Andean misbehavin’

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.

Coolin’ off wit dis hotty, Galapagosh oh golly

Lunes 26

After finishing a last bit of packing, we grab a final San Jose de Puembo breakfast, very much abuzz. We’re off to the airport, you see…for today is Galapagos day! Some would say that this, rather than the wedding, was the main draw of the entire Ecuadorean endeavour. Surely, they would be wrong…but not very wrong. Not very wrong at all. Almost entirely correct, in fact…

It’s all slightly manic at said airport, as there are multiple hoops for us all to jump through in order for the Ecuadoreans – natural and glacial bureaucrats, so it seems – to give us the ‘okay’ to head over to the islands. Many dollars change hands, none in what I’d call ‘the correct direction’. However, all things pass, and, despite everything, almost all of us get on the plane on time, sat down in the fabulous ‘extra legroom’ seats we’d been obliged to purchase at gunpoint.

A quick hop over a tiny fraction of that there Pacific Ocean later, we land. We’ve made it. The Galapagos. Incredible. Here we, of course, pay the tourist tax, have a hound jump all over our bags, happy in his work, then get the bus across the wild and arid landscape of Isla Baltra to the waiting water taxi to Santa Cruz. Immediately once aboard, we see some amazing birds, ducking and diving and swooping away, enough to make El Anciano, back home in Blighty, keel over with jealousy. After this mini-ferry there’s a (land) taxi to Los Ninfas hotel, organised in advance by the ever-diligent El Escocés. Here we unpack, mill around, hand over vast largesse to the grasping hoteliers, have a beer by the pool, and generally thank all of our lucky stars that we’re here.

Fabulosa and I, having itchy feet and hungry stomachs, split from the herd at this point to go grab a cerviche and cerveza at TJ’s by the seafront. We then go a-wandering through Puerto Ayora to the Charles Darwin Research Centre to get our passports stamped, as one does. We then accidentally stroll the wrong way around the Centre grounds, illicitly seeing giant tortoises or various stripes (more on these tomorrow) without securing the necessary (paid) guide. Guides, it seems, are somewhat indispensable on these islands, just in case you damage any wildlife, or go ten minutes without handing over some cash. ‘Off’ we are ‘told’ and ‘away’ we are ‘ushered’; but ’tis too late – we have seen everything.

After the ol’ CDRC, we head to the nearby playa and have a gander at all sorts of crabs, birds and iguanas, enjoying the surf with the rest of us, before skipping back to the hotel the long way round town, as a happy night falls. But where for dinner? Sol Y Luna is the place, or so our revived WhatsApp messages claim, on the bustling Charles Binford Street. Here, finding the gang, we share in some large, grilled fish and large, chilled beers. Some of us also get around an ice cream, as is the custom of the time and place. The last stop of the day is The Rock, along with some of the MBA cohort, for saxophone music, more beers and very slippery caipirinhas. A fine first Galapafternoon, for sure – but believe me, even better Galapadays are yet to come.

Martes 27

We breakfast early at the hotel, an idea very much instigated by Fabulosa, who enjoys such things and has been, so it seems, sent by God to punish those who might rather sleep in. That morning El Escocés, who has been doing some ‘desktop research’, suggests we go grab ourselves a Las Gritas tour. He’s a Scotsman who regularly knows his cebollas, so we readily agree to the notion.

This scheme starts with a short water taxi across the bay and then, once a guide has been bought-and-paid-for, winds us afoot through cactus forests and mangrove…groves. Our guide, Gandy (no relation), is a friendly, knowledgeable fella and this good walk was far from spoiled. We finish up with some snorkeling in great, collapsed lava tunnels at the very end of the route, the cool waters proving most pleasant, as are the large and iridescent fishies that flit about below us. A morning well-spent indeed, the only blemish being some rather unwise, high-UV beach fun following the tour, which pinkened me up right royal.

