Wednesday, April 27, 2011
My first real journal entry in well over a decade. We took a bus from the central highlands of Ecuador today to, well, higher. We must be at least 3,000 meters, or so it feels like it. We ate a deliciously simple breakfast of croissants, fresh juice, and tea this morning at the Hostel Tiara in Latacunga. Gabby and I then proceeded to remain completely stationary for the next few hours and stuff our noses deep into the pages of our books. I finished Tom Robbin’s “Villa Incognito,” thoroughly enjoying the playful story as well as his political, social, and philosophical banter. The protagonists’ discussions of Western attachments to things, physical manmade things, as well as their countering of a rather opposite Asian philosophy made me feel better about being robbed at gun point a few days ago. I can still be angry at the principal of it, and the men for treating us like shit (and frightening Gabby so), but it’s about time I got over the few things lost. A camera, Leatherman, knives, iPod, and a couple hundred bucks can be replaced of course, it’s just difficult to decide whether or not I really need them. I don’t.
The bus ride here was incredible. The small, dirt, one-lane road coiled tight around the hips of the Andes, which seem to thrust themselves toward the sky like the hands of Gospel singers in a Baptist church. Their peaks were often shrouded in mist and rain, but it only made the countless shades of their green cloaks shimmer that much more. It was surprising how high up the farmers dare to cultivate the earth here. The dense, multicolored patchwork makes the mountains look as if they’re wearing a fantastically beautiful second-hand skirt that has had the help of 100 gifted artists to beautify its aging stitch.
Over an hour into the drive, while Gabby was sleeping on my shoulder, I looked out across the valley and over the dizzying steep slopes separating us to see a solitary tree springing out of an abnormally flat and otherwise barren piece of earth a third of the way up the mountain. I couldn’t help but want to be over there and bask in the company of such an old and solitary being. Surely it would have something to teach me, if not at least share its awe-inspiring view. Then, almost as quickly as the thought emerged, it was subdued by one of fear—fear of being so alone and visible to whomever where to gaze across the valley. But I have no fear of solitude. I rather treasure it. So where does this fear come from? Do I yearn that badly to not draw further attention to myself in a foreign place? Well, I might as well get over it. As my father would say, I stick out like a sore thumb here.
We passed the rest the day in lethargic paradise. After arriving at Llullu Llama Hostel in the tiny, high-mountain village of Isinliví, I moved little but to walk out to the beautiful bathroom and back. The woodstove-heated main room looked out over the luscious green valley of patchwork wonder, in which we sat and played cards, ate chocolate, and warmed ourselves in preparation for tomorrow. Dinner was heavenly: spicy quinoa soup chased with home-made lasagna stuffed with the delicacies of their hostel-side garden, and topped off with chocolate cake and as much tea and coffee as we could muster.
We shared the space with a young British couple (with whom we’ll hike tomorrow), a German named Marco and a Danish girl, Stine. Though quite pretty, her short golden locks couldn’t quite make up for her ruthless sense of humor. She’s not the first Dane I’ve met who seemed to try to out-comic all those in attendance with her merciless attempts at sarcasm. There’s a difference between being funny and just plain mean.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Hostal Llullu Llama. Really soft bed. Too soft. Woke up with a sore back and lungs thick with the smoke from the fire we made last night to warm our bones before sleep.
8 a.m. – breakfast of champions. Huge bowl of fresh fruit topped with granola and local yogurt; scrambled eggs with homemade bread and jam; fresh-squeezed juice and local coffee. I was too good to pass up writing about. We stuffed our faces along with the rest of the troupe, then headed down the mountain at 9:05 sharp.
The previous night’s rain had turned much of the path to thick mud, if not a river in some places. Easily the most gorgeous walk we’ve had on the trop so far—tomorrow’s supposed to be better! The path brought us snaking down into the valley, across a river, and back up into the cradle of another valley. We climbed ancient earthen steps that date back to the Incas. At 45 minutes in, we plateaued (literally) on a remarkably flat piece of earth at that altitude and shared our presence with a horse, who enjoyed our apple about as much as we enjoyed the view down the valley and across the mountains. There is nothing that can compare to such a deep, vigorous shade of green.
