shoe material trail behind me as I
walk and cause additional wind resistance when I ride. If my parents only
knew, they'd hop the next plane south and hand deliver a new pair.
I gave up after the eighth store. Quito is no place for large soles to
wear thin. Ecuadorian Sasquatches wear size tens. I remember thinking,
the tourist town of Cuenca will surely better cater to double digit feet.
* * *
The yells from the bus barkers could be heard from two blocks away.
"Ambato! Ambato! Am-baah-tooh!!!"
To make the cross-Quito ride as painless as possible, we set our alarms
early and were pedaling through downtown just as the sun was coming up.
The idea was to catch the first bus out of the city and avoid the suicidal
stretch of the Pan-American highway south of Quito. Apart from the usual
din-adoring taxi drivers (Quito drivers love their horns and taxi drivers
couldn't live without theirs), our early morning dash to the terminal
was peaceful. Upon arriving we asked when the Latacunga bus leaves. We
knew the answer could be trusted since, come hell or high-water, Ecuadorian
buses leave on time.
"Pronto! Ahorita! Tres minutos!" replied Carlos, the aging
but energetic bus driver. He was seated behind the wheel in a sagging,
bolted-down lawn chair. It seemed he had been up for a while and most
definitely had had his coffee. Was there room for four of us and our bikes?
He glanced at his watch and "Agghhh!!!" came the response -
an affirmative grunt we realized when it sent Miguel, his 12 year old
assistant, to the roof wildly motioning for our bikes.
Two minutes later our bikes would be de-panniered, de-Bobbed, and strapped
to the roof of a bus which had apparently been running the gauntlet of
Ecuadorian roads for longer than the Donahue has been on the air. Our
transition times could hardly be improved. We were masters of the Breakdown
& Loadup process. Each of us would ready our own bikes and then the
playbook came into effect. Nicole would stand sentry - a thief would have
no chance at an easy pick. Carolyn would claim seats and chase away the
chickens. John would lash bags together and ferry loads. Matt, to the
chagrin of the bus terminal stevedores, would climb to the roof and make
sure the fragile parts of the bikes weren't overly abused. Three minutes
later the bus would be sending its black smoke up over the skyline and
shim-shimmering its way through the south Quito ghettos.
That would be the first of many alternative forms of transportation we
would take on the 2500 kilometer stretch between Quito and Cusco.
* * *
The small towns we rolled through seemed recent additions to a landscape
dominated by agriculture. Most of the buildings were made of mud bricks
that we watched the locals make by the side of the road. The staple crops
appeared to be wheat, potatoes, corn, and beans. Young boys and old women
herded sheep and pigs on leashes alongside the road. The men were either
tilling the fields or already well into their bottles of chicha.
It must have been the diesel fumes that allowed the guy with the Bob
to talk the group into abandoning the Pan-American for the "more
scenic" loop around Chimborazo, Ecuador's highest volcano.
We started out of Ambato at 11:30 am and cranked slowly uphill for almost
four hours. Forty three kilometers of near constant climbing; an effort
that earned us our second lowest daily average speed, 11.3 km/hr. Over
1650 meters (5400 ft) of vertical gain to get to a pass that topped out
at 4100 meters (13,448 ft), the highest Nicole and I have ever been on
bikes. These are the types of numbers that often keep my mind entertained
while grinding up endless mountain passes.
What John and Carolyn were thinking as they turned the cranks on only
their second day, I'm still afraid to ask. It was over six months ago
that Nicole and I endured our second day. We were on the flats of Chile's
central valley and there was plenty of oxygen. Even then, our legs were
on fire, and saddle sores were blooming.
And it could have only been the scenery that prevented out and out mutiny
on that pass. Looking back, central Ecuador's green quilted valleys stretched
out beyond sight. Not a scrap of land went to waste. Whether it was a
dry riverbed or on a vicious 60º mountain slope, Ecuadorians tilled
it, seeded it, and reaped it. From above, their patchwork is all the more
impressive. Looking ahead, the gorgeous and gloriously massive Chimborazo
dominated the horizon. At 6310 meters (20,696 ft) it makes its own weather
and can't help but affect the climate of its humbled observers. One lucky
sight of the summit through its cloaking clouds did more than a box of
Power Bars. They say explorers once mistook it for the the highest mountain
in the world. While it's not even the highest in South America, its summit
remains the farthest from the center of the earth, due to the earth's
natural bulge at the equator.
The following day proved to be a rerun minus the asphalt, plus a few
degrees of steepness. From the previous night's campsite we descended
to 2600 meters into Guaranda. A nice town that we figured not too many
cyclists passed through. Later we learned why.
