Viernes 30

And now, to the very ugliest part of the trip; the foulest, cruelest, most miserable part…that is to say, our (very, very) early ferry back to Santa Cruz: I cannot, dear reader, stress to you enough how mesmerically ghastly this final ferry proved to be. Absolute torture, so it was; a quintessentially awful experience, for which, to think, just two days ago I had been so, so happy to pay $40. The sea sickness generated by the hell-craft’s violent pitch and sway was weapons-grade, and the back seats, so often salvation for those so-afflicted, spent most of the trip practically underwater. I sat back there for a while, snorkel mask on my face, letting each wave batter me, hoping against hope that my nausea could be washed away…but no such luck. Eventually, like most folks on board, I sat ­facing the other unfortunates inside, hideously perpendicular to the direction of travel, our bilge-hold filled with the foul stench of gasoline. To say ‘never again’ would be to sugarcoat it. One day I will purchase that boat and, in front of its mugging previous owner, scuttle it and burn it in the harbour.

Anyhow, we survived. Just. We staggered the short way back to Las Ninfas, where we shortly check out after ‘chilling poolside’ for a bit, knitting ourselves slowly back together. Fabulosa pops off for some brief souvenir shopping…but even this proves too much for me. While she purchases us splendid matching Beatles-themed Galapagos t-shirts, all I can do is weep softly for my sanity, left behind in the choppy waters of this wretched (wonderful) archipelago.

Getting back to Quito would involve taxis (both land-based and more watery) another bus and, of course, an expensive plane – all of which (praise be!) go mercifully smoothly…though the lack of any ghastly ferries in this afternoon’s voyage was always going to make it a comparative dream-ride. Our final lodgings for the trip, the Friends Hotel & Rooftop in Central Quito, proved to be a very friendly spot indeed – perhaps, pound-for-pound and dollar-for-dollar the best place we stayed. Things were, as they say, looking up.

High in our top floor room, we take in the wonderful views of a sprawling, ferry-free Quito and, channeling our inner El Escocés, we book ourselves a day tour for the ‘morrow. After this, we meet Ana, an MBA lass (for her sins) from the wedding, for some colourful drinks and a tasty dinner at Hula Restaurante. Fabulosa and I are absolutely beat, so we hit the hay early – as for the more youthful Ana, who’s to say where she headed, post-pulled-pork.

Sábado 1

Yet another early rise, as we are off to Quilotoa Lake…though our 7am pickup arrived at eight on the dot, meaning we skipped breakfast and/or an extra hour of the dreamless for no good reason. Let it be known that ‘Ecuadorean time’, very similar to ‘island time’, leaves a little something to be desired….

Enough carping though, for now it’s time for a really rather epic drive up into the volcanic highlands south of Quito. Saying that…the stops en route might best be filed in the (seldom-opened) ‘somewhat underwhelming’ cabinet: first, some sort of service station with ideas above its…er…station, and then the ‘ancestral house’ of some impecunious highland folks, an awkward twenty minutes which put me in mind of some of the very questionable Han Chinese ‘poverty tourism’ I’d witnessed years before, way out east. Next is Tigua village, where we peruse, but do not buy, some pretty decent ‘local art’. The final stop before our destination, happily, was something well-worth looking at – the Toachi River Canyon, only 800 years young and very beautiful indeed. Some splendid snaps are taken, and then we trundle on to Quilotoa.

Lunch will be at Hostal Chukiraway, though first we hike, all the way down to a stunningly beautiful crater lake, formed within a vast and dormant (for now) volcano. The going is treacherous and slippery, and Fabulosa’s balance is famously sub-par, so progress is slow. We opt for a mule ride for part of the difficult way back up, but I prove too heavy for my poor beast and, to spare him a beating and to save us some subsidiary, beating-related coin, we trek up the entire second half of the trail. This thin atmosphere assent damn-near kills us, but Fabulosa and I are made of tough stuff. After some cursing and quite a lot of weeping (mostly me), we finally reach the top. Once back up, we find the Chukiraway local fare to be well-priced and very filling, though at this altitude, almost anything other than the air might be considered ‘very filling’ – I cannae e’en finish me over-large Pilsener beer!

