A funny thing happened to us after leaving the ruins of Ingapirca. South of Riobamba the bus apparently took a detour via the Scottish Highlands. No really! One moment we were watching the scenic, yet by now familiar, Ecuadorian countryside. The next we were staring in disbelief at towering hillsides swarthed in heather and coated with thistles blooming purple flowers. As if to complete the picture, before long schoolgirls began boarding our bus sporting red tartan tunics. In a state of some anxiety I waited for the first skirls of bagpipes to blast through the speakers, or maybe a hawker trying to sell me a bag of haggis and ´nips ... Still feeling a wee bit disoriented, we pulled up in the city of Cuenca ... and were immediately dumped back into Latin American reality when a gaggle of taxi drivers tried to wrest the bags out of our hands, all the while jockeying us towards impossibly battered, yellow Skodas. Cuenca is truly a relaxing place to visit, taking in its many colonial houses (unlike in most other parts of the country, here they have actually been restored) and wandering its cobbled streets. As long, that is, as you don´t tumble into the dirt ditches around the town centre, marking the path of what presumably were once streets. Now, either the local council is busy installing impressive new telecommunication networks, or they have an extremely serious problem with giant moles. Without question, internet connections were cheaper and more plentiful than anywhere else we'd thus far found ... which I suppose leaves only the mole theory ? We checked into Hotel Paredes, a mostly empty colonial mansion that in truth had only been semi-restored and was now being run by a scary, young Russian girl whose Spanish appeared to be as limited as mine (yes, that poor). Hour after silent, lonely hour she would sit at reception, staring at the pigeon-holes where the numerous room keys sat. Very possibly she was deep in thought about ways of better marketing her business, though I prefer to think she was trying to relocate a portal to the parallel universe that had sucked her without notice from Vladivostock and deposited her in deepest Ecuador. And, albeit only occasionally, sometimes you think you know just how she feels. Cuenca, for example, is something of a contradiction. At first glance you feel you´re somewhere safe and cheerful. Then, within minutes of arriving, you start noticing all the weapons - private security guards at every turn who are armed not with those piddling little spud guns we´ve grown to ignore elsewhere, but bearing huge shotguns and fully automatic rifles. If I´m not mistaken, at one point I noticed one guy pull out a saw and start hacking away, though thought it best he not catch me making eye contact. As things turned out though, Cuenca was a charming and secure place after all. In all likelihood because all the people with the serious money (and there seemed to be no shortage either of them or their wealthy offspring) had got in first by hiring private armies before the baddies had thought to part-exchange their bow and arrows for something more potent. We did several beautiful walks down by the river. Hell, we even managed a run down that way too, then back around by the excellent Museo de Banco Central where it would´ve been hard not to enjoy the various ethnological and archaeological exhibits. We even manged the whole of the religious iconography section, though frankly it wasn´t half as impressive as seeing similar stuff in situ in the ´new´ cathedral on the main square (actually late 19th century - they know how to move with the times here you know). The food was plentiful and blessedly varied. At times it was even a touch on the surreal side, such as when we had dinner in splendid isolation on a large lawn that would´ve made an Englishman weep ... complete with two fluffy white bunnies hopping around our feet that everyone else seemed quite oblivious to. I don´t know, perhaps we were in Wonderland and Alice was back at our hotel trying to out-stare the Cheshire Cat hidden in one of the pigeon-holes ? One excellent day trip entailed a short bus ride out to Baños (another one) where, surprise surprise, there were more hot and cold springs, something that most definitely aren´t in short supply in Ecuador. Of even less surprise was the ferocity of the dogs that snapped at our heels practically throughout the whole of our hike in the surrounding foothills. After all that stress - and I realise, folks, just how much sympathy you must be directing our way at this stage - I was well up for relaxing in the local ´Turkish sulphur baths´. After cajoling Breda in with the promise of something from the cafeteria afterwards (haha), each of us coughed up a dollar and in we went. Now I don´t know what you would have expected to find in a Turkish sulphur bath. I certainly had no clue, but basically it consisted of a handful of changing booths, some reclining couches, hot and cold showers and a wet sauna. After discretely checking the chances of being forcibly stripped and pummelled by huge, sweating, moustachioed Mediterranean wrestlers sporting tiny towels were negligible, I soon got in the swing of things. Well, as much as one can when keeping your swimmers on, that is! I´m not at all sure where the sulphur figured. Breda swears she could smell something unusual in the women´s section, but I thought it wise not to go there (in any sense of the phrase). I can report however that they do throw green-leafed branches onto the coals which give off quite a heady aroma. Anyway, about an hour later I heard a plaintive call emanating from the entrance hall - Breda summoning me back