Miércoles 21

‘Vamos chicos’, my alarm clock cried. ‘The day’s a-wastin’ and it’s time for an adventure…’

That the ‘time’ in question was 4.15 AM meant that not much of the day had, thus far, been wasted. However, the cruel alarm cared not a jot, instead screeching on and on, so we were obliged to wrench ourselves out of bed and bung it at the wall.

Keeping up this groggy momentum, Fabulosa and I were out of the gaff by 5am, on the first tube shortly after that, and then comfortably caught our Eurostar to the soon-to-be rioting Paris with the practiced ease of the metropolitan elite of which we surely, one day, would be a part. Under ‘la Manche’ we went and, following a smooth-as-silk Parisian change, we’re over at Charles de G. Airport, ready for our cheap-as-pommes-frites flight to Quito and to glory (albeit via Panama).

Feeling particularly smug, I settle down, champagne-in-hand (champagne, in ‘pauper’s class’, zut alors!) to watch some aggressively silly films. (For those keeping note, they were Ticket to Paradise, Field of Dreams, Shaun the Sheep – each pleasantly ridiculous in their own way). Air France proved themselves to be the best of the Gauls, and I’m sat right at the front of the cattle class herd, with legroom to spare, sniffing at the wafts of rarefied air coming from premium economy. High times in the high skies, my friends.

This smug peace shatters once we land, a touch behind schedule, at Panama Airport, where it turns out we have precisely zero minutes to sprint across two vast terminals to flag down our connecting flight to Quito. I, an athlete, make it, just, and hold open the doors for an equally agitated but slightly less fleet Fabulosa. The rest of our fellow Air Francers, one must assume, are left behind to make new lives on the banks of ‘The Canal’. A poor business, and flight #2 was fresh out of mollifying fizz to boot…

But now, oh yes, this long-awaited holiday could at last begin in earnest. We were but an hour-or-so out of Quito now, crossing the equator, with no further impediments. Eventually, through the glacial passport checks (if you ain’t Andean, you ain’t shit, so it seems) we heave ourselves into an Uber and barked, in perfect Portuñol, ‘Chakana Boutique Hotel, agora, por favor e obrigado!’ Three-quarters of an Ecuadorean hour later, we’re there, and fall immediately into a warm and babbling pool of slumbering exhaustion.

Jueves 22

A relaxed and mildly jetlagged morning in the hotel is the first order of Quito business, punctuated with a spot of Incan-style breakfast and the completion of some much-needed ablutions. We then have a wander into the historic centre of the capital and I source myself a very fetching hat – the first of many vain attempts made to a.) look sharp as a whetstoned tack and b.) keep off the fierce equatorial sunshine. We pop into one of the many beautiful churches for a spot of accidental mass, pick up a few local sweets and biscuits, and generally get a feel for the place. All in all – Quito feels pretty good.

Back to the hotel after this for a beer and a regroup, before we take an unnecessarily long, upsettingly uphill walk under the angry sun to the northwest of the city. I, a fool, had assumed that this area around the university would be alive with bars and restaurants and the beautiful youth of the city. I was wrong; there was tap-all there. Eventually, and only after many cruel words and sighs, did we manage to find some (very) late lunch at the slightly prosaic but blessedly open Fritadas de la Florida. Wolfing down some soup with mystery meat, along with some well-earned cerveja, we paid the (tiny) bill and then taxied it up yet another hill to the TeleferiQo Cable Car.

Here, candy floss in hand, we wait for La Arquitecta, La Raj, and young Osito. We almost give up on them too, having missed their message that they would be, true to form, splendidly late. Just as we were heading up to jump aboard the ol’ teleferiqo, however, this trio arrive and our reunion is sweet indeed. Then up, up, up the cable-car we go. Fabulosa immediately realises she doesn’t at all like heights – alas, too late. What is more, once up at 4,200m the altitude proves too much for wee Osito, who takes in the views but then heads back down to thicker air with a madre dele, La Raj. The rest of us go for a short, breathless wander around the mountaintop. We see a handsome caracara, which a wandering Frenchman misidentifies as a condor (assumedly one that’s been off its feed) and we swing on a swing, taking in the genuinely awesome views of the long and slender, valley-wrapped city below. All good stuff, despite one’s favored oxygen molecules being somewhat hard to come-by.

