Letter from Quito 2

Had another nice long e-mail from Tom, updating us on his experiences in Ecuador. Thorney seems very mundane compared to waterfalls, fiestas and volcanoes.

Seems that Tom has had his first dose of Montezuma’s revenge (I was wondering why I hadn’t heard anything from him for a week). E. coli probably from water rather than eggs (that would be salmonella) - you need to know your tummy bugs if you go travelling.

He sounds fine now, which is good, and the scenery in Ecuador sounds amazing. I’d love to see Cotapaxi, although with 85 known eruptions, it’s pretty active and has destroyed the nearby town of Latacunga twice already. Mind you, an eruption would be good for business, provided Tom could file his video.

Here’s his latest letter:

It's been a busy week, the highlight of which was a weekend visit to Lucy's aunt Liliana. She lives in a remote farmhouse in a valley south of Quito called El Tingo. She picked us up from her daughter (and Lucy's cousin) Pamela's house. Pamela is an elfin-looking dance teacher with her own school in Quito – I think I might have signed up for Paso Doble lessons. She has a four-year-old daughter called Nadia with blonde hair and blue eyes, which is a rare sight in Ecuador. Her father was a Russian dancer called Artem. She also has a one-eyed old cat called Timothy who set off my allergies a treat.

The journey in Liliana's 4x4 to El Tingo was pretty hairy. Lucy's aunt – and in fact nobody else in the car – seemed too fussed but it was white-knuckle ride down the mountain. When we arrived at El Tingo there were two major problems – firstly the bridge into town had collapsed (Lucy and I would cross it on foot the next morning) and secondly the entire town was celebrating the Festival of the Virgin. The population of El Tingo were partying in the streets with fireworks and firewater. The crowds weren't a problem because Lucy's aunt just drove through them, but when we hit a band playing it was game over. We had to make (for me at least) a very embarrassing u-turn through the masses and drive back.

The back roads around El Tingo are very steep and unpaved. You would need a 4x4 to get around. We bumped and bounced down the lanes at impressive speed and I was really amazed at how well the old Mazda was soaking up the abuse.

We arrived at Liliana's house and there was a huge party under way. Liliana doesn't speak English so I'd not be informed of the order of service for the night, but it turned out her husband (Jose Ignatio) was having a reunion party with all of his seven brothers and their extended families. It was the first comprehensive gathering in 12 years. A barbecue was roaring and I was served chocolos (which is savoury white sweet corn), potatoes and guacamole. All of the brothers are very successful – one for example is a judge in Quito. The judge was also a skilful musician and after Lucy had lit an ill-advised fire on her aunt's lawn (which smoked the house out later in the evening) the judge whipped out his guitar and began singing. He was soon taking requests and the most popular rabble rouser proved to be a hit called: “Cielito Lindo, Mi Amor.”  It's very catchy and worth a listen.

Jose Ignatio is an actor – I would see him three days later at the premiere of his new play in Quito. It was directed by a seven-foot German, who towered over the actors during the ovation. I didn't understand it very well (being all in Spanish) but it seemed to be about a group of patients suffering with various OCDs and trying to come to terms with a normal life. Jose Ignatio's house was chock full of various curiosities, from creepy marionettes, old Hasselblads and an enviable collection of ponchos. When it dropped cool later he fetched his ponchos for us to wear. I got an orange striped one and I think it rather became me. I hadn't realised how thick they are, it's like wearing a carpet and they are so warm and enveloping – better than a chiminea for sitting out (although, of course, both would be ideal).

There were lots of people staying over in the house. Lucy and I had to sleep at the foot of the host's bed with Pamela and her young daughter beside us. We were sleeping in the roof space and the puppets were hanging from the rafters – it was quite uncanny.

The next morning I was woken by a loud trumpet. I didn't know it at the time but this was the village chief riding from house to house waking up the Turk horsemen for the day's festival. The Turk horsemen are the pride of El Tingo and would play a starring role in the festivities. They dress in bright clothing, wearing masks and (supposedly) in women's clothes. Why they are Turks and what their significance is, nobody knew. Jose Ignatio says if you ask a local they will just shrug and say they don't know. El Tingo is an Indian village, in fact, the whole area is home to a large indigenous population. I was with mestisos (mixed) who might seem exotic enough to me but to the local Indians are just considered rich white people. Lucy is mestiso, for example.