In the main plaza the townspeople swarmed us with their curiosity. Snappy
uniformed police officers kept their distance but appeared no less interested.
We picked up a few provisions - bread, water, and cookies - and got directions
for the road to Riobamba. At the bridge that marked the road east, we
took a few minutes to stretch. Again, we had an inquisitive audience.
This time they were more subdued and simply stared at the gringos on parade.
They appeared to be embarrassed for us and looked on in disbelief. "What
are those skinny tourists doing? Why are they wearing such tight, skimpy
clothes? They must be cold. They're not going over the pass to Riobamba,
are they? ...On bicycles? And that one, el pobrecito, did you see
his shoes?"
Like most ascents immediately out of river valleys, it was initially
exquisitely steep. After the first 20 minutes and 73 rapid barking dogs
later, the dirt and rock road mellowed a little. That proved only a momentary
stay against contusion. For the next five and half hours we grannied up
the cuesta, at times forced to push our loads due to the extreme pitch.
About every 45 minutes a car or truck would creep by and remind us just
how slow we were going. At about 4:30 in the afternoon we met the low
clouds and rode through swirling mist for the last tortuous hour. The
pass topped out at 3990 meters and exacted every bit of energy we could
muster.
With night coming on fast, we hurriedly threw on every piece of easily
accessible clothing and started the descent. Even with three pairs of
gloves, hands still stung and quickly went numb. About halfway down we
stopped to check our squealing brakes and discovered an excellent way
to bring feeling back to your fingers: taking care not to burn yourself,
simply rub the rims of your wheels. Piping hot and better than public
restroom air dryers, not that South America has any of those. As the descent
leveled out, we coasted through the dark into the pueblo of San Juan,
still 20km shy of Riobamba. To ride or not to ride, to camp or not to
camp, ... those were our questions. While soliloquizing, we watched a
tired bus back into its driveway, eking out the last few meters of its
day. After some discussion, he offered to make a special run for a mere
150,000 sucres. It sounds like a lot, but isn't. For the equivalent of
US$ 6.00, we napped all the way to Riobamba.
We checked into a hotel, got a restaurant recommendation, and proceeded
to horrify the waiter with our uniquely American capacity to eat rather
large amounts of food. Lasagna, pizza, garlic bread, wine, and beer never
tasted so good. A couple hours later, we were fast asleep and dreaming
of flat roads.
The next morning we caught the famed El Nariz del Diablo, or Devil's
Nose, train that runs from Riobamba, through a few towns, and then
drops down satan's schnozz, a perpendicular hunk of mountain that makes
for a dramatic ride. In under 30km the line descends from 2347m to 1255m.
On the precipitous descent, the train needles its way down a series of
switchbacks - actually rolling in reverse through half of them.
Built before the turn of the century, it was the only link between the
highlands and the ocean ports in that part of the country. Today roads
are quicker and cheaper, but the line serves a crucial role in Ecuador's
tourism industry. Every Wednesday and Sunday the train is packed to its
rooftops with tourists. I struck up conversation with a few that appeared
to me as if they could use some extra cash.
"That's a nice pair of shoes you got there."
"Uhhh... thanks."
"Really nice. They look comfortable. Big feet, huh?"
"Uhhh... yeah, I guess so."
"What size do you wear?"
* * *
The central Ecuadorian roads took us up and down and up and down... along
stretches in generally very poor condition: broken asphalt riddled with
potholes, strewn with loose gravel. The group had a tough time with the
seemingly constant climbs. I must have had my hill legs because I felt
great and was rarely exhausted at day's end. It was an exercise in patience
and compassion for me. I knew cycling with four would involve more logistics,
more complex decision making, etc. but didn't fully anticipate it. It
was difficult not to wince when complaints hovered over conversations,
when the inevitable rest breaks came two, three, sometimes four times
on the same grade. I tried to remember that it was John and Carolyn's
first week on the bikes, and that the Andes weren't exactly a gradual
start. When I looked down and saw 10-12 km/hr averages and 50km days,
I tried not to think of the 90-120km days and 18-22m/hr averages of Argentina
and Uruguay. It was slower going and I was slowly getting used to it.
Still, I realized that sadly, patience is a virtue I sorely lack.
* * *
[The sound of 101 mice slowly snacking their way through old crackly
newspaper.]
"Uggghhhhh," came the groan from John & Carolyn's tent.
It was well after midnight inside the Pan-American Cabin, but none of
us were sleeping. With our food hung from the rafters, the mice had only
their regular diet of newspaper to enjoy. Nonetheless, they seemed to
be reveling in epicurean bliss.
