Guayaquil (briefly) & Cuenca (8/17-8/21)

Our bus from Puerto Lopez, which hurtled over the coastal mountains at about 90 mph through some startlingly beautiful scenery (we arrived on the coast via Santa Elena, left through Jipyjapy or something), dropped us at the Guayaquil terminal terrestre in the early afternoon. We stowed our bags, bought a later ticket to Cuenca, and adventured into the city.

Guayaquil´s Iguanas

We´d been told by every Ecuadorian we´d met thus far to watch out for crime in Guayaquil, the nation´s economic capital. Heidi even went so far as to (in her incredibly bossy manner) stop us in the street in Puerto Lopez, leave us gaping there as she took an important phone call for 10 minutes, force us to walk 3 blocks with her, and then give us the name and phone number of a secure taxi in Guayaquil. While it may have just been an elaborate plan to get us to patronize her friend´s company, we´d been given some serious advice to be vigilant and wary in the city, and not to stay out after dark. Given the degree to which people hyped up the danger, Scott and I were all but trembling and punching strangers (ooh, foreshadowing) as we arrived downtown.

I´m sure other travelers will have lots to say about Guayaquil, but all we really did was go to the plaza famous for having free-roaming iguanas, walk the newly-renovated malecon (waterfront) and see a little boy, in a giant bubble, in a fountain, and eat desserts. The iguanas were really neat; I even tried to pick one up, which it didn´t really mind at all, surprisingly. Not sure what the history is there, but it´s an odd place.

On our way back to the terminal by bus (very well-organized bus system, touche), I was spacing out while sitting facing forward, and Scott was standing facing the window. All of a sudden, he started smiling, laughing, and waving at someone out the window. I was absolutely shocked (and a little jealous) - we´d been in the city all of 4 hours and Scott had already made friends?! As it turns out, the tour bus full of our French whale-watching compatriots from Puerto Lopez had randomly pulled up alongside our city bus. What are the chances? Pretty good; like I said, we estimate that there´s a 60% chance you´ll see any group of tourists again in another city.

Cuenca

Cuenca is described as having ¨unmatched charm,¨ although the first thing we encountered at 11pm in the terminal terrestre was a guard holding a pistol at the ready in his hand. I watched him fingering it gingerly as I boldly asked him where to find the taxis. He must´ve thought I was an idiot; there were about 30 taxis idling right behind him. We caught our taxi amidst a formidable military unit, some of whom tested their ¨hello-how-are-you¨ on the fresh gringos.

Usually, upon arrival to a city, we pick the cheapest hostel out of our Lonely Planet guide, get taken there by taxi (or bus, if it´s early and uncomplicated enough), then poke our heads into a few other hostels before settling on one. We´re usually ravenous at this point, so we drop our packs aggressively, then strike out in a quest for nourishment. Cuenca was no different. We settled in, then immediately went in search of food. Of course, before finding food, we ran into the Germans from Montañitas and Puerto Lopez, loafing around on a nearby streetcorner. Stephan, Peter, and Sad Boy (not their real names, but definitely what I called them) would play a ubiquitous role in our time in Cuenca.

In the morning, at the suggestion of the Germans, we switched hostels to what will probably be the best hostel we stay in this entire journey. It was a converted colonial house, with fully equipped kitchen, free computer, big-screen TV with DirectTV (¨En (city you are in) y en todo del Ecuador!¨), hot showers, rooftop lounge, and lots of interesting travelers, including an ostentatious British couple who kept exclaiming to the friend with whom they were video chatting ¨look how FAT we´ve gotten! Seriously, we´re never going to be able to do the Inca Trail!¨ and a slightly depressing, half-Ecuadorian, half-Australian girl who couldn´t speak Spanish but who we (for whatever reason) befriended.

We spent our second day in Cuenca about 2 hours (Mr. Planet said one...) ourside of Cuenca at the Ingapirca ruins, the only Incan ruins in Ecuador. We arrived at the platform for the 9am direct bus at 8:59am, and of course it was the only time any bus has ever left on time in this country, so we ended up taking quite the circuitous route to the ruins. It was for the best, however, because on our detour Scott got to eat a heart. (When he asked what type of animal the heart came from, the waiter thought for a moment, then responded confidently, ¨torro.¨ Eek!)

The ruins were actually a 1970 reconstruction of the original ruins, and the first time I asked the ticket lady, she told me tickets cost $6. For Ecuadorian students, however, the price was only $1. I thought it a long shot when I approached the window a second time, three minutes later, and said (in my slyest, most insider-esque voice): ¨Dos estudiantes extrañjeros, por favor...¨ To my surprise, she let us in for a total of $5. And we got a guide!

