Ecuador - Land of Diversity
Südamerika-Tour 2013-2015 – Teil III
Eje Cafetero - Colombia
I have said it many times, and I say it again: making plans is nice, but throwing plans out the window is much nicer!
So we don't go from Bogotá via Putumayo to Ecuador, as we first thought, but take a bus west to Armenia. By plane, the 150 km as the crow flies can be done in less than half an hour. The road, however, first descends to Ibague in the valley, from where it winds back up the other side in hairpins, up and up through lush green hills to the Eje Cafetera, Colombia's coffee zone. Along the way, we see daring bridge and tunnel structures under construction that should shorten the route in the near future. Today, however, it takes us a solid nine hours to complete the journey.
Armenia is a copy of one of the many medium-sized cities (means: around 400'000 inhabitants) that exist on this continent. So it is quite uninteresting for us.
We continue traveling to a place near the village of Filandia, half an hour from Armenia. Fernando, from the Hotel "El Mirador" in Minca, has given us the number of his uncle Álvaro, who has built a cottage in the countryside with his wife Olguita.
Well, a cottage is probably a little understated. The couple, who are about sixty years young, have realized a dream with this spacious villa with a wonderful view of the entire valley.
We are invited to be a part of it and rent their guest room for three days.
From here we get to know the area. Álvaro, who taught at the university in Bergen, Norway, for 23 years, is committed to Filandia's tree and landscape protection. Because too many trees have already had to give way here due to widespread cattle farming.
The area reminds me a little of Australia's south. This may be due to the eucalyptus trees, but also to the wide, green hilly landscape. What's missing are the kangaroos grazing at dusk.
A few days later and a few villages further we are in Salento. The touristic place makes us think of Switzerland. Mountains, green meadows, cows, and rain. Nevertheless, the vegetation is a bit different. Huge ferns and palms and then also the snow-covered top of the active volcano "Ruiz" show that we are still in Colombia.
In Gabriel's hostel "Yambolombia" we both feel quickly at home and a week passes like a breeze.
Gabriel, a native from Salento, bought this beautiful land cheaply a few years ago to build an organic finca (farm) with hostel on it. This also includes goats, horses, and of course dogs.
Nearly all visitors who come to Salento take a hike through the nearby "Valle de Cocora", where the Colombian wax palm dominates the landscape. Once again Colombia captivates us with its diversity and natural beauty. Of course, the Colombians are a proud people. Quite a few have already expressed to us their open and honest joy about being born here. First of all, Mauricio! If we understood more about music and the countless styles that Colombia has produced, we could rejoice even more with them about their country.
In the "Yambolombia" we exchange with other travelers about itineraries and experiences and organize twice a pizza and bread party. Because no clay oven crosses our path and gets away unused! Especially not Gabriel's beautiful one.
It remains to be mentioned that it has probably never rained so much on any of my trips as in this region. Finally, we leave Salento, not without promising to come back despite the mud and wetness.
At first we decide whether we want to make a stopover before Ecuador, but then we decide to take the (more or less) direct route.
On a beautiful morning at half past ten we set off from the "Yambolombia":
To the village on a partly ankle-deep mud road: 1/2 hour on foot
Salento - Armenia: 1 hour in the buseta
Armenia - Cali: 3 hours in minibus
Cali - Ipiales: 13 hours on the night bus
Ipiales - border: 10 minutes in minivan
Uncomplicated border clearance at 6 a.m.
Yippie, Ecuador!
Border - Tulcan: 1/2 hour in a minivan (on the way the elderly driver gets a fine from an ungracious policeman because of a trifle)
Tulcan - Quito: 5 hours in the bus (interruption of the trip in the big city? No, go on!)
Quito (north terminal) - Quito (main terminal in the south of the city): 1 hour by bus
Quito - Baños: 4 hours by bus
Arrival Baños around 5 pm, short walk to the hotel, shower, bed.
