Ecuador: How To Miss The Equator And Still Land On Your Feet

At 4:40 AM the Ipiales border was so dark and quiet our exit from Colombia felt almost as clandestine as our entry had 6 months earlier. There was already a short line at immigration but at this hour the roped-off rows held only the ghosts of refugees past. Apart from a few figures huddled in sleeping bags on the ground outside, they were the only indication of the Venezuelan crisis and its effects on Colombia. Everyone got checked-out efficiently except for us; none of the scanners could read our passports. It eventually got resolved, somehow, then it was out into the cold and over to the customs building. It was in darkness but you could just about make out a hooded figure behind the glass, like a monk bent in prayer. I knocked gently and he woke up, took the bike permit and disappeared. He came back empty-handed and shooed us away. That was it, all three of us officially checked out of Colombia.

Down the road, over the international bridge and under the “Welcome to Ecuador” sign. It was 5:20 AM and a soldier in camouflage directed us to a parking space. We were the only ones there. I was anxious to get to immigration before anyone else appeared and ran along a very long fence until I found an opening. Fran was supposed to be behind me but got stuck with the soldier who wanted to sit on the bike and have his picture taken. I’m yelling at Fran through the wire to get a move on but the first photo didn’t meet the soldier’s standards so it had to be repeated. I normally love people taking photos with Pferdi but NOT AT A BORDER! We eventually both made it inside and were stamped in in about 10 minutes. It would’ve been done in five if the officers hadn’t been practicing their English on us which they found hilarious. It must’ve been a long night for them.

We were first at the customs window and compared to his Colombian counterpart the guy there was fully alert. However, he did nothing with our papers until his colleague arrived very out-of-breath. She sat down, emptied her bag, turned on her computer and took out her phone. She completely ignored us for the next 25 minutes and chatted with her neighbor who was now processing the people behind us. They all left, it was getting light and our document pile hadn’t moved. When she finally got going, she wanted pictures of the bike. I was prepared and handed over the phone with Pferdi posing from all angles. But no, they’d been taken the day before and therefore weren’t acceptable. Only photos taken that morning, in the migracion parking lot would do. I sent Fran all the way outside the fence to take the pictures but forgot to tell him they had to show the license plate so he had to go back out a second time. He was quietly fuming. There was almost a domestic incident right there and then but it would have to wait until all three of us were in the country. When she eventually handed over the permit she actually smiled. God but it hurt to smile back, but you have to do it. When we got back to Pferdi he was still being happily guarded by our soldier. Sometimes it pays to have fans.

We’d booked into Finca Sommerwind in Ibarra for our first few days. It was a popular stop for Overlanders and the reason for our time pressure at the border. It was Saturday and the Cacería del Zorro horse race was on at Lake Yaguarcocha. The finca was opposite the lake and the road was closing for the day. If we didn’t get there by 10 AM we couldn’t check-in till evening. It was light by the time we left the border and we froze going over the mountains. But the roads were in great condition and we made good time; all that bureaucracy and all those miles without even a cup of coffee. Later we had a prime view of the races while Hans the owner sold German sausage hot dogs at the front gate and an old retainer doled out hot papas fritas from a spitting deep fat fryer. We sat in the Biergarten sampling our first Ecuadorean beer with Henrique from Portugal. Swapping war stories, he told us about his trip to the Guajira peninsula in Colombia where he’d had an awful time with the rains. When you make these decisions, to stay or to go, you wonder if you made the right one, or missed the chance of a lifetime….. It was nice for once to know we did the right thing.

We may not have known where we wanted to go next but we knew one thing, we needed to stop a while. Playing house has always been a good way to shake off the dust from the road. We searched the entire country (it’s a small one) but the choices were limited. We settled on a condo right on the beach a few kilometers south of the village of Canoa. We were already freezing and fog-bound in Quito so heading for the seaside didn’t take too much persuading. On the way we stopped for an hour at the memorial on the equator. We must have driven over it going to Quito but it was unmarked so we felt the ceremony of hopping across a big yellow line was needed to confirm it actually happened.

After spending the night in the depressing town of Santo Domingo, and a friendly encounter with two cops at a gas station (they signed our clothes boxes), we headed northwest. Stopping for lunch in Pedernales, which was still recovering from the big earthquake in 2016, we came out to find our first puncture of the trip. Flat as a pancake it was but there was a tire ‘shop’ across the road and the boys there were a great help while Fran changed the wheel. Their bill was all of $3.00. We spent a nice few days in Mompiche, a fishing village on the northern coast where the tide came in right up to the end of the main street. Beyond the palms at the water’s edge the jungle crept in and smothered the back streets where women scrubbed clothes in outdoor stone sinks, their feet disappearing among tangled vines, trash and dried palm fronds.