The best part of the ruins was the large Ecuadorian family accompanied by their awkward Danish visitors, who had apparently hosted the daughter in Denmark. I was strongly reminded of Scott and my attempts at halting Spanish with Santi (our foreign exchange student)´s family, who we visited in Denia last summer. The other exciting highlight was the Inca Cara, which was a completely natural rock cliff that perfectly resembled a proud Incan face!

We arrived back in Cuenca that evening just in time for the Cuenca vs. Emele (Guayaquil) club soccer match, since it would be inconceivable to come to South America and not watch one. A man we´d met in Puerto Lopez (and who given us his number in case of emergency - these Ecuadorians are so nice), and who lived in Cuenca, had given us a bit of background about the team, which is supposed to be quite good this year.

Not being of the persuasion to show up at a sporting event unprepared, I bought a Cuenca jersey (which advertises Pilsener beer more than it does Cuenca) on the way in, which brought lots of attention from the loyal Cuencan fans. It was a great game - low stands put us almost on the field, fans set off ground-level fireworks throughout, our German friends were there, and Cuenca won, 2-0. It was some of the fastest 90 minutes I´ve ever watched in sports.

Later, we reconnected with the German band, as well as two Canadians and a Frenchman they'd picked up somewhere. Sitting down by the river, we were joined by a 16-year-old Ecuadorian boy, who´d just been dumped. He didn´t speak English (the rest spoke little Spanish), was texting frenetically on his phone, was silent except when he was interrupting, but nonetheless spent the next few hours glued to our group.

This, of course, came in handy when, an hour or so later, walking across the bridge with the Canadians, an wiry Ecuadorian boy, our of nowhere, turned and punched the Canadian boy directly in the face! Our Ecuadorian Sad Boy showed us to the ER.

Scott had gone home by then, but the night didn´t stop. I took the group to a mojito bar, where (since I´d been there the night before) the bartenders gave us a special deal on mojitos. An impromptu salsa dancing lesson with some locals (who turned out not to know how to salsa dance) ensued. We finally left the bar at 4am, at which point I was shamed into going with the few remaining travelers to another bar (I was told I wouldn´t be representing America well if I went to sleep at 4am...), where, at the mention of beer pong, tables, ping pong balls, cups, and beer were provided. I taught everyone the rules, and afterwards we played flip cup. I never thought I´d be the one to import American college beer-drinking games to Ecuador...

I finally made it to bed at 7:30am, after watching the sun rise over the river, but it meant the rest of our stay in Cuenca was a haze of sleepiness (although we did manage to check out the Museo de Banco Central, with a shrunken head display and aviary, and the ¨Panama¨ Hat Museum - quotes because the so-called Panama hat was actually born in Monte Cristi, Ecuador). A day later, we left for the Parque Nacional Cajas, and what was to be some of the best camping of our lives...

Montañita & Puerto Lopez (8/8-8/17)

We left Baños in quite a hurry - we both suddenly had the urge to move on. However, the 6am direct bus to Guayaquil (for which we woke up early) turned out not to exist, so we stayed a bit longer, and were routed through Ambato (north of Baños), then Riobamba (west of Baños), and finally to Guayaquil, where we promptly hopped a bus to the Pacific Coast, and a little place called Montañita. It had been recommended to me by a friend of a friend, and to Scott by Mr. Planet (our Lonely Planet guide, if that wasn´t obvious) as a great place for surfing. We stayed 9 days on the coast, splitting our time between Montañita (a crazy party oasis and a must-stop on the Gringo Trail) and Puerto Lopez (Montañitas´ quiet, innocuous counterpart, famous for its humpback whale-watching tours).

Montañita(s) - rare excerpt from my diary

This is the strangest city to attempt to characterize...it is comprised of a main square of about six blocks, with another six(ish) blocks of residences. One local referred to going to ¨the city,¨ meaning the crammed six blocks lines with vendors selling jewelry, statues, pipes, morocho (have I mentioned this stuff? It´s basically horchata, with chunks of rice and a stick of cinnamon in it. Note: they also have horchata here - it´s an aromatic water that is reminiscent of a rose. Huh), pinchos (cheap street kebabs with beef, chicken, plantains, etc), hamburguesas, empanadas, ceviche...and inhabited by gimmicky tiki bars with extravagant happy hours. The people have more hair wraps, bare feet, dreads, bare chests, slouchy pants, and various beads per capita than in Santa Cruz. The closest comparison I can draw is to Venice Beach, although here the nights are boisterous and boozy, not gang-y.