We descended to the bottom of the valley with the help of a small local lady (not more than four feet tall) who must have been at least in her 60s or 70s. She quickly hopped down the mountain path and across new, dense marshland created by the power of the raging river, which seemed to be trying to take the mountains with it. She, as well as the few others whose simple earthen dwellings pepper the mountainside, is a subsistence farmer who lives primarily off the corn and potatoes that she cultivates on the steep, high altitude plots that most Western farmers wouldn’t even dare hike up, much less attempt to sow seed. The little that she makes from the beans that she grows alongside her corn provides her enough income to buy whatever she might need in town.
We followed the river for another twenty minutes after she abandoned us for the couple beautiful horses she had come to tend to, and then started our slow ascent. We came first to the small village of Itualo, which was really much too small to even be considered that. Do four buildings constitute a village? Immediately after passing their tiny, humbling church, we started steeply up the mountain, whose eager switchbacks had us doubled over more than its crippling peaks. The view from the top was mind-numbing. How can these people live in happiness with so little, and our people live in misery with everything?
One striking feature that really sets this landscape apart from others is the effect that landslides have had on the mountains. Much of the path had been turned inside-out by landslides. Once we reached the top to gaze across the next beautiful valley, we could see remnants of the havoc previous landslides wreaked on the mountainside, their age discernible by the depth of the green hue of the grass that struggled to repopulate the steep, crumbling peaks.
We walked through another small “village” called Chinalo, this one even smaller than the last, before hiking up the dirt road to Chugchilan. I now sit comfortably at the Cloud Forest Hostel, trying my best to keep warm while enjoying the chorus of falling rain and chirping local children as they make their way down the steep roads, heading home from school.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Another amazing breakfast today. Woke up to rain massaging the window above our heads. Cloud Forest Hostel, which looks a little like a ski lodge, provided us a welcomed double bed on a second floor loft in the dorm—quiet, peaceful, rainy serenity.
Out the door by 8:45 a.m. Accompanied once again by young English duo, James and Miranda. He’s quite funny—his myriad English accents kept me thinking of something other than my aching legs during the hike. The rain washed away much of the trail, so we were directed to take the small, winding one-way dirt road instead. It’s certainly not as novel as the path, which solitarily snakes through the mountainside, but it’s still the Andes and still incredibly gorgeous. We walked for about four hours again today. Mostly up, unfortunately. Much different from yesterday—the climb was higher, and so we were amongst the presence of ancient alpine friends. Gab and I noticed that, if it weren’t for the incredible two or three mile view across the Andean highlands, when we kept our eyes straight ahead it almost felt as if we were in the Adirondacks.
We often wished we were on the path, for its novelty and solitude. Alas, one benefit of the road was that, because of its size, we were able to look out across the patchwork green hills after hours of struggle to trace our surprising progress back around the hills and mountains in the distance.
We cheated and hitched a ride in the back of a pick-up toward the end. We still had about another three hours left and we were all feeling beat. We were glad we did it—the majority of the ride was up. Whatever we could have walked would have been worth it—Quilotoa was a truly breathtaking sight. The crater’s size is enough to knock you on your ass, not to mention the emerald-green sparkling waters which wait in near absolute stillness about 1,000 feet below. I asked how deep the water was and the locals said it does not end, there is no bottom. However enchanting their response may be, the guidebook says otherwise—a few hundred feet. Still impressive.
We basked in the high-altitude glory of the beautiful crater for a short while before bidding our companions farewell and beginning the long ride back to Latacunga. Started raining when we got back. After three perfect sunny days in the mountains. Figures. Big chicken dinner, hot shower, and then watched “The King’s Speech” in honor of all things British. Congratulations Mr. Prince William.
HEY THERE! My camera got robbed, so look at someone else's photos instead.