Ecuador
Mishap on arrival
Early morning. Seraina and I have just crossed the border and are waiting in a small minivan for two more passengers to fill the remaining seats. I get into conversation with the Colombian, the Peruvian, and the Venezuelan, who have already been traveling in various buses for four days coming from Caracas.
The usual: We are from Switzerland, speak Swiss German, yes, a kind of German dialect, Spanish we have learned on the road...
I notice certain curse words that are used lightly, the child on the bus hears them giggling.
Finally, two nuns join us and we can leave.
We ride. The area is gloomy, which is not only due to the weather. After a while, we arrive in the town of Tulcan, the first place after the border. It is just as gloomy as the land before it.
We pass the city park, where I spot a single tent. Who is camping here, I wonder; then the scene has passed.
We cross the streets. In front of us, a caravan of policemen on motorcycles. Nothing special. A patrol. They are moving slower than we are; we overtake them.
The nuns are sitting in front and now want to get out. The driver stops. One nun opens the door while the other pulls out her purse.
Before I can react, it happens. No time to tell the nun to close the door, because not like her, I remember the motorcycle cops we have just passed. Here comes one already. On the right. Can just barely brake, almost drives onto the curb, so that he does not slam directly into our passenger door.
He curses. The startled nun immediately closes the door again. The apologizing driver drives a few steps further to the corner where it is officially allowed to let passengers off. The nun also apologizes, they pay and make off.
The driver suspects correctly. Although he quickly puts the car back into gear, it is too late. There is a knock on his window. The annoyed policeman first discusses the matter with him because our driver almost caused an accident. He who has just had to laboriously gather passengers to earn perhaps a scant ten dollars on the ride. He is inconsolable and begs: "Please, please, forgive my mistake this one time. Please, please."
It all helps nothing. We have to wait until the form is filled out and our unfortunate chauffeur has collected his fine.
I ask myself: Don't policemen have to overtake on the left like everyone else so that precisely such things don't happen? A uniform gives power. No discussion.
And what about the nun? Pretty bold, too, to make off like that after her blunder.
The driver has had bad luck. We arrive at the bus terminal where we look for our onward journey and the incident is soon forgotten.
In Baños
The very next morning after our exhausting journey to Baños, we fortify ourselves with a stately breakfast at the market and now want to check out what we are here for. Because Baños is not just called Baños. The village is located directly on the slope of the Tungurahua, an active volcano more than 5000 meters high, which will make headlines once again two weeks after our departure from Baños. Later, in Canoa, we read that it spewed ash and debris with a cloud that reached as far as Quito.
But today we don't see any of that anyway because a thick, white, rainy cloud covers the town. That doesn't matter at the moment, we lie in one of the four or so thermal baths that make Baños famous and let our bodies get the relaxation they deserve after such a long voyage.
The next day the weather is not much better. Every now and then the sun peeks through to warm a little. That is just enough to explore the surrounding area. However, to undertake a longer hike, it is too cold and wet, although the area would be just made for it.
Instead, we check out another hot spring and lie in the warm water while it drizzles on our heads.
Eventually, it gets too much for us and, although we thought to wait longer for the sun, we leave early. Also in consideration of the many tourists who descend on the village at the weekend. Touching that Rosita, the owner of the hotel of the same name, apologizes for the unusually bad weather. We appease her and promise her to come back one day.
Tena and Misahualli
The rainy season is in full swing. It remains wet all the way down to Tena, four hours away in the east of the country. Tena is the starting point for white water rafting and tours to the indigenous peoples in the nearby jungle.
We, who are not very enthusiastic about tours anyway, are not particularly turned on by the prospect of "Indian-gazing" of indigenous people who, after completing their performance, disrobe and possibly throw themselves back in front of the TV. I'm not saying that everyone is like that, but certainly, there are many who would rather skip strenuous traditional hunting methods and go shopping at the store.
So at first, we don't know what we want to do here, except to get to know the city with walks, to talk to other backpackers, and to use the kitchen in the hostel extensively.