Our new home was no more than a gated blip on the side of the road. The complex was small with few residents, mostly American and Canadian ex pats who came and went. We were on the ground floor and beyond the patio and little garden the beach began. And it was mine, all mine, except for sometimes when a black tuk tuk arrived and spilled out a family who liked to dig for cockles. The holidays came early for the black turkey vultures when three large turtles washed-up, their sightless eye sockets looking sadly at us on our morning walks. This was the closest we got to turkey that season. After 30 years in California I’ve long given up trying to rekindle that old Christmas feeling. It didn’t work on a sunny beach up there and it certainly wasn’t going to work here. There was no holly and no tree and the roar of the waves didn’t change just because it was December 25th. Instead we took a swim in the empty ocean and missed the smell of pine needles, the strains of “Silent Night” and a dying fire not one little bit.

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After 5 weeks it was hard to leave and of course the day of departure was the most gorgeous, glittering morning of all. It was a total slap in the face because by early afternoon we were buried in the Andean foothills and the clouds and rain closed-in. There was nothing glittering about these mountain towns and even the normally scenic roadside waterfalls looked ominous in the fog. We were going to Mexico for New Year to meet some of Fran’s family but first had to return to Quito. I hated to leave Pferdi but our friend Jonas from Belgium put us in touch with an American who offered his parking space in a gated and guarded building in a nice part of the city. He was out of town the whole time so we never even met him; another fine example of total strangers coming to our rescue.

With a stop in Mexico City, it took us all day to get to Cabo San Lucas. It was really weird to be arriving by plane. You could tell the immigration guys were deathly bored scribbling “90 days” on everyone’s tourist card, knowing they be gone by January 4. We’d driven down through the Baja peninsula in 2001 on Emily, a 1985 BMW R80. She was Fran’s great love (besides me), but we stopped in La Paz and skipped Los Cabos. It was my kind of landscape and it hadn’t changed, desert and cacti tumbling down to a deep blue sea. Of course the place had more hotels and tourists now but in our small, family group we were cocooned for the most part from the outside world. New Year’s Eve was celebrated at the bottom of a cliff where we ate an unforgettable meal with the night waves crashing beside us. Later fireworks and champagne lit up the bay and we said goodbye to a busy year spent in 9 different countries. On reflection I think we can safely conclude Fran’s life plan is well on track. “There’s lots of things I might die of” he claims, “but it’s bloody well not going to be boredom”. Also sprach Don Pancho (Thus spoke Don Pancho).

Back in Quito, Pferdi was just as we’d left him and even at 2850 meters the weather was spring-like. But it was still a shock; I hadn’t worn shoes since early November. After spending a few days exploring the colonial center we headed south to the real Ecuador. In this part of the Andes, volcanoes were two a penny and in Tanicuchi we spent the night facing the very active Cotopaxi. Next day was a short one so we stopped in Sigchos for lunch and got a microphone stuck in our faces as soon as we got off the bike. Before I knew what hit me I was facing a phone mounted on a tripod and thus began an interview for the local radio station (how did they do that so quick?). I’d had no time to prepare so butchered my way through the questions, guessing at what was being asked. The rest of the day was spent cringing in embarrassment at the thought of it.

We continued along the Quilotoa Loop into the indigenous heart of Ecuador. The Andes were high and impossibly green with small patchwork farms. Even on the steepest slopes rows of crops were visible and the tiny figures farming the land defied all gravity. Everyone in the villages wore trilby hats with the women in wide skirts carrying babies on their backs. They walked herds of sheep along the roads, goats chewed the grassy shoulders and we saw our first llama. Stopping at a market in Chugchilán I not only was allowed to take a photo of the lady who sold me maduros (red-skinned bananas), but all the other old fruit sellers crowded around to check out the picture.

At the top of the mountain the little town of Quilotoa seemed strictly built for tourism. The wind howled and the locals were wrapped in woolen scarves so only their eyes were visible. Here the women wore white tights and black pumps which looked very dainty in such a harsh climate. The hostel was new and very clean but cold as the grave. The reception area tripled as the dining room and the family’s living room. After a day outside the night ahead loomed long so we escaped with Will from England and Vegar from Norway to an empty restaurant five doors up. Sitting in front of a blazing iron stove we warmed ourselves with a jug of Canelazo, mulled fruit juices and cinnamon, to which we added hot Aguardiente, a sugar cane liquor, from a silver teapot. The next day we hiked down to the lake (Laguna de Quilotoa) at the bottom of the crater. The village was at 3800 meters (12,500 ft) so even the descent was tough and we did it in the heavy bike jackets because we hadn’t any other warm coats. By the time we climbed back up, we couldn’t wait to get out of the place. It’s true what they say about the wind driving you mad. Honestly, for a country right on the equator, we’re spending a helluva lot of time being cold.