Our typical days here consist of waking up early to go surfing on our rented boards, eating giant, eggy pancakes at Carmita´s, watching the various waves (of the sea and of people) wash over the beach, starting philosophical or religious conversations in halting Spanish with the sunglasses salesman on the beach, or with the mate-drinking (and -sharing!) Argentinian photographer at our hostel.

We forget our books ont he beach, only to come back later and find them gone, but hours later they are inexplicably returned to our unexpecting hands, and we´re told they were being protected from the wild surf. People stare at us, smile, laugh, assume we are married. Sometimes they stop us, shyly asking for pictures with us (or, once, if they could borrow our beers to stage a picture of 8 year olds pretending to drink). One girl rewards me later with a pink beaded bracelet, smiling self-consciously with pride before disappearing into the onslaught of drunk tourists. Homeless ladies ask to share the beers we are having (with two Englishmen we met at that terrible trivia night in Quito, no less, see picture top left), then lick Scott´s face, Ecuadorian businessmen on vacation share their beers, singing loudly all the words to the salsa songs, and learning our card games (see left). Some boys try not to stare as we drink beers on the seawall at dusk, then offer us coconut-flavored shots.

We eat everyday, at least once, at one fo the two places next door to each other that have almuerzos and meriendas for $1.50, and it always takes a few moments before we pick which one. We buy five cent bananas; I average about two per day. Scott averages as many pieces of cake per day, and no matter which flavor he gets it always tastes of coconut and toasted marshmallows. My feet are burned and marked from sand grinding between my tevas and my skin. The mosquitoes eat my legs.

At night, we sleep fitfully in our bunked beds and ineffective mosquito nets, with thousands of trucks idling, revving, and rolling past our window before dawn. Everyone who stays at our hostel appears to work there, and the one man who actually does always acts as though he´s being incredibly sneaky by maknig us pay to sleep there.

One day, there was an alert that the water was dangerous, and the policemen patrolling the shores told us that a four-meter tsunami had hit Peru and Chile (see police enforcement at left).

One afternoon, we saw a car, trying to parallel park, knock the glass out of another car´s headlight. The other people who saw, the ones who work at the shops in the street, seem to work at all the shops, or none of the shops if you actually need them.

One night, when we were watching Korea and Spain play each other in futbol, two people were shot about 150 yards away from us. We were told they were Colombian drug dealers, one shot in his car, the other on the volleyball courts 100 yards away. It took about 20 minutes for one police car to show up...

We decided it was time to leave Montañita.


Puerto Lopez

We caught a bus from Montañita to the Parque Nacional Machalilla, right after Scott stood in line for the one ATM in town, with a line that took exactly 43 minutes. No joke. Our guidebook said that we could camp in the park after an entrance fee of $20, and that the tropical dry forest at Los Frailes there was a ¨must-see.¨ As is becoming our custom, we were dropped off on the side of a dusty road near a small entrance booth, where we were immediately informed that: (a) camping is not allowed in the park; (b) the entry fee is $2; and (c) because of the high surf alert that had been issued a few days before (or maybe because it was late in the day, who knows?), we actually couldn´t even enter the park. We also noticed, about that time, that the unmissable tropical dry forest looked like a bunch of dusty tumbleweeds strung together with old witch hair.

We had no choice but to head directly back down the road to Puerto Lopez, and we lined up on the dusty highway to do just that. At that very instant, a pickup truck with 4 adults in the cab and about 10 children in the back pulled up about 20 feet away, idling before pulling out into the road. I looked at them, beseechingly, and to my surprise, they beckoned us over. The next thing we knew, the 14 car-habitants (who happened to be from Ambato...) and the two of us were hurtling down the highway to Puerto Lopez (see left for family). The next thing we knew, we were being escorted to a tiny family-owned hostel on the beach. They didn´t have any rooms for that night, but suggested we pitch our tent on the beach... (For those of you who haven´t heard about our travels last year in Morocco, camping innocently on the beach turned into a tent-slashing, camera-wallet-ipod-cell phone-stealing, almost-losing-passport adventure, which we hope never to reprise.) They kept our bags for the night and let us use their bathroom and kitchen, all for free!

The next day, we followed signs for a surf rental shop, which turned out to be a hostel with a guy named Miguel who had a friend who had a surf board as a piece of art in the restaurant where he worked. Scott rented it for the day, although it didn´t come with a leash, so we used our pocket knife to cut a piece of rope from a drift pile. This, of course, cut into his ankle all day, until he broke the grip on the board. Which he inexplicably had to replace. Also of note, we ran into some Germans we´d met in Montañita, and who we´d run into again on the streets of Cuenca, days later.