We drive on to Misahualli (pronounced Misahuaee, where "ll" contains a barely audible South American "sh"), not far away. The small village is located at the very end of the road. After that, there is nothing more than jungle. The Rio Napo flows brown and wide beside it. Far into the green, through the whole Oriente of Ecuador, into Peru, until it finally meets the mighty Amazon somewhere after Iquitos.
Here we find the atmosphere that can only be found in the jungle. In the evening you close your eyes and let the sounds take your breath away: One cricket tries to drown out the next, frogs croak, somewhere in the undergrowth it flutters, sometimes the call of a night bird can be heard, the river flows quietly incessantly.
At some point every night, as it did in Tena, it starts to pour. It's as if the moisture accumulates throughout the day, waiting and waiting to withstand the pressure a little longer until it just can't take it anymore and surrenders to its nature. The bubble then doesn't just deflate over the jungle, it explodes like a giant balloon filled with water over its mass. The rain slams down on the roofs, trees, and streets so that you think you can watch the water level rise. The next morning, the sun usually breaks through the white blanket again.
Another attraction Misahualli has to offer is the monkey family that lives in the middle of the village square. It is a joy to watch the monkeys playing and shimmying through the trees. But watch out! They know exactly where bags and trouser pockets are. They are not aggressive, as I have seen elsewhere. A little one grabs me by the trouser leg. I put my hands in my pockets and tell him that I don't have anything for him. Like a begging child, he wants to know, "Ow? Ow?" "Sorry," I say calmly, "nothing to eat." He lets go of me and hops away.
Quito
When we arrive in Quito a few days later, we are lucky. Still, at the bus station, we see the ominous, black front coming towards us. Maybe we will make it dry to the hotel. The hope bursts like the first heavy drops pattering on the roof of our cab. Lightning splits the dark sky. I count along: One, two, three, four, five, six... Dimly it begins to rumble, louder and louder. The next flash. Wow! What a spectacle. One, two, three... The bang is frightening. Not only is it raining, now cherry-sized hailstones are falling from the sky. We can hardly hear each other in the car, the hammering on the roof is so loud.
Now the crack of thunder hits at the same time as each flash of lightning. We are in the middle of it and glad to sit in the dry car.
Our chauffeur circles us through water-flooded alleys to avoid the traffic as much as possible. Half an hour later the storm subsides. We arrive at the hotel while it is still raining lightly, glad to have escaped once again.
Quito has two main districts of interest to tourists. The old town is full of colonial cathedrals and plazas where you can often be entertained by live music and markets on weekends.
The Mariscal, on the other hand, is full of hostels, bars, and clubs. That part might as well be in Europe or Asia. Or Ecuador, for that matter.
We discover both districts for ourselves, walk through the old streets of Ciudad Vieja, and treat ourselves to an Indian dinner at the Mariscal.
The real reason we are here is Mario, an old college friend of mine whom we meet here. He and his wife from Quito live in Switzerland but are currently visiting family in Ecuador.
So we seize the opportunity and spend a day together visiting one of the many parks in Quito, eating good food, and having a few beers in a bar.
On the beach of Canoa
As so often Seraina and I do not stick it out for long in a big city. After we had to endure weeks of rainy weather - well, the last two days in Quito the sun enchanted the city - it's time for swimming shorts, sand, and heat.
The night bus leaves at eleven at night. There is hardly any chance of sleep, the winding route shakes us back and forth. And as soon as we nod off, we hear: "Canoa! Canoa!"
What? Already there? It's still pitch black outside! Barely half-past four. Phew, what now?
We bundle up our backpacks and drag ourselves to the beach, where we can hear the waves but not see them.
At half-past six the village slowly begins to stir. A little later we pitch our tent at Camping Iguana. Kris from Germany has created her little empire here a few years ago. Not only do travelers live here - most of them from Argentina - but also some dogs, puppies, cats, and - a seagull. Tiki broke one of her wings, so Kris took her in.
