Our first stop was the fairly modern but interestingly designed Basilica. It has beautiful stained glass windows in floral designs and statues and gargoyles in the images of various animals found on the Galápagos Islands. The main draw for tourists, however, is the option to climb to the highest spire for panoramic views of the city. I made it up the first ladder and onto the narrow platform around its base, but one look at the way up to the top and no matter how much I have got over my fear of heights with cable cars, large numbers of turbulent flights and buttock clenching van rides around hairpin bends with sheer drops, I was not going up those steps. The steel staircase juts out away from the building, seemingly leading you out into thin air and with a view straight down past your own feet, before turning at a small landing of sorts, just big enough for one person to press up against the railing to let someone past them in the opposite direction. Then it turns and heads up and back in to the solid stone of the spire. This section of the stair includes a few final steps with only treads and none of the mesh risers that offer minor reassurance that your foot won't slip through. I stand at the bottom and wait for George to return from his sightseeing adventure, exchanging looks of solidarity with the other tourists who are holding bags and looking hopefully upwards for the return of their more brave friends. George returns and reports that yes, he could see the city a bit better up there than from where I was standing.
We wander awhile around the historical town, taking in the colonial architecture, eating in a very nice cafe and popping into a horribly overpriced and hideous home furnishings shop, which had given its self over almost entirely to Christmas decorations. There was a pile of baby Jesuses. And some kind of badly stuffed, hot glue smeared cuddly Christmas pig. We also visited Compañía de Jesús- a small church who's interior is decorated with nine tonnes of gold leaf. The effect is incredibly impressive as well as being somewhat ... garish. It's apparently an excellent example of Latin American Baroque design and is so opulent it almost hurts the eyes to look at. We are told we're not allowed to take photos. Oh well.
We meander the streets a little longer, checking out the 'artisan' street that our map suggests. It's pretty nondescript, but we find a few interesting little places with workshops on display where craftspeople are making attractive little touristic gifts from metal and wood.
We decide then to visit the full artisan market in the last few hours of the day. This, however, is a taxi ride away and we have both read about and been warned that Quito and Ecuador in general has an epidemic of fake taxis, that are likely to rip you off massively, if not actively rob you. I had found a list of things to look for in a genuine taxi, so we spent ten minutes standing on a street corner, scanning every yellow car that came past, checking for the right green, numbered sign on the side, taxi lights, meter in the window and security cameras inside the doors. We finally found one which we both agreed was likely not to mug or kidnap us.
The artisan market is a bright, tightly packed, bustling nest made from rows and rows of stalls, all tucked inside a purpose built U-shaped building. It is open at both ends of each row, one onto the street and one onto the central, open roofed courtyard, so that one weaves back and fourth through each narrow corridor, out, onto the street or into the courtyard, around and back in again to the next. The wares were pretty much identical from stall to stall, and very tourist focussed in style, but the quality was high and the layout fun to walk around so we enjoyed our hour or so weaving in and out of stalls.
Back at the hostel we looked up somewhere decent for dinner and found a well reviewed pizza and pasta place that was apparently not far away. We found the blue dot on Google maps and headed off. We knew that of all the places we were visiting on our trip, Quito had one of the worst reputations for crime, so our walk was somewhat nervous and we kept to the brighter lit, busier streets with George feeling glad of his beard as it made him look (in his words) "more manly" and therefore less vulnerable. After re-tracing our steps a couple of times and trying various streets in and around the area that the restaurant was supposed to be, it was clear that google maps had basically guessed at the vague location and shoved a dot randomly on a map. On looking at the address of the place in the screenshot on my phone, we discovered that it's actual location was on the same road as out hostel. And when we got back there, we found it to be almost opposite the door we had originally come out of. Luckily the pasta was indeed nice enough to soothe our frustration!
The next morning we were up bright and early and hopped on the truck taking us to Cotopaxi. The drive was very pleasant, on wide, well surfaced roads through pleasantly green landscape and small dusty towns. The last half an hour, however, took us on to a rocky farm track, where we were narrowly avoiding cows when we weren't failing to avoid boulders. George and I bounced off each others shoulders merrily as we peered out at the rural cottages dotted between rolling pastures. Though both hostel and lodge are called "the Secret Garden", one learns to take the names of these places with a pinch of salt (we have, for example, seen a one man pop up tent next to a paddling pool advertised as an 'Eco Lodge'). As we rolled up to this place though, our jaws were in our laps. A cosy wooden lodge and multiple pitched-roofed little huts and round doored 'hobbit holes' nestled in to the roll of a hill. They are surrounded by sheltered little paths lined with ferns and shrubs and flowerbeds. There are llamas grazing in a paddock. There is an ornamental fish pond. The main lodge building has a rustic conservatory with hammocks and in front of this a small patio with wooden log benches and a ten-person hammock (an expanse of tough netting spread out and fastened over the natural space caused by the drop-off of the hill), where you can lie and look out over the green land sliding away from you towards the looming conical shadow that is Cotopaxi volcano. Inside there is a long dark wood table for eating around, games tucked on to window ledges, a collection of ponchos to borrow if you are cold and a snug of deep, soft sofas and armchairs around an open fire. Oh, and three dogs.