We stayed several nights in Puerto Lopez, but we spent most of the days relaxing in our hostel (which had no other guests, but a common room with a TV, so we logged some formidable hours). We decided Puerto Lopez didn´t have very good food, so we also did some serious cooking in the seriously lacking kitchen at our hostel, which was made all the more difficult by the fact that the proprietor was a middle-aged female lunatic. She was constantly whispering to herself, popping out from behind curtains, and scrubbing angrily at invisible stains on the ageing pots and pans. Equally charming was her daughter, Heidi (pronounced ¨Hhhhhhhheythy¨), who essentially forced us into going on a whale watching tour that she guided. We thought that because of her incredible bossiness and whiney voice, as well as the giant group of French tourists who accompanied us, the tour would be terrible, but in true Scott-and-Hayley form, we took advantage of the fact that everyone could only partially understand us to mess with everyone in the entire boat. It ended up being an incredible tour, though, we watched humpback whales spout and surface and even jump alongside our tiny boat for about 3 hours, then (at my faux-insistence, which was mistaken for real insistence, since no one else spoke very good English), we went snorkeling.

We left the Pacific Coast for an afternoon in Guayaquil and another bus to Cuenca, sunburnt, mosquito-bitten, and excited for the refreshing cold of the mountains.

Banos and Other Notes on Ecuador (8/4-8/8)

After Cotopaxi, we spent about 5 days in Banos, which appears to be our average. The town is fairly small, but renouned as a tourist destination for its relaxing baths, scenic topography, and extreme sports.

On a whim, on our first day in Banos we rented a dune buggy (pronounced ¨boogie¨), and drove down La Ruta de las Cascadas, which was a small road along a river gorge, skirting startling drops and ducking through tunnels every few minutes. By far the most incredible part of it was when Scott jumped into the buggy at a run while I drove it past him at full speed. Just kidding. The coolest part was stopping at Pailon del Diablo. We didn´t know what it was until we wandered down a jungly trail, up some wet rocks, and were asked to pay $1.50. We grumbled a bit, then paid and worked our way up the trail. The next thing we knew, we were on a precipice above the most incredible waterfall I have ever seen. Below the terrace upon which we were standing was a second terrace, then a third, even further down. I descended, only to realize that the lowest balcony could aptly be called The Splash Zone - it was located directly in the waves of spray shooting out from below. From there, we climbed through a cave grotto, bent double and crawling, and emerged immediately behind the thundering falls. Breath-taking.

On the way back from the falls, we paused, drenched, only to notice a familiar face behind us....it was one of the employees from our first hostel in Quito, his fiancee, and two people from the hostel we´d seen at the TeleferiQo! Though this was our first run-in with the so-called Gringo Trail and the strange phenomenon of running into complete strangers more than once, and in different locales, it was certainly not the last (we ran into the same people the next day in one of the MANY bars in Banos)...

Another lovely phenomenon we encountered in Banos for the first (and, unfortunately, not the last), was the awkward situation of being given a matromonio - or a room with one medium sized bed. Everyone here assumes we are married, or a couple, which can be used to our advantage (when trying to avoid unwanted attention), but is mostly sort of awkward and funny.

During our time in Banos, we were generally to be found either at the local supermercado - buying $0.90, 24-oz beers (Pilsener is the Ecuadorian national brand, a pretty bland beer that comes in giant bottles at cheap prices), or Scott purchasing Pony Maltas, $0.30 to $0.60 bottles of a malted beverage that really tastes like Raisin Bran cereal - or at the local pizza shop, watching Glee in Spanish (sometim

es you need a break from rice and stew!, also the songs are in English with Spanish subtitles). Once, in the supermercado, a girl popped out from behind a shelf while Scott and I were considering a naranja flavored pound cake, and began chatting with us about the necessity of being positive. Doris was from Toronto, and we would see her irrepressible smile at least once a day for our entire stay in Banos. She never chatted with us for long, though, because the old Russian man who followed her from a distance and who she claimed was her father was inevitably hungry, so she had to go feed him. (Speaking of food, we forgot to try cuy - guinea pig - in Banos. Got a picture, though. We did try jugo de cana, or sugar cane juice, which was quite delicious. People often chew a small, fibrous piece of it and suck on the juice. Not pictured.)

The same night we met Doris, we went out to the bars in town with two Americans we met at our hostel. Aaron and Elizabeth had been traveling about as long as we had, but were moving North, rather than South. We immediately befriended two more Americans, and then I spotted some Ecuadorians Scott and I had played pool with the night before. Leaving the boys to fend for themselves, Elizabeth and I took off to corner

one of the Ecuadorians, and take him with us for the evening. Of course, when we returned to where we´d left the American boys, they were nowhere to be found. The three of us spent the entire night visiting every bar in Banos (at some point we realized we could just approach the bouncers and ask them if there

were any gringos inside - the answer was usually no). I mention this night mostly to underline the fact that Scott and I are traveling together, which also means that no one else is traveling with us...and while I love my brother, anyone who knows me knows I need extra stimulation in the form of interactions with ¨strangers¨. But as the old adage goes: There are no strangers, just friends I haven´t met yet. So nights like this are important because they give me a chance to annoy some new people, and get to tell them stories and hear theirs, which is really all I want to do anyway.