A second cable-car, then a longer taxi, take us back down to aforementioned valley-wrapped city, and we head east and grab a very happy hour on Av. Isabel la Catolica, potentially at a pinkish place called ‘Taconazo’, but who can say for sure. We then meet up with El Scomarido, La Gamujer and a whole host of their travelling MBA crew at a fabulous restaurant called Urko. Here we all enjoy an out-of-this-world, ten (10!) course meal. Sublime fare all the way through – particularly difficult to put into words, just tiny explosions of flavour with great value wine pairings and significantly excellent ‘vibes’. We head to bed exhausted but replete, after something of a ‘carta roja’ day.

Viernes 23

As will prove a theme of this wonderful adventure, Fabulosa and I are never fated to stay too long at one particular joint, wearing out no hotel carpet and outstaying no receptionist’s welcome. Instead, we pack up the (strictly carry-on size) bags this morning and leave them with the friendly folks at the hotel, before heading up north to a spot called ‘Monobolon’ for breakfast with the crew. Alas, here they go heavy on the ol’ bananas (plantains…if such a thing exists), but I managed to pick out an edible, Christian meal amidst all the sin and iniquity.

After breaking our fast, we all hop on the Quito City Bus, now joined by plenty of tomorrow’s wedding’s (non-Ecuadorean) contingent. Spirits are high, despite the questionable quality of the tour – “…and on your right, you will see a large building” – and the sun beats down upon wisely purchased hats of all sizes and shapes. Eventually, we cannae take no more, and our sub-set of the crew get off at la plaza central and grab drinks in the lovely garden of the highly salubrious Casa Gangotena. Osito and I go exploring for eggshells and birds, and the cokes – delectable Latin American cokes, no less – are pleasantly ice-cold.

After exploring the centre of the city for a spell, La Arquitecta suggests we head up to ‘Cafe Mosaico’ for some amazing views and (if we’re lucky) some chilled beers. This we did and these we eventually received, though what was not flagged beforehand was that a life-threateningly exhausting slog up one of Quito’s (many, many) hills was required to get to the darn place. I won many a brownie point for carrying Osito, who for his part was unimpressed by the speed of his steed; La Arquitecta won very few brownie points for not clocking that an automobile would’ve been the ticket here.

After an adequate lunch, an adequate cooldown, and some more than adequate vistas, Fabulosa and I left the trio to go grab our bags. We then headed way out northeast to our second hotel of the trip, the San Jose de Puembo, where the rest of the wedding gang had already pitched camp and run up the flags and standards. It’s a lovely, leafy spot with plentiful llamas, perfect for corporate retreats, should you be a man or woman of serious Ecuadorean and/or llama-related business. Once checked-in and sorted out, we hailed yet another taxi, or at least attempted to, for we were invited to La Gamujer’s parents’ villa over in uptown Quito for a most splendid pre-wedding reception. In the end, having a powerful thirst, I shamefully ditch my comrades and jump in a car with El Scomarido’s family, and, leaving the others in our dust, we shoot major Suffolk breeze regarding the wonders of the Freckenham/Worlington area.

Said Gamujer family villa was a spectacular spot for a shindig, with gorgeous views across the whole city. Being an Englishman, whose home is famously his castle, I was most impressed that it was not just electric gates and private roads, but sparkling portcullises, fluted bridges, plunging gorges and private promontories that kept these sprawling homesteads safe and separate from ‘the hoi polloi’. The gun turrets were a bit much, but when in fancy East Quito, do as the fancy East Quitonians do.

Anyhow, drinks and canapes knocked around the place and the conversation sparkled, even from the MBA graduates (when they paused from their sustained weeping, lamenting their wasted money, prospects and youth). My own pals had, eventually, made it safe and sound across the drawbridge, and all within the palace walls was sweetness and elegant light. The night ended a mite less elegantly, with a cacophonous minibus, chock-full of this varied and eccentric crew, taking us back for ‘just a few’ final beers in the San Jose hotel bar.