We take our bags to our very own hut and discover that we have a large wooden framed bed with a springy mattress and lots of blankets and that our triangular window perfectly frames the volcano against the bright sky.
Once we have settled we have lunch and head out on the welcome trek - a walk that is led at one hell of a pace by our volunteer guide, up through narrow winding footpaths under the canopy of short, twisting branches and over grassy hillside until we reach the narrow, steep sided valley where a small stream runs. We clamber down and rock-hop up stream, occasionally having to clamber up or around the valley wall to avoid any water which is too deep for our boots. The small waterfall which is our destination falls into a pool which sits on top of a platform about 4 or 5 meters up from the river bed in which we have been walking, so the only answer is a bit of amateur rock climbing. The waterfall is very nice. Trouble is, we have been to Iguassu and I'm afraid all other falls are, pardon the half-pun, blown out of the water. But it's a nice little walk to a pretty spot and it would be a sad thing to start turning our noses up at waterfalls.
That evening we gathered around the long dinner table and ate a hearty, very enjoyable meal with the fellow guests. George managed to thoroughly impress a group of three lads fresh out of uni with a couple of his favourite magic tricks and I basked in the specific comfort to which I have become accustomed; of the social ice being broken for me by proxy of having a partner who is both a teacher and an entertainer.
Our night is spent huddled under blankets in the sloped ceilinged bedroom that comprises the top floor of our hut, with the crisp mountain air and smell of blossom drifting through the open window.
The following morning marks our only opportunity to take part in one of the activities offered by the secret garden. I choose horseback riding and George decides on a hike up to the first lodge on the slopes of Cotopaxi mountain.
Ellen:
It turned out the other people who had chosen the horses were a German girl called Alex the same three boys from the night before. They greeted me with a "isn't George coming??". When I replied that no, it's not his cup of tea, they lamented his absence, commenting that "George is so cool". Yes, I thought, I think so too. I hope they won't mind that I don't know any magic tricks.
We drove for a pretty uncomfortable 30 minutes down the same boulder-strewn dirt path passing it's self off as a road as we had driven on the way to the lodge the day before. At least our backs will be nice and loosened up before the horses, I think. We were told by the volunteers the previous evening that as soon as our horseback guide knows how many he is taking out the next morning, he must go out and catch the horses from the planes, where they roam freely; owned and occasionally ridden, but mostly living wild, un-tethered existences.
On rocking up to the small paddock, we discover 6 horses reigned and waiting. Three young chestnut coloured stallions, a old, large and greying black stallion, a smaller white mare and a tiny lighter chestnut that looks barely an adult. I mistakenly assume that the two smaller horses are for we girls, as Alex is short and petite and could comfortably sit aside the tiddler. I am proven wrong, however, when I am offered the reigns of the big old black horse - I had thought this fellow our guide's. Alex is on the white and the boys have matching chestnuts, who skip sideways impatiently the moment they are mounted, ready to be off. Our guide, to my amusement, hops on top of the little horse and though he himself is short, bandy legged and slim, it makes for a rather top-heavy image. But it is clear that these two are tuned to each other. Our guide rides bareback and the little horse is fast and nimble, responding keenly to every indication from his rider. And soon we are out into the wide rolling planes, the huge sky framed by the deep purple shadow of the rising peaks.
It is immediately and overpoweringly peaceful. No sound reaches us but the steady tread of our horses' hooves on the grass and their occasional snorting breath through their big, soft nostrils. It takes a few minutes for me to remember how to loosen my hips and position my feet in the stirrups so I can ride comfortably. I have only ever ridden occasionally over the course of one year when I was at junior school, but, I figure, it can't be that different to remembering to ride a bike and, as I tuck my little fingers over the reigns for better grip, I feel it has all come back to me.
The landscape we pass through feels ancient, the sky expansive. The wind blusters us and whips the tops of the eucalyptus trees as we pass on the shaded bank of a narrow, fast running stream. I lean forwards in my saddle to help my steed climb a dusty slope up one of the rolling hills and below me the landscape is laid out in a wild and natural patchwork. I feel totally at one with nature. I imagine myself one of the roaming nomadic people, living life from the back of my horse, which is more part of my body than my own legs, riding day and night, in tune with my steed and the land we own.Now, if only my bloody horse would join in. Unfortunately, he is an arse.
Everyone else's horses happily trot when asked, stop when asked and follow the directions of the reigns. There is nothing I can do to make my steed do anything other than follow the path it wants to, at the speed it wants to. Which happens to be the slowest of plods. That is, unless Alex, on her horse, tries to overtake me, at which point my horse ferociously bites that horse and breaks into a wild canter to keep himself in front. He then returns to his achingly slow pace. The result of which is that the boys soon leave us in their dust. I repeatedly apologise to poor Alex for my extremely antisocial horse, who is making sure that even if her horse merely approaches us, he will stop and Poop, often narrowly missing Alex's feet. He manages to poop 9 times over our 2 hour trip. Finally I manage to reign him in long enough for Alex to pull in front and get far enough ahead that my old git cannot catch up. And so I resign myself to a slow, passive horse ride. And it's far more pleasant that way than getting frustrated.