Banos boasts lots of extreme sports, and the one we interacted with most intimately was called Puenting (puente means bridge, -ing is the English gerund form). Basically, the activity consists of being strapped into a harness, climbing over the edge of a bridge spanning a 300-foot gorge,

counting to 3, then jumping off. You fall 150 feet, then you swing (an alternate name is swing jumping). After

much consideration, a blessing from one of the ¨witches¨(see

#2, below), and a serenade from a crazy man in the street to the tune of ¨Ï Wanna Hold Your Hand,¨ featuring the original lyrics, ¨I wanna have to youuuuu,¨ Scott took the plunge. A group of about 20 Ecuadorian tourists gathered to watch, and when it was all over, many of them shook his hand reverently, asking about his thoughts in the moments just before, and calling him ¨valiente.¨ It was truly heroic.

General Notes on Ecuador

So now that we´ve been here for a few weeks, we feel qualified to make some extremely scientific notations on the country (which we absolutely love, by the way). The results from this exhaustive study follow.

1) Ecuadorians love playing American music - on buses, in taxis, in parks - but there´s a catch: they never play any music produced after 1989. Love Shack, Take On Me, and pretty much anything by Sting are staples.

2) In the Andes, any women over about 50 are dressed in a particular costume, and look like witches. It consists of a wide-brimmed hat, a long, velvety skirt, woven shawl, and heavy boots. It´s often augmented with a baby slung in a loose cloth over the shoulder, or dragged by the hand. Their faces are worn, lined, and striking. And they most defnitely have magical powers. Several times we´ve been taken by the hand by one of these women, and we´re definitely either blessed or cursed...

3) People think we´re extremely wealthy, simply because we´re white. One woman recommended a restaurant, saying it was too expensive for her, but we might like it. Everyone seems shocked when we ask for ´el mas barato´

4) The cheapest, most delicious thing you can get at any restaurant is the almuerzo (fixed lunch menu) or merienda (fixed dinner menu, usually the same as lunch), which usually costs around $1.00 to $2.50. The thing is, you never know what you´re going to get, although you´ll always receive soup, juice, and a dish with rice, meat, and vegetables or beans (or pasta...). Desayuno, or breakfast, on the other hand, is the largest meal of the day, and can include pizza, ice cream, or hamburgers.

5) Everyone here is incredibly kind. Random people will smile at you, help you, and not look mad when you choose not to patronize their restaurant, bar, whatever.

6) It rains everyday for at least an hour.

7) It is ok for people to stare at you just because you´re white.

7a) When people say ¨hello-how-are-you¨ they are not looking for a response. They are

simply acknowledging that you´re a gringo.

7b) In Guayaquil, however, it is acceptable for people to point and laugh at you simply

because you are white.

8) The entertainment on bus rides is bizarre. We´ve seen Direct Contact, Street Fighter III: Redemption, Blood and Bone, Valkyrie, an Ecuadorian actor´s reel, listened to incredibly loud 80s or Ecuadorian music, as well as a radio talk show where an announcer reads ladies´love stories. Also, buses tend to be crowded, noisy, hot or cold, and equipped with drivers who like to pass other buses at 60 mph on blind hairpin mountain turns.

9) There is a 60% chance that you will run into any given group of tourists again, in another city. There is a 100% chance that you´ll run into a group from a previous city again, in another city.

10) Our Lonely Planet guide is wrong. Without fail. Always. We showed up at Los Frailes National Park to camp, expecting a $20 entry fee. It was $2 to enter. Camping was not allowed. And the park apparently closed whenever they felt like it, which was when we arrived.

Guess where we are?

Hello from Montanita, on the Pacific Coast of Ecuador!

(email I just received from the U.S. State Department below)

Message to U.S. Citizens in Ecuador:
Dangerous Conditions on the Pacific Coast and in the Galapagos Islands,
August 11-14, 2011

August 11, 2011

The Ecuadorian National Emergency Operations Committee (COEN) is warning
of high tides, heavy winds, and strong waves on the Ecuadorian coast and
in the Galapagos Islands starting today, August 11, 2011, and lasting
through August 14, 2011. During this time, Ecuadorian authorities are
prohibiting many activities on the coast and at beaches, including water
sports, fishing, and whale watching, and may set additional restrictions
as the situation develops.