out into the now chilly air - and so reluctantly left my relaxing haven. She had had a fairly good time too, or so she said, so I assumed she hadn´t also spotted the labourers from the next-door building site mooning the ladies´ quarters. There again ... !! Our continuing drive south towards Vilcabamba was quite stunning, particularly once we had left Loja. Or so I was told. I was way too busy doing my usual impersonation of a catatonic vegetable, as I do out of self-preservation on long bus journeys. Arriving there in the first drizzle we´d experienced in some time, our first-choice accommodation was booked out so we allowed ourselves to be spirited up to the muchly popular Hostal Las Ruinas. No doubt about it, the swimming pool, jacuzzi, 24 hour movies piped into every room, and both wet and dry saunas must seem like heaven to those gringos heading north from dusty Peru. And, while we certainly did our best to add a little more dried skin to the whirlpool and cracked a couple extra table tennis balls, it wasn´t quite the relaxing Vilcabamba experience we craved and so the next day we moved out. Or, in Breda´s case, collapsed in a slipperey heap while attempting to extract herself from one of the saunas, damaging her elbow Rumi Wilco Ecolodge may not exactly sound the sort of place where Absolutely Fabulous´ Patsy and Edina might select for a spot of binge drinking, but it was pure heaven-on-earth for us. You should have seen Breda fall on the home-grown coffee after several weeks of suffering the strange, chicory liquid that sits on cafe tables to be poured directly into your cracked glass of lukewarm water. And then there was home-made granola to pour onto our breakfast yoghurt, most welcome after seemingly endless days of scrambled eggs alongside fresh air dressed up as bread rolls. Fresh water was taken straight from the owners´ well (and I´m even still alive to write this); our cabin came with a funky blue wall mural in the bedroom, separate dining and cooking area, hammock outside the front door, huge wooden shutters to throw open in the morning etc; walks were taken up the mountainside directly behind our cabin, then across various donkey tracks - and some poor old fella´s banana plantation as we tried to find the way back. Even more spectacular was a walk we did up to Mandango, one of the lookouts (with cross) or "mirador" so beloved in these parts. It actually turned out to be one of the more comfortable hikes we´ve done to date, but with sensational views in return for our exertions. And if that wasn´t reward enough - are you still paying attention Gail? - who should we meet at the summit but a woman from Potters Bar. On the run from the place these past 10 years ... and still hiding out in the hills it would seem ! We were sad to leave Vilcabamba, but thought if we didn´t make an especial effort we might never escape the soothing clutches of Ecuador. We´d failed to book a riding trip with one of the cowboys who seemed to frequent the town´s main square, but at least Breda had been for an enjoyable Fanny´s Massage (or a legwaxing at least). So, rather reluctantly, we booked ourselves onto a night bus for the border and headed for Peru. Adios Ecuador y hasta la vista. P.S. it´s become increasingly clear to us that these ramblings aren´t purely designed to induce narcolepsy in our nearest and dearest, but effectively also act as a keepsake or kind of diary of our travels. As a result, please forgive (and feel free to skip) the following, random observations to date. In no particular order then, MISCELLANEOUS DISLIKES: being asked to pay ´tourist prices´ for travel, entry to museums & sites etc; brand new toilets that are lacking toilet seats; music quality and selection on buses; excitable old gadgies who start by shaking females´ hands and enquiring where they´re from, before moving through a predictable routine including their loneliness since their wife´s death, turning increasingly tactile and ending up with a request for money; carrying a backpack half-full of gear I never touch but value too much to discard; music quality and selection on buses; feeling simultaneous guilt and impotence when approached by child beggars whenever you´re eating; having the dilemma of risking adding to a developing culture of dependency by giving money to adults, or sweets to kiddies when out trekking; our lack of progress with spoken Spanish; did I mention the music quality and selection on buses? ; the animal ´dawn´ choruses, starting around 3 am. and often continuing quite bizarr MISCELLANEOUS LIKES: scenery so eye-catching you forget you´re holding your camera; Inca Kola (similar to the cream soda you used to get as a bairn); banana chips/crisps tasting the same as, but way cheaper than, those made from potato; the sound of Andean pipes; forgetting what getting up for work is all about; the lack of any hostility towards the impossibly rich foreigners we must regularly seem to be /downright friendliness in fact, even allowing for the Ecuadorian reserve; the sometimes touching, sometimes sad lack of business and marketing acumen; easily avoiding having to hang out with other gringos when you don´t want to; cable TV, even in many budget hostals; internet at approx. one quarter the price it is in Sydney; realising that guide books are just guides - and that you often have a better experience if you read them only after you´ve been out exploring; Latin American travel being way more comfortable than I ever remember it throughout Asia.A funny thing happened to us after leaving the ruins of Ingapirca. South of Riobamba the bus apparently took a detour via the Scottish Highlands. No really! One moment