We luncheon well at Bahia Bar, enjoying beautiful views and, for those of us who chose correctly, some truly delicious fish in a coconut sauce. This provides the necessary energy for an excellent ‘Highlands tour’ – again sourced by the Scotch one – where we take in massive rainforested craters, exciting (and this time intact) lava tunnels and a truly wondrous giant tortoise sanctuary with innumerable ancient beasties just strolling all around, looking most Jurassic. An absolute highlight – I had no idea there were so many of these glacial giants knocking about! Attempts to explain the difference between tortoises and turtles – especially to those whose first language has but one word for the pair of ’em – are only middlingly successful.

Having hung around, rapt by the reptiles, Fabulosa, La Gata, El Escocés and I take the final taxi back to town, piloted by a fella who, after discovering we (almost) spoke Spanish, proved to be wildly talkative. He suggested that his mate ‘Dan’ could sort Fabulosa and me out with some ferry tickets for later in the week – but we (in our gentle ignorance) believed these might be easy to come by later, at cheaper prices. Ah hubris, it’s been too long, old friend…

Dinner that evening (with all the crew) was at Midori Sushi, which appeared the most happening joint in all of Puerto A; and rightly so – it was an A+ place and a genuine treat. We opted for the tuna taster menu, all of which was splendidly delectable, as were the cocktails and all those other good things coming to us. The matire d’, having already ingratiated himself with a reasonable bill and a handsome aspect, further rose in the esteem of all right-thinking people when he asked me, having clocked that I was English, whether Oasis were ever going to get back together. Proof, were it needed, that even those living their lives in paradise, still dream of unattainable heavens.

Miércoles 28

This fateful Wednesday morning saw the first of several Isabella Island Ferry Ticket Panics (IIFTPs), the very thought of which still brings a cold sweat to my brow as I type. Heading to the dock with the others to grab our tour boat to Santa Fe island, Fabulosa and I stopped at a ticket office to sort out our Thursday/Friday ferries to Isabella, the largest and most wild of the islands. To our dismay, the fella in the kiosk informed us that, while he had plenty of Thursday tickets to Isabella, there were none left to get us back the morning after. This was An Issue.

This all precipitated a mad panic around the other travel shops in the locale, all while our tour ferry pilot waited very, very impatiently for us. With mere seconds remaining, I managed to buy our way onto a likely return ferry, hopefully not at the expense of two other unfortunates whose names were crossed out (but in this cutthroat world of Galapagos ferries, you have the quick and you have the dead). Speaking of ‘quick’, I then sprinted back across the port and made our tour…just. There had been no need nor time to stop to purchase tomorrow’s outbound ticket: there were plenty of boletos left for that after all…or so yer man had suggested…

Our tour to Santa Fe began with me, for only the second time in my life, feeling very seasick indeed. The ‘ferries’ they have between islands out here are no larger than middlingly small fishing boats or a moderately wealthy American’s pleasure-craft, and when the Pacific waves hit them they stay properly hit. It took all my willpower and a lot of ocean spray to keep me from seeing my (thankfully, very small) breakfast again in short order. These salty agonies were well worth it, however, as before too long we were by the rocky shore of Santa Fe, and the snorkeling could begin!

And what snorkeling it was – first with shoals of beautiful fish and then up close and personal with several large and playful sea lions. One of the heftiest took exception to me hanging around their favourite rock and made straight for Old Tom, nipping my flipper as I beat a polite retreat. Other than that, everything was very pleasantly cordial between man and sea-beasts. After this, the next stop was a stunning reef-shielded bay, where we all completed a wonderful, leisurely lap, searching for turtles and finding them too. Truly the best snorkeling I’d ever enjoyed…albeit snorkeling that may or may not be eclipsed in only twenty-four hours’ time!