Of course, Lucy heard the commotion and wanted to head into the village to see the spectacle unfolding. I might have preferred a leisurely coffee in the morning sun but gathered my camera gear together and marched to the sound of the cannons (or fireworks in this instance). Negotiating the grumpy dogs (who wake instantly and charge at you like berserkers before routing at the last possible second) we arrived at the collapsed bridge and had to make our way across the canyon. It slowed us down and by the time we arrived into town the last Turk rider was cantering away. We asked some locals where they were headed to and were told the big party today was in La Merced, just down the road. Lucy convinced her aunt to take us in the car to see the party.

On the way to La Merced we began to see more and more of the local villages making their way to the fiesta. They all dress up and drink and dance. One party stopped our car dead in the middle of the road and force fed us trago (firewater) from their skins. It burns the lips, the mouth, the throat and the stomach – even my teeth went numb. Lucy's aunt was driving and even she wasn't spared – they won't let you go until you've made a show of at least a few shots. Liliana was wise to their tricks and kept her shots hidden in her cheek like a hamster and spat it out as we drove away.

Turk horsemen

In La Merced the party had been going on all week and there were casualties everywhere. Piss-heads to us are known as borrachos and are viewed with sympathetic love. Old men were passed out on pavements, in bus stops, some were walking wounded. It's called the Festival of the Virgin and there's a strong religious element but it's essentially pagan. It coincides with the point that the sun is highest in the sky – at midday there is absolutely no shadow whatsoever. Jose Ignatio has a sun-dial in his garden and on this day it has to be turned 180 degrees to keep its face in the sun. The fiesta has a Straw Bear feel to it – albeit when the Straw Bear was more chaotic and amateur (read: better). The groups blacken their faces and perform impromptu dances with their accompanying bands. Afterwards they all march off en masse to a destination nobody is certain, then before you know it another group arrives and the cycle is complete. There is lots of trago being drunk and the fun is to pour it down spectators necks. I had my camera with the telephoto lens, this added to the fact I looked the most foreign person in town, meant I was singled out for shot after shot of trago. I soon began to feel a bit dizzy under the midday sun.

There was an open air mass taking place next to the church and after this the procession took place. Icons of the Virgin were borne through town on the shoulders of the dancers. I hadn't realised how many personas the Virgin Mary has. They all have different names (like Guadaloupe) and they all represent something special. They're all Jesus' mum, of course, but they have different names and figurative imagery so it's quite confusing for a WASP (White Anglo Saxon Protestant) bystander.

It was a clear day and we got stunning views of the snowy volcano Cotapaxi. I've never seen a mountain like it. It stands all on its own and is perfectly triangular. Against the blue sky it looks like nothing else I've ever seen. It's just under 6,000 metres tall (19,700ft in old money) and is one of the highest active volcanoes in the world. Google it for some stunning images.

The best part of the festival was driving home. We were overtaken by the Turk horse riders [See Video] who were galloping full pelt down the main road. It was quite a sight with the mountains as a backdrop and the noise of the hooves on the tarmac, it must have felt great to have been riding the horse dressed like that. I took a video but I don't think it really captured the event. Lucy and I both arrived back in Quito exhausted, but not before Liliana took us all for a gelato.

Lucy and I also went to the Indian town of Otavalo. It's north of Quito on the banks of an enormous lake. Otavalo is famous for its handmade textiles – most notably its ponchos. I was looking to buy a genuine poncho and this was the place to get one – the main square is even called Plaza de Poncho and, it's an open air market with about 100 different poncho sellers. We had to take a bus to Otavalo which was a fun experience. Busses in Ecuador stop wherever you like and drop you off where you like, there's no such thing as bus stops. It's good in a way, but it does add to the journey time. I could never understand why people would stand 50 metres apart down the road. The bus pulls up, they jump on, 50 metres later and it stops again for the next passengers. I asked why they couldn't just all stand together and board at the same time ... but they can't. Also there are lots of drinks/snacks sellers who the busses stop to let on, they walk down the bus while it crawls along at 5mph, and they jump off the moving vehicle. Most the vendors were selling a type of savoury biscuit famous in the local area.