Sábado 24

Aha, es el dia de la boda, amigos! It’s the wedding day we’ve all been waiting for! And would you credit it, just in time, at breakfast no less, we were at last joined by La Gata & El Escocés, who have had themselves quite the back-and-forth journey and are now shorn of all their bags and glad-rags. Never the less, we doll them (and ourselves) up to the nines, and then all bus our fine, fine asses over to the green and gorgeous wedding venue, just down the bumpy way.

I am happy to relay, to absolutely nobody’s surprise, that it was an absolute barn-snorter and rip-burner of a wedding: The ceremony was short, touching and heartfelt, the food uniformly sensational from nuts to late-night soup, the bar free, varied and well-stocked, and the masses of cheese were massive beyond all reckoning. There was riotous dancing, led by both a tightly blue-clad pop-group and some helmeted vibe-merchants, for these ‘ere tunes started early and kept on pumping. The day’s fierce sun was cooled by gentle, sifting rain, just when it was needed, before a beautiful early evening broke out to welcome the happy couple into happy matrimony. Even the speeches, so often a blemish on such days, were more than acceptable – especially that of La Gamujer’s auld man, translated for the anglosphere by her sister (‘a fine-lookin’ woman’ – anon), the poetry and sentiment of which left nary a dry eye in the house (tent). Ten out of ten, diez de dieze, no notes.

All that was left of a fabulous Saturday upon the equator was a drunken minibus ride back home to the trusty ol’ San Jose. There was, as ever with these things, large talk of an after party. A ‘pool party’ no less… though, alas, at the humble bar’s pool table, rather than in either of the (very-much closed) swimming pools. Fortunately for our morning heads, Fabulosa and I opted to hit the hay.

Domingo 25

Despite our sagacious sidestepping of any ‘afters’ that might be had, there was many an ‘adult headache’ at breakfast the next day. A few of us attempted to fix things in a hot tub down by the swimming pool, to little avail. More drastic measures would be necessary, lest we let one of our precious Ecuadorean days slip lifeless through our fingers…

No, no – this simply would not do. Fabulosa took the lead, and hired us a van and a man. This man was Marcel, a born tour guide, and his van was a people carrier, perfectly sized to take her, me, La Arquitecta, La Gata & El Escocés, and La Raja & Osito up to the gorgeous Papallacta Hot Springs, an hour-or-so across the mountains. It was a bittersweet journey, truth-be-told, encompassing great and sweeping natural beauty as well as, so it appeared, some unexpected roadside tragedy – let us just say that we were most thankful for Marcel’s steady hand on his steady wheel, as these roads, so it sadly seemed, were far from the safest.

Once at the springs, thank goodness safe and sound, we take Marcel’s advice and firstly go to stave off the wolves from our doors with some lunch – this time of grilled trout and expeditionary beers. Feeling a little better, we then waded into the thermal pools, surrounded by gorgeous mountainsides, the steam rising up into a perfect blue sky, whisking away our hangovers and further raising our spirits. Certain pools were too hot for some and one pool was too cold for humans, though this didn’t stop a few mad Ecuadorans dropping anchor therein. It truly takes all sorts, etc. etc. yada, yada.

Eventually, alas, it was time to meet good Marcel again and head back to the hotel. That evening, Fabulosa and I hopped across to Cumbaya (my Lord) for dinner with the newlyweds and those MBA crew members still standing, following Saturday night’s revelries. La Arquitecta (who was barely standing but who suffers FOMO like Prometheus suffers from periodic liver pain) insisted on coming along too. Once at ‘Latitude Cero’ – a craft beer and pizza joint which had recently run out of first pizza and then craft beer – she promptly felt the need to return to the hotel, thereby providing us with a valuable lesson in something-or-other. In truth, the rest of us followed suit not-so-long after: we needed the sweet sleep of the just, for on the ‘morrow, you see, an even more fantástico adventure was due to begin for us.