Earlier that day we had taken refuge from the rain under the eaves of
a small mud house when the next-door neighbor kids came by. German, Robinson,
and Andrea Paguay, ages 12, 10, and 8. They brought out chairs for us
and we shared some cookies and chocolate. When the rain reduced to a drizzle,
I brought out a round, plastic plate looking object. We started throwing
it around and German was instantly intrigued. It was the first time any
of them had seen a frisbee. After a few minutes German was tossing and
flicking like a pro. Robinson was still working on his backhand and Andrea
was content to watch. All of them grinning ear-to-ear.
A little while later Mariana came out to see what all the ruckus was
about. Like her daughter Andrea, she couldn't be coaxed into playing.
Mariana told us that the house we had taken refuge under was her mother
in-law's who was in the hospital in Riobamba and had been for many weeks.
They weren't sure what the problem was. For the past five years her husband
was in New Jersey, working and sending money back home. She raised the
kids, worked the corn and potato fields. German and Robinson tended to
the pigs.
Tired from the day's ride and the afternoon's frisbee session, we were
only too happy to accept Mariana's offer to stay the night in her mother
in-law's house. More of a cabin really. It was a one room affair with
a single bed in the corner and mud walls covered with tattered newspaper.
With its front door ten feet from the under construction Pan-American
highway, the dust layer inside could be measured with a dipstick. Signs
of rodent life were all too clear. We borrowed a broom and did what we
could.
That night we cooked pasta to a crowd of dark faces and white eyes peering
through the drizzle. Apparently news of the gringo sleepover had made
its way through the countryside. As soon as the dishes were done we retreated
to the privacy of our Pan-American Cabin. Not wanting to appear ungracious
or arrogant clean-freaks, we quickly and quietly we set up our tents inside.
There was just enough room for us to walk in between them. For the mice,
it was a ten lane highway. Even with earplugs it was a crinkly night's
sleep.
After our morning coffee, we packed up, said a fond farewell to our nocturnal
friends, and bid adios to the Paguay family. One last toss of the frisbee
back to German and we were off.
* * *
The following night we spent camped on a berm overlooking
Ecuador's best preserved Inca ruin, Ingapirca. We enjoyed a solitary
sunrise, walked through the ruins, and were back on the road as the first
tourist bus pulled up. Twenty clicks in the rain on a muddy tractor trail
was as much as we could muster. From Cañar, we caught a bus to
Cuenca.
The Let's Go: Peru & Ecuador 2000 guidebook has
this to say about the heart of southern highland culture:
Once a prosperous indigenous city worthy of its Cañari
name, Tomebamba (plain as big as heaven), the city was more plain
than heavenly by the time the Spanish arrived. When Gil Ramirez Dávalos
refounded in Cuenca in 1557, the mysteriously deserted Tomebamba already
lay in ruins. Today, the cobblestone streets, wrought-iron balconies,
and ornate buildings ooze colonial influence. Unlike Quito, Cuenca is
not a city divided between old and new; it fuses the two in historic
harmony... Life in this cultural mecca revolves around the old colonial
center, Parque Calderón, where a blue-domed cathedral towers
over tree-lined benches and communities of artisans renowned for their
baskets, shawls, and Panama hats. Ever charismatic, even Cuenca's terrible
traffic can't keep visitors from falling under its spell.
The night we arrived, John and Carolyn took us to El Jardin, Cusco's
finest restaurant, and made sure we celebrated well our five year wedding
anniversary. For the next two days we enjoyed the comforts that only a
tourist town affords. We sipped strong coffee and tried the local pastries.
We walked the cobblestones, strolled along the river, and took in a museum.
And, least notably, we had innumerable discussions with countless shop
owners about the paucity of size 12 shoes in Cuenca.
From Cuenca, we endured over 24 hours worth of buses; one to the Peruvian
border and another to Chimbote on the coast. The only memory I have of
those lost hours is John getting up in the middle of the night, while
the bus was screaming through northern Peru's coastal desert, and saying
something to the bus driver. At which point, the driver pulled over at
once and let him out. A few minutes later, we were rolling again. The
following day, I asked John what he could have possibly said that would
stop a nonstop, express bus.
"Bano" was apparently the secret passcode. Having nearly burst
my bladder many times on similar buses, I made a mental note.
John shared that while watering the cacti, it dawned on him that he had
no money, no ID, no clothes save shorts and a T-shirt, no food, and no
water. Had the driver decided to leave him to the cacti, he would have
surely had a tough few days ahead of him. He then went on to reflect that
every once in a while, when traveling through South America, you realize
just how little control you have over your life.
"Yeah, you can't even find shoes that fit your feet," I added.
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