Parque Nacional de Cotopaxi (8/2-8/4)

Our last few days in Quito we spent visiting La Mitad Del Mundo (aka the actual equator), and as per our expert advice, we skipped the kitschy monument with a globe on top, since it was somewhat expensive, and also because apparently it was built before anyone checked the site with a GPS, and when they finally did, they found that the
actual equator is 250 meters away. The fortuitously-located Museo del Inti Nan (Sun Museum, roughly), then, is the site of the actual equator, and we did a tour there that included watching water spin different directions on either side of the equatorial line, and then not spin at

all on the line itself, due to Coriolis forces (did anyone else think that was actually supposed to be a myth?). We were also shown how our strength was mysteriously lessened when standing on the line, though again the scientific explanation was a bit garbled. The tour also included a brief look at some REAL shrunken heads, as well as a preserved boa constrictor and a special type of fish that lives in the Amazon River. This fish is special because if you pee in the river, it may swim up your urethra and parasitize your liver (to combat this, local indigenous tribes of the head-shrinking variety wear special penis-protecting ropes - no preserved specimens of these people, thank goodness).

While outside of Quito, we took an extra bus ride to visit the Volcan Pululagua, which supposedly has an impressive crater. It was a bit of a misadventure, though, since our guidebook did not adequately portray that visiting the crater meant getting dropped off at the side of the road, then hiking up a paved highway sort of indefinitely. We ended up hiking an endless eco-trail in heavy fog. We could sense a yawning abyss on both the left and right as we wound our way higher and higher, but were unable to see the crater at all. If there even was a crater at all... In the end, true to form, it began to rain heavily, and our somewhat treacherous hike down was made all the more harrowing, so no surprises there. Perhaps the strangest part of it all was that, on this otherwise

abandoned, misty road, there was a Sun Temple, which blasted Asian-sounding music from giant, deteriorating speakers, which could be heard throughout the duration of our ghostly hike. There was certainly something ethereal about it all.

The only other thing of note in Quito was that we never successfully went to the incredibly popular (and appropriately dangerous) Plaza Foch, which is where the supposed nightlife of the city is cente

red. We did, however, manage to attend the most lackluster trivia night ever at a nearby hostel, which featured depressed participants, factually incorrect trivia answers, and the quietest winning from any team I have ever seen. Anywhere. Chess included.

El Parque Nacional de Cotopaxi

Last Tuesday, after having postponed

our departure for Cotopaxi for several days, since we enjoyed Quito so much, we finally embarked on the second part of our journey. We'd heard about Cotopaxi as being the highest elevation active volcano in the world (5,897 meters, or 19,350 feet), and we were intrigued. This, however, is misinformation, although everything we read about the volcano (which I suspect may have all come from the wikipedia page, due to the striking lack of variation in the description) did confirm that it is a stratovolcano with an almost perfectly symmetrical cone. Which was reason enough for us to visit.

The journey from Quito to the national park, as outlined by our guidebook, was simple: we were to take a Trole Bus from the center of the city (we waited an hour for one we could fit into with our packs, then opted for a taxi instead) to Quitumbe, the arterial bus station, from which you take a $1.50, 1.5-hour bus towards Latacunga (actually $1.70, and 2.5 hours), then asked to be let off at the entrance to the park (meaning you are ejected on the wrong side of the busy freeway from a dirt road, leading towards nowhere, with a small sign denoting the national park). *Incidentally, the buses in this country show films, so we watched a good portion of the dubbed version of the Dolph Lundgren film "Direct Contact," which featured people getting shot in the eyes and having their noses broken. The 4'year'old kid in the front row loved it.

We got to the entrance of the park around 4pm, where a lone man with a truck informed us it was 18 km to the entrance to the park, then another 12 km to the camping area, to which he could drive us for $10 each. We thought that sounded a bit much, and decided we

could hike the 18 km from the camping area to the volcano's refuge the following day. About 4 minutes and "18 km" later, the two of us plus two young French travelers (who, from my extremely basic knowledge of the language, ahem ahem, definitely paid $15 each for the same ride) found ourselves at the park gates, where we were promptly refused entrance. The men who were currently sitting 100 feet away from the ticket booth, informed us kindly that - since no one was at the ticket booth at the moment - we would be unable to buy our park entry passes. After a few minutes, they revealed that they, in fact, worked at the ticket booth, and we were let through.