Otavalo was sleepy and dusty. It has a stunning location surrounded by three sacred mountains. It's funny being in an Indian town, it makes you feel very alien. The Indians all wear their local dress, which in the case of the women was this stunning white lace shirt with colourful flowers delicately embroidered into it. They are all made locally and cost a lot of money to buy in the shops (about $100). The Indian women also all wear exactly the same shoes which are knots of string (or reed) bound together like a sandal. The ponchos turned out to be very expensive. When I think about it with hindsight it's little wonder, the wool is so thickly stitched and it's all done by hand. The local Poncho of Otavalo is plain navy blue and looks great. It's made with wool and not alpaca – there's a lot of discussion about which is best.

This is the place to buy a poncho

In the afternoon we headed to a waterfall north of town. It's been overtaken by Argentinian hippies who have established a thriving community there. It's very beautiful. Lucy knew about it because she'd danced at the New Year's Eve festival there. At midnight you have to take all you clothes off and bathe under the plunge pool to wash away the last year to make way for the new. We sat nearby (fully clothed) and read in the sun. That evening we stayed at a cheap hotel in Otavalo called Hotel Indio. I taught Lucy how to play pool and we went for dinner at a local restaurant that served pisco sours (a grappa, lemon, egg cocktail from Peru). The area is famous for its trout, fished locally, and I had a simple trucha a la plancha (grilled).

Cascada de Peguche - best seen at midnight on New Year's Eve

The next morning I wanted to walk in the hills. The hotel receptionist was horrified when we asked for directions. She wondered why we didn't take a cab, or even a bus. Walking is associated with Indians and poverty, the idea you'd do it for fun struck everybody as borderline insane. The receptionist's biggest fear was the farm dogs who had gnashed one of her female American guests last year. I put a big stone in my pocket in case the occasion arose, which it didn't. The hill paths aren't well sign posted like in Europe and there isn't a rambling culture. However, the paths are well maintained and used by the Indians to get around and to drive cattle. The Indians walk very quickly in the hills, even the elderly and heavily pregnant. We had to frequently ask for directions and got some very strange looks, the old Indian women don't speak any Spanish only Kichwa. By navigating with the inactive volcano Imbabura (it's not popped for 14,000 years). It's part of what's known as the ring of fire and is an impressive sight (although no Cotapaxi). Imbabura (4,660 metres – for Sam) is sacred and is known as one of the fathers – in Indian legend all of the mountains not only have a sex, but also a personality and even marry and have children mountains. Imbabura is the daddy of the local area. My photos didn't really do it justice. It's so perfectly conical and the small farmed fields cut into its base give some idea of its scale. In the foreground of this picture you can just see the very colourful potato fields which are everywhere. The farm dogs sleep happily in between the ruts of the field and pigs and cows graze at the side, where their owners can keep an eye on them as they tend the crops by hand.

Imbabura - not gone off for 14,000 years, but never trust a stratovolcano

We walked long and far and eventually arrived at a hotel on the banks of the lake. We stopped for some more trout. We'd been walking all morning in the hills and were both exhausted. It's been so dry and sunny here that half of Ecuador is on fire, including Imbabura. Over lunch we watched the fire helicopters scooping up water from the lake to dump onto the raging fires. It looked like a drop in the ocean. We waited for a local bus back to the Pan American Highway and were lucky to just catch a bus back to Quito – this time the 'stop where you like' policy paid off in our favour. We had to hurry back into town to catch the premiere of Jose Ignatio's play – which Lucy's dad was coming to see, driving all the way with Lucy's sister Camilla from Ambato (two hours away).

I've been a bit ill this week. Once with a tummy bug, that I thought I'd shaken but perhaps hadn't quite. Either it returned or I found something else. I was very sick with a swollen tummy and pain. I couldn't hold fluids down so after four hours Lucy decided I should go to the hospital. I think she feels responsible for me out here. I was all up for just riding it out, like last time, but apparently I'd gone very pale. I had some tests done and was put on a drip. I had some e-coli and was put on an antibiotic drip and am now on a course of antibiotics and am feeling much better – having laid off all solids and having supped litres of peado juice – the brand name of the local children's diarrhoea rehydrating drink. Tomorrow I'll be back on the regular diet. I'm going to be a bit more careful what I eat in future. I blame the half-cooked scrambled eggs in the Hotel Indio, but the inquiry progresses .