We stop for some mint tea and banana bread up in a steep sided valley and compare sore muscles. I am consoled by the group for the short straw that is my horse. The guide smiles at me guiltily.
Considerably lightened from his multiple bowel movements, my horse is fractionally more spritely on the way back and though I am resolutely at the back of the pack, my fellow manages a few stretches of trot and canter and it is a great change from the plod of before.
We pass other wild horses and meandering groups of cattle nibbling the coarse grass. At one point we pass a calf lying alone in the grass. Our guide explains that it has been attacked by wild dogs and will be left to die, as it is not cost effective for the owner to collect it from the plains and treat it.
The last half a kilometre from the stables the boys break into a full gallop and Alex's horse keeps up. Eeyore makes a brief attempt and canters for a few hundred meters before giving up.
I clamber off my steed onto slightly wobbly legs back in the paddock. Looking into the eyes of my beast of burden, I can't help but feel slightly fond of the grumpy old sod.
Then it's back down the horrifically bumpy road to the lodge for lunch and to re-unite with George.
George:
Four Germans and I ride around each other in little circles, avoiding the rough cobbles as much as each other while nodding and making satisfied noises.
"Bike bikes." Says the guide, pointing at our bikes.
"Ja" says one German.
"Bien" says another.
"Do your gears have numbers?" I say to the first as he passes me.
"Yes don't yours?"
"No not in any way. I'm judging gear changes entirely by feel."
"At least you fit on your bike." Says a third German and possibly one of the tallest men I've ever seen who curves around me sitting virtually in a foetal position on his saddle.
"Bikes." Says our guide. "Helmet helmet?"
"Do we need them?"
"Helmet." Nods the guide.
---
Cotopaxi volcano is made all the more impressive by the lack of other mountains around it. It stands clear of all the rest with the classic shape of a volcanic cone imposing itself on the landscape. It is the second highest peak in Ecuador, and because of its proximity to the equator the summit is the closest place on Earth to the sun. Not that we would be getting that far. It is explained to us that the furthest we are able to climb that day will be the first lodge as the rest of the mountain has been closed. There was a tremor last Friday and there is a risk of eruption. It only stopped erupting for the last time in January of this year and it is, according to the locals, 'very active'.
It is with that thought in our minds that we take careful note of our surroundings as the bus begins to climb out of the valley and towards the volcano base. The closer we get the less trees there are and the more boulders there are that look suspiciously like they have fallen from the sky. Huge boulders. Some are bigger than the van we are in.
We wind up the volcano. "This is where you will bike down from" says the guide half way up.
"Why not from up there?" Points a German.
"Road no good." Says the guide gunning the van up that very same road.
"Oh no not again." I think to myself, at least this time the drop isn't sheer. Not quite.
---
When the van pulls to a halt on a slope that handbrake manufacturers don't test for and we all climb out, the first thing we notice is the wind. I have been to windy beaches, windy mountains, and windy lighthouses at the bottom end of the world, but this takes the crown for most windy spot (lighthouse close second). We all hold on to our clothes to stop them blowing off. There is no chance we can hear our guide in the wind, but there are only so many ways you can interpret a South American man jabbing his finger frantically towards the top of a volcano. So having checked that it wasn't erupting we set off, one step forwards five steps sideways.
The surface we are walking on is entirely comprised of loose pumice stone from the last eruption, which given it was this year means that they might quite possibly be the youngest rocks I've even seen. They are sharp, and angular, and full of holes and light making them very strange to walk on. The stones shift so easily under my weight, but at the same time they all grip onto each other. Every step is a mini-landslide. Two steps forward, one step back, 10 steps sideways.
Walking up the volcano was surprisingly easy if you ignore the altitude, hurricane strength winds, pumice avalanches, 40 degree incline, cold and the fact that I didn't have any breakfast. Not ignoring those things however it was bloody difficult so I hope you appreciate the pictures. Myself and 3 Germans made it to the lodge where we had hot chocolate. I asked how they heated the water and was disappointed to find they used a petrol powered generator and not some sort of geothermal kettle.
We climbed onto the bikes after the van had slid down the mountain a bit and rode back through the boulder fields. The road surface was like riding on top of a washboard for most of the distance but occasionally dipped into deep ash pits or sliding pumice. I dread to think how many punctures they get doing this trip, but for all its discomfort it was immensely enjoyable. The boulders flashed by, and with every passing minute the road was gently leveling out allowing you to pick up speed. The landscape was all the more impressive from outside of the van and you could see the strange patterns of lichen growing on some of the boulders. It was also more noticeable how the boulders get smaller and smaller as you ride further from the volcano, which of course makes perfect sense but it's nice sometimes when you notice that the world works the way it should.
We ride for about an hour without meeting another soul until we reach the pick up point for the van near the entrance to the volcano national park, and then it's all aboard and back to find out if Ellen has been eaten by a horse.
Ellen: After checking each other over for pumice grazes or horse bites, we shovel down some lunch and we are once more off down the bone rattling road for the fourth time in 24 hours and back to Quito.
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