The dirt road was heavily potholed, and we drove first through a pine forest, which our driver told us was being planted experimentally for lumber. Or at least I think he said something like that. We broke out of the dense trees into a barren, rolling landscape of gullies and stubby bushes, and we were all struck by the general ugliness of the scenery. To make matters worse, a few minutes up the road, it began raining. Hard. When I looked back to check

on our backpacks, comfortably nestled in the bed of the pickup, I saw that it had actually started hailing...

We were dropped off in the failing light and the downpour in a small valley, warned to watch out for wolves and wild bulls, and then scampered into a small empty building, aptly designed for inclement weather. All our dubiousness, however, melted away as the rain slowed and the clouds parted, revealing the

base of the snow-capped volcanic peak in the background, with a herd of wild horses grazing the scrubby grass in the foreground. Scott and I immediately set off on what was bound to be one of our ill-conceived hikes, working our way towards a nearby lake (which was actually just a murky puddle about a foot deep - I was reminded for the second time this journey of the Dead Marshes in The Two Towers). We watched the spectacular sunset over the caps of the craggy, barren peaks all around, with a choice reflection of the twin snowy mountains of Illiniza Norte and Illiniza Sud in the distance. Not to absolutely pound the Lord of the Rings references to death, but the best comparison we could

think of for the high, cold, windswept terrain is the gray m

oors of Rohan. There was definitely a fair bit of theme-music humming while at Cotopaxi...

Of course, the problem with watching the sunset from somewhere that is not where you're staying is that the sun is then no longer there to illuminate the way home. I had my headlamp, but as the darkness set in, we saw a few bulls on the road, and I was suddenly reminded of the driver's warning of lobos (wolves) in the park. For the second time on the trip, I began to panic slightly. It didn't help that I kept catching bulls' eyes (ha, ha) in the beam of my headlamp. Of course, we were not attacked by any wolves, and made it back to our French pals will little but some racing hearts (ok, maybe just "heart," Scott wasn't scared at all).
For the journey, we'd brought bread, avocados, nuts, granola, tangerines, tuna, a quimbolito (lembas/elven waybread), and our water purification equipment (both a filter and iodine tablets), as well as one bottle of aguardiente, or Ecuadorian firewater, to combat the cold. We ate, chatted in a bizarre mixture of bad Spanish, decent English, and manageable French with our new friends (there was no language that we all spoke), and spent about an hour gazing at the Volcan Cotopaxi, whose formidable presence was illuminated with admirable regularity by the lightning storm somewhere behind it.

We played some cards, drank some firewater, and then lay down for the worst night of "sleep" any of us has ever had. The floor was hard. It was freezing in the room. My stomach had been hurting all day. I kept moving my toes to see if they were still there, only to accidentally kick Scott in the face. The Frenchman (who was inexplicably named Pedro) had brought a space blanket, which crinkled with alarming volume with each tiny readjustment. At one point in the night, my auditory memory can confirm that he grew annoyed at the space blanket; we all listened politely to the unmistakeable sounds of him violently extricating himself of its noisy length.

Day 2 Cotopaxi (approx. 3,500 meters)

We woke (read: couldn't lie on the floor any longer) at dawn, hoping to see the sunrise, but were too hemmed in by clouds to view much. Having little recourse in sleep, Scott and I got up, packed our packs (around 30 lbs each), and started hiking the 18 km (around 12 mi) to the backpacker's refuge, located

about 1,000 meters below the summit. The trail began on relatively level ground, taking us from the west entrance around towards the north side of the volcano. About 3 km in, we spied a sign saying it was 18 km, or one hour by car to the refuge (so...more than 18 km total?), and the entire hike was along the wide, dusty, unpaved road. Not exactly wilderness trekking.

We stopped to filter some water at a small channelized stream, and

then the road began to climb. We spent the next five hours leap-frogging our French friends up the trail, which offered little variety or respite: it wound back and forth steeply upwards,

climbing relentlessly towards the summit. About 3 hours into the hike, we spied the refuge for the first time - an impossibly tiny orange speck located precariously above the snow line. Cars began passing us on the road as the day wore on, and as our packs grew heavier, we began to consider asking for a lift. We stopped frequently, since the altitude, our heavy packs, the

violent wind threatening to push us down the mountain, and our lack of sleep were beginning to conspire and take their toll. The crushed Clif bars I had in my pack and the elven waybread kept us going, and Scott's insistence on not hitching a ride meant we hiked every step of the way. Personally, I think this was physically the most difficult thing I've ever done, Konrad workouts included.