A final looksee over (and many more photographs of) this quite literally breathtaking lake, and then back in the bus we go, taking with us a vague melancholy that it would be a fair while before we look upon anything quite so beautiful again (the lake, not the bus). Aha…the reason behind all those questionable stops on the way to Quilotoa is only now revealed – it is going to be about three whole, dang hours back to town! Time, one thinks, for some well-earned kip and for happy dreams of breathing oxygen-rich, sea-level air once more. Sea-level, but without ferries. Ah…now that would be…would be just the ticket…

Waking up back in central Quito, we shower off our broken sleep and the dust of a mighty dusty, slippery trail. Venturing out, we find our barrio of the city mostly shut down, due to an incredibly popular Quito 10k rattling through the streets of the old town. After trotting about watching the runners for a spell, amazed that they could manage such swiftness at this wearying altitude, we manage to find an open, nearby spot for a final Ecuadorean repast: Frank Cevicheria & Restaurant.

Despite the place’s auspicious name, for once ‘ceviche’ did not seem to be on the menu (that is to say, pictured on the wall). Instead I went for a portion of ‘seafood rice’, the size of which damn-near ended me. It honestly could have fed a football team, or the twenty-or-so runners who all popped into the joint, mid-race, asking to use the loo (and being brusquely turned away).

And then, it was bedtime, for the final (bed)time in Ecuador, and no cruel and screeching alarm needs to be set – what a genuine treat! That being said, it is all somewhat tinged with rare regret…for, of course, it means that tomorrow, when we awaken, the long (oh so, so long) journey home will have to begin…

Domingo 2 & Lunes 3

Finally, a lie in! We hop from our bed when we choose to and not a moment sooner, to finish up the packing and begin readying ourselves mentally and spiritually for over twenty-four hours ‘on the road’. We then enjoy the guesthouse’s ‘breakfast with a view’, which we unduly skipped yesterday – and very pleasant it was too, even for those of us who consider breakfast among the least important meals of the day.

We next have one last Sunday wander around a bustling Quito, to pick up a final few bits (and, indeed, bobs). It has been a cracking city to visit, and I feel we have done it decent justice. Then we hail a fated final taxi, driven by a fittingly fatalistic fellow, to take us all the way out to the (as ever, somewhat understaffed) Quito airport. We arrive in good time and avoid the worst of the ever-lengthening queues. We sneak our ‘hand luggage’ baggage, now full to bursting, through security. We are now – after ten-or-so wonderful, ah just wonderful, Ecuadorian days – ‘out of this bitch’, as I believe ‘da kidz’ are currently saying.

This time around, our change at Panama is far less fractious, with madcap sprints replaced by some civilised cocktails and a spot of local grub. The flight back eastwards is all fine and dandy, with, if anything, even sillier films – however, while Fabulosa sleeps like an ornate log of expensive, imported wood, I slumber not a wink. Accordingly, with me being the team’s cartographer-in-chief, once off the plane we have a rather stressful, sleep-deprived stumble across northwest Paris: In short, we make innumerable errors and land ourselves in the always-unpleasant Gar du Nord Eurostar queues at a time which genuinely risked Ol’ Tom being stranded and abandoned in the post-Brexit line…

…and yet, that I’m now finishing up the notes to this here blog while sliding under the good old English Channel confirms that, yes, we made it in the end! Aye, I’m feeling as sleepy as sleepy can be, and aye, there are at least another hundred-and-twenty of our fifteen hundred minutes of travelling yet to go…but going back over all the once-in-a-lifetime highlights I’ve set out above, one can only, only conclude that it was all, so very, very worth it. Even the Galapagos ferries. Those hell-damned, wretched Galapagos ferries.