Canoa is a small beach and fishing village that has doubled in size in the last year or two. Today, a beach promenade full of bars and restaurants dominates the scene.
Nevertheless, it is still quiet here. At least throughout the week, only a few places are open. Friday night to Sunday, however, everyone wants to do business, the bars run at full speed until deep into the night.
Here we meet some fascinating characters.
On the first day, we meet Waslav, whom we simply call Czech. He is from Czechoslovakia but has not been there for over fourteen years. A vagabond, as he stands in the book. Tall, blond, only a few teeth left in his mouth, speaks fluent Spanish, but with a funny accent. Instead of the second to last or last syllable, he usually stresses the words on the second. It sounds hilarious, I like talking to him.
And he has stories to tell. With barely more than a few dollars in his pocket, he has been traveling through South America for half an eternity.
For example, when he was traveling on the Amazon, eight days from Iquitos, Peru, to Manaus, Brazil, and from Manaus another week to Belem on the Atlantic coast of Brazil, he got to know a boatman who told him how he could get food and transportation for free. All he had to do was mention the name of the shipping company he worked for, and he would be warmly welcomed. That's how it worked out.
Here in Canoa, he just recently quit a job. They were paying him $12 a day at a construction site that, Czech assures me, exceeds the risks of any extreme sport. He can barely get by on that, he says, and his health is more important to him than the money.
He's probably had hundreds of jobs like that. I want to know if he can't imagine settling down somewhere. Oh, sure, there would be one or the other place, but the liquid is lacking. Couldn't he go back home, where he might get better-paid work? No, nothing awaits him in the Czech Republic or Slovakia. Besides, he could not afford a plane ticket. And he likes his life here.
That's how he appears. He cheerfully talks about his complicated love affairs, about plans for the future, about friends and acquaintances. In the process, it turns out that we have a common friend in Palomino.
On the same day, Czech introduces us to Damian. Damian is from Canoa, runs a small bar on the promenade, and makes the best fruit juices, caipirinhas, and ceviches (seafood salad).
Czech helps Damian out a little, not for money, Damian lacks that too. Instead, he wants to gain experience.
You rarely see Damian without a smile on his face. "Damian, working in the hammock again, huh?" a neighbor passing by on a bicycle calls out to him.
"Life is hard," Damian admits. Most of the time, there's nothing going on in his shack. He, like many here, makes a living from the weekends and holidays. He tells us how he was robbed recently. He had neglected to lock his board shack that night. And such mishaps are mercilessly exploited here. The next morning, not only was the cash register empty but so was his liquor bar. And what does Damian do? He laughs about it. He didn't have much anyway. At the moment, he has to spend the night here in the bar, since he doesn't have any money.
We quickly become good friends. He gladly lets us use a little table so that we can display our Artesania. We end up doing this almost every day, with more or less good daily results, part of which we are happy to invest in Damian's business.
On another day I meet Ismael, a young backpacker from Maryland, USA. He is traveling on his own in South America for a few months. An amusing guy who incessantly asks questions that could annoy you if you allow that to happen. Example: How do you get along with all these strange people? What a question to ask when you're traveling!
He tells about a finca in Colombia where he worked. "In the evenings, they would sing and dance around all the time. I didn't like that at all. I used to retreat to my hammock to read."
"Yes, most of the time you meet good people and if someone doesn't suit you, you'd better get out of his or her way," I give him some wise counsel. Maybe he's never heard it before.
In the afternoon, Friday, he comes to me and tells me his misfortune. He was swimming in the sea, not far in because of his glasses, then saw others diving under the waves and wanted to try the same. When the wave caught him, he realized why he shouldn't do that. His glasses flew off his head, never to be seen again, one with the ocean.
A spare pair of glasses? He doesn't have. That's why he comes to me. He asks me to help him find an optician in the next town, Bahia, an hour away, who could make him a new pair. When, now? Yes, if I don't mind, right away. Because the day after tomorrow his flight leaves for the Galápagos, and he doesn't want to go there without seeing anything.