The final ascent to the refugio above the snowline couldn't be made by cars, and we paused to gather our strength at the most desolate parking lot I've ever seen. The refuge, located at 4,810 meters, or 15,780 feet, loomed about 1,000 feet above us, and the only route up was a

straight, wide, well-populated path of crumbling volcanic pebbles. Most of the other hikers bounded out of their cars, well-rested and casually shouldering light daypacks. We, on the other, hand, huffed up the slope, in our sixth hour of hiking, lightheaded, windburned, burdened, with pounding hearts. We finally reached the refuge, which was drafty and crowded, and offered bunks for $22.40 a piece. Yikes. For a country where soup, rice, chicken, salad, and juice costs $1.50, that seemed a little steep.

We had a few options: we could try and hitch a ride back down (not desirable, since we'd only just hiked up), we could hike back down (physically improbable), we could pay the $22.40 (impossible, because I am traveling with Scott), or we could

snow-camp at 16,000 feet on an active volcano in our little brother's borrowed tent.

We snow-camped, at 16,000 feet, on an active volcano, in our little brother's borrowed tent. Of course.

Almost as improbably, Scott made me tea at the lodge (!) to warm me up, and I put on 4 pairs of socks, 4 pairs of pants (including Scott's snowboarding pants), 10 layers on top, a scarf, and a beanie. We also took some much-belated pills to fight altitude sickness.

Night 2 Cotopaxi (over 4,800 m, approx. 16,000 ft)
We were kicked out of the refugio at 5:30pm, spent some time trying to gather wood for a fire (we had already pitched and staked our tent at the base of a ridge where a few other tents were clustered), then went to bed promptly at 6:30pm, when the sun went down and the wind picked up. We slept soundly until 7:35pm.

We tried playing categories (in which someone picks a general category, like "cheeses," then you take turns naming things that fall into that category, we played ¨Things you can wear to keep you warm¨), then dozed a bit.

It was around 9:30pm when the crisis struck.

I was drifting off, when suddenly the tent felt very small. My stomach was writhing, worse that it had been all day. I had to pee, but was scared I would be blown off the face of the mountain if I were to leave the tent. It was snowing. My head ached terribly. I was cold. I could not stop thinking about the fact that I was camping on an active volcano. But worst of all, I felt as though I couldn't breathe. (The next day, our experienced mountaineer friend Sam told us that before full acclimatization, your body has trouble getting enough air. As you fall asleep, you breathe less, but since there is less oxygen in the air itself, you go through periods of sleep apnea, where you stop breathing entirely for a moment or two, and it can induce panic attacks.)

I felt like I might die. I was breathing heavily, trying to imbibe as much oxygen as possible, and Scott asked me what was going on. "I'm feeling very anxious..." I choked out, and I think he understood immediately, because he told me to drink some water, and then offered to read aloud to me from The Monkeywrench Gang (thanks Aunt Kit!).

It's hard to explain, and maybe sounds silly for those who weren't there, but I felt a bit less like I was going to die. A few chapters later, I fell asleep, and slept until 3am. I think maybe hearing about Hayduke getting caught by the masked stranger actually saved my life... We got up at 7am, struck camp, and headed back to the refugio to hang out until we could catch a ride down. We thought about heading to the summit, but we didn't have a guide, or equipment, and we were both feeling pretty beaten up from the previous two nights.

11am found us at the exit to the parking lot, in the biting wind, playing categories (Minerals, Desserts), and putting our thumbs out at the guides in pickups and the tourists in Ford Expeditions headed down the mountain. An hour later, we'd established we could pay $10 for a ride to Machicha, a town north of where we'd entered the park, but where we would be able to catch a ride to Banos, our next destination. Stubborn Scott wouldn't go for it, so we kept taking off our sunglasses (on the premise that people trust you more if they can see your eyes) and gloves (on the premise they could see our thumbs better that way) for every car.

In a lucky moment, I put my gloved thumb out (without even removing my sunglasses) at a pickup with 5 Ecuadorian men already packed in the cab. They stopped, gesturing towards the back of the truck. I approached the window, asking "Adonde van?" The response? "Abajo." ("Down").

That was good enough for us. Without

any idea of if we'd be required to pay, or of where exactly we were being taken, we hopped into the back, which was filled with blankets and soft backpacks. At the intersection towards Machicha, they turned towards the way we'd come. At the park entrance, they kept going. An hour after departing, we found ourselves dropped at the very same stretch of freeway the bus had left us two days before. When Scott tried to offer the driver money, he laughed, shook his head, and said, "Hasta luego, amigo!"

We de-layered ourselves, repacked our bags, and started looking for a bus that would take us to Banos. After maybe 15 minutes, we realized all the buses were headed to Latacunga, and our best bet would be to head there, then catch a second bus to Banos. We flagged down the next bus before we could see the destination placard. As it slowed, we could read it clearly: the bus was going to Banos. Sometimes ill-conceived plans just work out.

Windburned. Sunburned. But we finally got some beers.