we were watching the scenic, yet by now familiar, Ecuadorian countryside. The next we were staring in disbelief at towering hillsides swarthed in heather and coated with thistles blooming purple flowers. As if to complete the picture, before long schoolgirls began boarding our bus sporting red tartan tunics. In a state of some anxiety I waited for the first skirls of bagpipes to blast through the speakers, or maybe a hawker trying to sell me a bag of haggis and ´nips ... Still feeling a wee bit disoriented, we pulled up in the city of Cuenca ... and were immediately dumped back into Latin American reality when a gaggle of taxi drivers tried to wrest the bags out of our hands, all the while jockeying us towards impossibly battered, yellow Skodas. Cuenca is truly a relaxing place to visit, taking in its many colonial houses (unlike in most other parts of the country, here they have actually been restored) and wandering its cobbled streets. As long, that is, as you don´t tumble into the dirt ditches around the town centre, marking the path of what presumably were once streets. Now, either the local council is busy installing impressive new telecommunication networks, or they have an extremely serious problem with giant moles. Without question, internet connections were cheaper and more plentiful than anywhere else we'd thus far found ... which I suppose leaves only the mole theory ? We checked into Hotel Paredes, a mostly empty colonial mansion that in truth had only been semi-restored and was now being run by a scary, young Russian girl whose Spanish appeared to be as limited as mine (yes, that poor). Hour after silent, lonely hour she would sit at reception, staring at the pigeon-holes where the numerous room keys sat. Very possibly she was deep in thought about ways of better marketing her business, though I prefer to think she was trying to relocate a portal to the parallel universe that had sucked her without notice from Vladivostock and deposited her in deepest Ecuador. And, albeit only occasionally, sometimes you think you know just how she feels. Cuenca, for example, is something of a contradiction. At first glance you feel you´re somewhere safe and cheerful. Then, within minutes of arriving, you start noticing all the weapons - private security guards at every turn who are armed not with those piddling little spud guns we´ve grown to ignore elsewhere, but bearing huge shotguns and fully automatic rifles. If I´m not mistaken, at one point I noticed one guy pull out a saw and start hacking away, though thought it best he not catch me making eye contact. As things turned out though, Cuenca was a charming and secure place after all. In all likelihood because all the people with the serious money (and there seemed to be no shortage either of them or their wealthy offspring) had got in first by hiring private armies before the baddies had thought to part-exchange their bow and arrows for something more potent. We did several beautiful walks down by the river. Hell, we even managed a run down that way too, then back around by the excellent Museo de Banco Central where it would´ve been hard not to enjoy the various ethnological and archaeological exhibits. We even manged the whole of the religious iconography section, though frankly it wasn´t half as impressive as seeing similar stuff in situ in the ´new´ cathedral on the main square (actually late 19th century - they know how to move with the times here you know). The food was plentiful and blessedly varied. At times it was even a touch on the surreal side, such as when we had dinner in splendid isolation on a large lawn that would´ve made an Englishman weep ... complete with two fluffy white bunnies hopping around our feet that everyone else seemed quite oblivious to. I don´t know, perhaps we were in Wonderland and Alice was back at our hotel trying to out-stare the Cheshire Cat hidden in one of the pigeon-holes ? One excellent day trip entailed a short bus ride out to Baños (another one) where, surprise surprise, there were more hot and cold springs, something that most definitely aren´t in short supply in Ecuador. Of even less surprise was the ferocity of the dogs that snapped at our heels practically throughout the whole of our hike in the surrounding foothills. After all that stress - and I realise, folks, just how much sympathy you must be directing our way at this stage - I was well up for relaxing in the local ´Turkish sulphur baths´. After cajoling Breda in with the promise of something from the cafeteria afterwards (haha), each of us coughed up a dollar and in we went. Now I don´t know what you would have expected to find in a Turkish sulphur bath. I certainly had no clue, but basically it consisted of a handful of changing booths, some reclining couches, hot and cold showers and a wet sauna. After discretely checking the chances of being forcibly stripped and pummelled by huge, sweating, moustachioed Mediterranean wrestlers sporting tiny towels were negligible, I soon got in the swing of things. Well, as much as one can when keeping your swimmers on, that is! I´m not at all sure where the sulphur figured. Breda swears she could smell something unusual in the women´s section, but I thought it wise not to go there (in any sense of the phrase). I can report however that they do throw green-leafed branches onto the coals which give off quite a heady aroma. Anyway, about an hour later I heard a plaintive call emanating from the entrance hall - Breda summoning me back out into the now chilly air - and so reluctantly left my relaxing haven. She had had a fairly good time too, or so she said, so I assumed she hadn´t also spotted the