Of course I help, balance my give/take account a bit, off to Bahia. The mission turns out to be difficult. The only optician they have here is closed. In the neighboring village, San Vicente, there is supposed to be another one. We go there, our cab driver asks around, without success, the optician no longer exists.
What now? Since Ismael has to go to Quito anyway, from where his flight to the Galápagos Islands takes off, I give him the advice to take the night bus to Quito tonight, to have the whole Saturday to get new glasses.
That's what he wants to do. On the way back we talk about all kinds of things, about his job in the marketing department of a big company, about Stephen Hawking and his universe in a nutshell, and what would happen after our death.
A funny fellow, clumsy but clever. And haunted by bad luck. The only bus that goes directly from Canoa to Quito tonight is fully booked.
But there are other possibilities to get to Quito. With several stops in between, it should still be possible. As I wait with him at the main road for his bus, he tells me about his family. About his father, who always locks all the rooms, which for Ismael is a clear sign of mistrust towards him. About his extremely religious stepmother, who, as a not very devout Orthodox Jew, reproaches him at every opportunity for being a bad person. And here it comes, my favorite Ismael phrase: "My stepmother is a wonderful woman, I can't stand her." Very neutral and understandable.
Hopefully, he got his glasses. And hopefully, he makes lots and lots of lasting acquaintances that help him study life.
We also make friends with Benji and Karo. A short story of the two Germans: They were in Taganga (the small party village next to Santa Marta, Colombia) on the way. From the village over the hill to the beach behind. In the middle of the day. About the same time, Seraina and I were there too.
Three guys block the small path for them. Pistols. "You don't move when they hold a gun to your wife's head," Benji recalls, shaking his head. We'd heard about the dangerous area but had walked to that beach ourselves unmolested.
"They could have raped her and I would have had to watch." "They didn't just take our stuff," Karo continues, "they forced us further up a path into the bushes where other tourists were already waiting, terrified. I was so scared. What did they want with us? Shoot us or what?" So they had to wait out the rest of the day with the others, not knowing how it would end. In the evening they were finally released. "After an experience like that, you get suspicious, it's a shame, but it's inevitable," Benji ends.
We have heard some bad stories. Luck? Good angels? Knock on wood that nothing like that ever happens to us.
We get to know many more people here. There is also Reto, who emigrated from Zurich Oberland, and has bought a large piece of land in the north of Ecuador with his Argentine wife and built a farm with an adjoining hotel. Long, blond hair, tattoos all over his body - my mother would call him a freak (not in a bad sense!) - he knows a lot about the indigenous peoples of Ecuador and other parts of the world. Of course, we are invited to their home once we come to the region. He enthuses about the area, about his llamas, alpacas, the thirteen dogs, the lagoon, and the volcanoes all around. Canoa remains in our best memories with its people, waves, and sunshine.
Vicabamba - Valley of the 100 year olds
After almost two weeks we start another long journey. We want to go to the very south of the country, to Vilcabamba, to the "Sacred Valley". Here, sixty percent of the inhabitants are said to live to be over a hundred years old. Is it because of the holy water that flows down to them from the mystical mountains all around? No one is able to explain it.
Seraina and I find a nice little cabaña that we rent for a week to explore what we can already say after two days is a magical environment.
What is immediately noticeable here, is not only that the hamlet seems clean and quiet, but also that almost more gringos than Ecuadorians live here. Many Americans, perhaps attracted by the long life, certainly also by the beauty of the valley, have acquired estates in Vilcabamba to spend their retirement in peace.
The mountains, plants, and summer climate here at 1600 meters invite us to many walks in nature.
We enjoy this short week in Vilcabamba after that we are going to Iquitos, Peru, to start our volunteer position at amazonanimalorphanage.org. That means several days in the bus to Tarapoto or Yurimaguas and another three days in a hammock on a boat with masses of other people - and, as we keep hearing, really bad food.
South America Tour 2013-15
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South America Tour 2013-15
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