Back on the bobbing boat we were presented with a tuna steak lunch – which I just about managed to stomach, but which the others wolfed down gratefully. There was then a longer boat ride back across to a hidden beach on the upper side of Isla Santa Cruz. Thankfully, by this point, I’m now bearing out much more manfully, and I even managed a postprandial kip. Once at this ‘hidden’ beach, tucked behind strings of mangroves and sharp looking rocks, we dodge the angry sand flies and spot ourselves a few fabulous marine iguanas, swimming about the surf and appearing as relaxed as they do upon their basking banks. After but a short frolic a la playa, alas, it was time to go home. And yes, I began to feel a wee bit queasy once again, as we hugged the dark shoreline and made our way back through the choppy swell to Puerto Ayora. And this queasiness, I’m afraid to say, was only about to increase…

You see, as was trailed oh-so-subtly above, the first ferry ticket slinger man had overstated the boundless nature of tomorrow’s tickets to Isabella. It was time for IIFTP #2, as we were now told by various glum travel agents that each and every ticket had now been taken for the next morning and that the pair of us were, in so many words, buggered. We eventually wandered, bereft, up in the vague direction of ‘Dan’ (the ‘mate’ of the talkative driver we had endured the previous day) to see if, by any chance, he had kept two tickets aside for us. We were, of course, unable to find his spot. Disaster had struck us, and continued to strike, even after the referee had finished his ten count and towels were flung endlessly from our corner. Our Isla Isabella sueño had died.

But then, a genuine miracle: Walking down the main shopping street, looking mighty forlorn, we’re hailed by a wonderful woman by the name of Marta, who asked us if she might help with anything. I sung our sad song and, would you believe it, she pointed to a gentleman (surely named Gabriel or Michael or perhaps Uriel) in her shop and said that he had just arranged another boat for tomorrow, due to exceptional demand. What is more, as luck (such luck!) would have it, he had three spots left! Two of these berths were swiftly bought and paid for, and my warm words echoed around her store, the weight of a two-hundred-year-old tortoise lifted from my soul. What a mujer, Marta; what an ángela!

Spirts thus immeasurably lightened, we opted to join the extended wedding party and our travelling companions up at Isla Grill, just offshore from the main town, for the final group meal of the trip. The sea-fare offered there was delicious, but verily I could barely manage more than a bite or two, such were the rigours, emotional and otherwise, of the day. Goodbyes were shared and water taxis sought, and then, at last, the quiet rest of some much, much needed slumber was achieved.

Jueves 29

We board our miracle ferry to Isabella Island (very) early the next morning, following a large number of queues, $1 and/or $10 charges, and the general feeling that the whole tourist population of Santa Cruz were off to some other island, but weren’t entirely sure how they’d be getting there. Once aboard, our crossing to Isla Isabella was lengthy, windy and exceedingly bumpy, sat as Fabulosa and I were, up at the top of the craft, right behind the captain. However, the gale in one’s hair and the relief in one’s heart held at bay the forces of nausea this time around – bumps or no bumps, truly, at the time, on this leg of the voyage, I knew not how lucky I was…

Once we landed on this vast, outpost island, laden with sea lions and grumpy iguanas and adventure, we find the Pahoehoe Tours building in the baking heat, almost collapsing across their wooden threshold. We nibble at our packed lunch like birds, then summon up the will and head off on Pahoehoe’s quite superb Los Tunneles tour (recommended to us previously in the strongest possible terms by the usually stoic El Scomarido). Throughout the remainder of this wonderful day, we go swimming with a whole bevvy of huge and ancient sea turtles, and seek out all manner of amazing wildlife, which surrounds these collapsed lava formations; be it sharks, rays or seahorses beneath the waves, or Galapagos penguins and blue-footed boobies above them on the curious and unforgettable rock formations. It was all really rather sublime – thank goodness (and thank Marta!) we were able to make it!

After another bumpy ol’ ride back to Puerto Villamil (damn these boats and damn those waves), we staggered happy but exhausted to Cartago Bay, our humble hostelry for the night. Dropping our tiny bags and (eventually) sourcing the keys to our room, we take a warm evening walk across to PV’s main drag. We eat (mostly drink) at El Velero and look across the square to where there’s a live band getting their act together upon a temporary stage – though one could not entirely tell whether they were rehearsing, performing, or merely sound-checking. We never found this out for certain, as our meal, such as it was, was fated to be followed by a phenomenally early night – chiefly because we were utterly knackered, but also because we knew, deep down, what would soon be in store…

So hard admittin’ when it’s Quit(o)in’ Time

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.