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The La Estela Inn outside Sigchos had been so good we went back. Tucked into a spectacular valley along a river, bumping down the 8km dirt road was worth the discomfort. We were welcomed again by 2 year-old Amalia and her mum Myla. That child ran the place, getting lifted up to pick fruit off trees, feeding the calves at twilight and chasing Federico and Frederica, the geese patrolling the front lawn. It was the most idyllic place for a child to grow–up. We lazed the days away, eating fruits and vegetables from the garden, and trailing lazily along the green shadowed river. Myla offered to cook us one of their guinea pigs for dinner but we decided to leave that for another time. If our permits hadn’t been running out there’s a good chance we’d never have left.

We felt we should visit Baños though I’m not sure why since we don’t spa, bike, raft or bridge jump. But the drive was nice and winding along the base of the Tungurahua volcano I thought there’s worse ways to spend an afternoon. The town itself was disappointing mostly because it rained nearly all the time and was kind of kitschy with all the tour operators. We’d picked a nice hostel hanging over a steep gorge with waterfalls on the far side. Unfortunately the ‘secure’ parking was at the bottom, accessed by a road so steep Fran refused to bring Pferdi down. Even if he’d made it, there was no way the bike was coming back up so we had to park him on the street which we weren’t comfortable with. Even though we were now in the Amazon Basin, the thermal baths had the look of a deserted Irish seaside town in winter so we wandered the streets instead, drinking coffee and declining sticky offers at the sweet stalls. Free entertainment was provided by shop owners stretching and kneading a sugar cane candy called melcocha into strips. It looked exhausting but frequent breaks were taken when someone stopped to chat, like the local policeman.

A quick stop in Riobamba was everything Baños wasn’t. Walking around on Saturday afternoon found us in the middle of a large parade. It seemed like the whole town was out and if they weren’t sitting on stools on the sidewalks, they were part of the entertainment. Those waiting their turn were dressing and practicing on side streets. There were cowboys and clowns, hooded figures in elaborate robes, no doubt with a long history behind them, school bands, twirling folk dancers and more, all to the tune of trumpets and other brass that sounded more death march than joyful. We left during Group #16’s performance and on our way home passed #38 waiting behind a church. We never did find out the occasion.

I’d read about Cuenca years ago, a Spanish colonial city in the Andean highlands. It’s has a perfect, spring-like climate which is why lots of foreigners retire there. We were invited to stay with a couple we’d met in Canoa which was really kind since we didn’t know each other very well. They were very good company and spent time showing us around the historic plazas and colorful markets. It was even a treat to ride the city buses with them. But we had to find a mechanic first, to fix one of the sidecar U-bolts, a casualty we suspect, courtesy of the dirt road in Sigchos. Within minutes of posting the question, the Ecuador support group had us in contact with Wellington and by the end of the morning, we were fully repaired. It certainly beats making an appointment with your mechanic back home and a week later taking the car in, arranging a ride home, and back after two days to pick it up. Imagine arguing with your mechanic because he won’t take any money and having to sneak some cash to his wife when he’s not looking. Take that a step further and imagine you’ve only just met your mechanic for the first time that morning. We may have got used to the high altitudes but it’s taking a lot longer to get used to people we’ve only just met (or even haven’t met) lending multiple helping hands.

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The Ecuadorian clock was ticking and we had to move on. Our 90 day permits were expiring on February 4th and if we overstayed with the bike we’d be fined $380.00 per day. The drive south from Cuenca was beautiful, earth-kissing clouds, banana trees and in every village, a large pig spread-eagled over a fire or blackened on a spit. I’ve never seen a country with more pigs. Our second to last stop was the city of Loja where all the older men wore black pedal pushers. That was a new one. The town wasn’t very pretty but my mood might have been affected by the overcast weather and the fact that we couldn’t find a cup of coffee anywhere on Sunday morning before 10:30 AM. (In this part of the world, unless you’re in a hotel that serves breakfast, you’ll have to get dressed and go outside for your first shot of caffeine.) You could buy a pair or three of shoes, have a choice of 10 different barber shops for a haircut and even procure a puppy, but get a cup of coffee and a roll? Forget it. We served our time and then high-tailed it to Huaquillas, enjoying the last of Ecuador’s finest scenery on the way. For a border town it wasn’t bad and being near the coast it was hot and sunny. It felt a bit holiday-like so we treated ourselves to an early cocktail hour. By mid-afternoon we were sweltering, and so were the beer cans, but there was a tiled and shaded balcony overlooking the main street which we made our own. In our minds we were already left Ecuador, we just hadn’t gone on to anywhere else yet. From our secluded perch that last afternoon we could “live in this world without being of it (and) we were cool at the equator”. Thank you Herman Melville, I couldn’t have said it better myself.