labourers from the next-door building site mooning the ladies´ quarters. There again ... !! Our continuing drive south towards Vilcabamba was quite stunning, particularly once we had left Loja. Or so I was told. I was way too busy doing my usual impersonation of a catatonic vegetable, as I do out of self-preservation on long bus journeys. Arriving there in the first drizzle we´d experienced in some time, our first-choice accommodation was booked out so we allowed ourselves to be spirited up to the muchly popular Hostal Las Ruinas. No doubt about it, the swimming pool, jacuzzi, 24 hour movies piped into every room, and both wet and dry saunas must seem like heaven to those gringos heading north from dusty Peru. And, while we certainly did our best to add a little more dried skin to the whirlpool and cracked a couple extra table tennis balls, it wasn´t quite the relaxing Vilcabamba experience we craved and so the next day we moved out. Or, in Breda´s case, collapsed in a slipperey heap while attempting to extract herself from one of the saunas, damaging her elbow Rumi Wilco Ecolodge may not exactly sound the sort of place where Absolutely Fabulous´ Patsy and Edina might select for a spot of binge drinking, but it was pure heaven-on-earth for us. You should have seen Breda fall on the home-grown coffee after several weeks of suffering the strange, chicory liquid that sits on cafe tables to be poured directly into your cracked glass of lukewarm water. And then there was home-made granola to pour onto our breakfast yoghurt, most welcome after seemingly endless days of scrambled eggs alongside fresh air dressed up as bread rolls. Fresh water was taken straight from the owners´ well (and I´m even still alive to write this); our cabin came with a funky blue wall mural in the bedroom, separate dining and cooking area, hammock outside the front door, huge wooden shutters to throw open in the morning etc; walks were taken up the mountainside directly behind our cabin, then across various donkey tracks - and some poor old fella´s banana plantation as we tried to find the way back. Even more spectacular was a walk we did up to Mandango, one of the lookouts (with cross) or "mirador" so beloved in these parts. It actually turned out to be one of the more comfortable hikes we´ve done to date, but with sensational views in return for our exertions. And if that wasn´t reward enough - are you still paying attention Gail? - who should we meet at the summit but a woman from Potters Bar. On the run from the place these past 10 years ... and still hiding out in the hills it would seem ! We were sad to leave Vilcabamba, but thought if we didn´t make an especial effort we might never escape the soothing clutches of Ecuador. We´d failed to book a riding trip with one of the cowboys who seemed to frequent the town´s main square, but at least Breda had been for an enjoyable Fanny´s Massage (or a legwaxing at least). So, rather reluctantly, we booked ourselves onto a night bus for the border and headed for Peru. Adios Ecuador y hasta la vista. P.S. it´s become increasingly clear to us that these ramblings aren´t purely designed to induce narcolepsy in our nearest and dearest, but effectively also act as a keepsake or kind of diary of our travels. As a result, please forgive (and feel free to skip) the following, random observations to date. In no particular order then, MISCELLANEOUS DISLIKES: being asked to pay ´tourist prices´ for travel, entry to museums & sites etc; brand new toilets that are lacking toilet seats; music quality and selection on buses; excitable old gadgies who start by shaking females´ hands and enquiring where they´re from, before moving through a predictable routine including their loneliness since their wife´s death, turning increasingly tactile and ending up with a request for money; carrying a backpack half-full of gear I never touch but value too much to discard; music quality and selection on buses; feeling simultaneous guilt and impotence when approached by child beggars whenever you´re eating; having the dilemma of risking adding to a developing culture of dependency by giving money to adults, or sweets to kiddies when out trekking; our lack of progress with spoken Spanish; did I mention the music quality and selection on buses? ; the animal ´dawn´ choruses, starting around 3 am. and often continuing quite bizarr MISCELLANEOUS LIKES: scenery so eye-catching you forget you´re holding your camera; Inca Kola (similar to the cream soda you used to get as a bairn); banana chips/crisps tasting the same as, but way cheaper than, those made from potato; the sound of Andean pipes; forgetting what getting up for work is all about; the lack of any hostility towards the impossibly rich foreigners we must regularly seem to be /downright friendliness in fact, even allowing for the Ecuadorian reserve; the sometimes touching, sometimes sad lack of business and marketing acumen; easily avoiding having to hang out with other gringos when you don´t want to; cable TV, even in many budget hostals; internet at approx. one quarter the price it is in Sydney; realising that guide books are just guides - and that you often have a better experience if you read them only after you´ve been out exploring; Latin American travel being way more comfortable than I ever remember it throughout Asia.

-- Anonymous, August 14, 2001

Answers

Amateur Publication, (Formatting NOT content)

-- Anonymous, August 14, 2001

Loony whats wrong with the music on the buses then ? At least they play bliddy music on the bus !

-- Anonymous, August 14, 2001

gus, was Keith there today (Wed.,15 August)?

:-(

-- Anonymous, August 15, 2001