Two-mile-high meeting place
15 - 19 September, Ian
As the days and weeks pass here our emerging
notable experience is of meeting a continuing stream of people who are
travelling through South America. There are the apocryphal travellers whom we
haven't actually met ourselves - the guy walking from Patagonia to Alaska; the
German trying to get himself kidnapped in Columbia - but the real ones are
interesting enough. We've met our first travellers who have braved Columbia -
Richie and Rosie from the north of England - who spent three weeks there and
wished that it had been longer. We've also met our first traveller from the US
to be on a trip lasting more than a handful of days. She's travelling alone
back through Ecuador and Peru from a few weeks in Cuenca, where she learned
Spanish while at a homestay. My impression immediately upon meeting her was
that some of her statements had more poetry than precision (for example: "I ran
marketing for a technology company [Oracle]"), evidencing an optimistic
personality that quickly made her one of my favourite fellow guests. On the
evening we met her she was recovering from a monumental hangover and had the
endearing air of seeming slightly stoned. And I felt an empathy with her
because she reminded me of Manhattan. I may be imagining it but I think I read
some suspicion in the eyes of one or two of her compatriots. She had that sassy
self-assuredness that Hillary also has that you might fear, rightly or wrongly,
to be a heartbeat away from belligerence.
Incidentally, it seems increasingly likely that I'm going to go down a hundred bucks or so when Hillary becomes the next Democratic presidential candidate. When we were in the Galapagos Islands I overheard a couple of Texan guys who were very G-U-N talking about who would succeed doubleya. They liked Rummy but recognised that he's unelectable. They liked Condy but felt that she can't sweep the South. They were in no doubt that Hillary is the person to beat. In the face of all evidence, I still can't see how the Democrats find her the best person to field to win hearts all across the nation. Even though the current guy is making Clinton's foibles (both on the personal level and in his more callous moments of foreign policy) seem pretty innocuous I wonder how she can be elected after she and Bill have already been exposed, according to the unimpeachable late Alastair Cooke - my favourite ever journalist, stealing furniture from the White House. It's one of those small things, like the box revealed under Bush's jacket during the debate with Kerry, that you'd think would sink someone forever. Genuinely, I think Americans are just more forgiving. So, like Thatcher, Hillary will apparently be excused for her brusqueness and minor misdemeanours and admired for her presumed competence.
A few nights ago we had a couple of very nice Swiss guys here - "ar-chee-tects" from Zurich - who could have walked out of a Jean Paul Gaultier fantasy ad. Last night we had a couple of lightly-bearded more elderly guys (Zoe asked if they were brothers) from San Francisco, who could easily have come straight from Maupin's Tales of the City. (By the way, does anyone know whether they made any more of the series with Olympia Dukakis, and, if so, whether they're available on DVD - we saw only one or two seasons then it dried up.) And we've had plenty more Europeans, including several Brits. On Friday we all did the Quilotoa hike with a couple of the Anglos - Phil and Kate - this being the walk that Paula had done with another party the previous week. It's an exceptionally fine trail, starting with a traverse half-way round the rim of the volcano looking down on the copper blue-green lake and then turning down across the grassy plains and into, and finally out of, the canyon that severs the landscape just below Chugchilan. The altitude falls from 3,800m at the volcano down to 2,500m at the bottom of the canyon before rising again to 3,200m here at the Black Sheep Inn. Most people find it a tough walk. In part this may be because most people get lost; since Paula had done the walk already we didn't. The girls coped admirably, and we arrived back within the guide time of five hours. The previous couple of weeks of gasping up the path to our room had apparently prepared me well and I felt as aerobically fit as I can remember being: the walk seemed easy and I secretly harboured a light-headed desire to run it. It helps that I'm maybe 20 pounds lighter now (I guess) than I normally am at home and so I've shaken off the feeling of being too tall, of simply having too much mass, for a runner.
The next day we tried out the relatively new sauna that Andres and the guys have built here and it was great to feel cleansed and to loosen up the muscles. On the subject of the facilities, I should say that the only illnesses we've seen here since my first blog are ascribable either to altitude effects or to bugs that incoming travellers have brought with them. No compelling body of evidence has developed to support a telling health-based critique of Michelle and Andres' eco project and so the only real facts are that they're not depleting the region's resources with 1st- and 2nd-world levels of water usage, let alone air-con or other tourist destination standards. For sure, the hygiene here is incomparably better than it is in the local community and if you want to stay somewhere that's not simply another identikit resort transposed to a different exotic location this is as good as it's going to get. In fact, after identifying my recommended three month itinerary in one of my Africa blogs and my recommended one month itinerary in a Corsican entry, I can also propose a two week vacation: get yourself on a plane to Quito (BA fly direct from London) and come to the Black Sheep Inn for as many days as you don't spend travelling. Michelle and Andres are the best of hosts and can tell you what to do and fix up whatever you want. It's easy and I can't see anyone failing to take away some special memories from this place.
Also on the subject of the facilities I want to back-track a little, kind of, regarding my prior comments about the guys here seeming to dislike computers. It turns out that Andres has tried to get satellite internet installed but, for regional reasons, it just hasn't worked yet. Speaking to him he reminds me of how I came to feel after the first few months with my current employer. The corporate inability to cope with an impossible self-imposed set of IT standards reminded me of nothing more than the novel The Master and Margerita (which, by the way, is whispered in Greek throughout Kristi Stassinopoulou's wonderful track Sti Fotia). After a while, I discovered that I'd developed an aversion to computers. The pathology of the infrastructure at work has improved somewhat since then but I only truly regained my sense of personal IT satisfaction when I bought a mac.
Amongst the North Americans and the Europeans we've also had a party of Ecuadorians here from Quito. It was supposed to be a party of 14 but a car-load of five of them inexplicably drove past the BSI without noticing it and didn't realise their error until they had reached Latacunga several hours later. Those of them who made it were delightful. They all spoke perfect English. One of the guys is going to Dorset soon for a wedding, not too far from where we hang out; sadly, we'll be here. A younger member of one of the families, Juan Pablo, is moving to England in two weeks to study at the London School of Commerce near London Bridge for a couple of years. He's a nice guy and if you feel like buying him a beer to help him settle in I'm sure that both he and I would be grateful - let me know and I'll arrange the contact. His mother is called Carmen and looks a little like Carmen Maura. I'm hoping that we get to hook up with them during our very short pass through Quito in a week or two. Of course, they managed to tease us with a fistful of recommendations for exciting things to do in Ecuador, which we'll have to postpone until our next trip. Anyhow, we're enjoying being here.
As the exceptional long-term residents of the BSI we get to participate more in the repeating routines. The girls are never happier than when running around tending to the dogs, cats, pigs, llamas, chickens, sheep (black, of course!) and guinea pigs. Yesterday we tagged along to watch Andres play soccer with the guys from Chugchilan. The two teams wore Subbuteo-perfect strips of red and blue and the game was played against the most stunning backdrop imaginable.
We rode there in Andres' van. Paula, Zoe and Heidi travelled with Michelle and Andres in the (three) front seats. Dozens of local guys crammed into the back, along with two mountain bikes and a large dog. Many more sat on the soft roof, and others, including me, hung off the back, standing on the fender/bumper. I didn't see all the people get in since most of them joined before we did up at the village - watching them all stream out was like beholding real magic. On the return, when there were fewer passengers since many stopped to watch the next match, I tried to count them. The number climbing into the back was still innumerable but I counted 10 on the roof and five of us on the bumper.
The match was lively and fun. The referee didn't once hold up play simply on account of an offside infringement and if he blew for a foul I missed it. The play was enthusiastic and the goal keeping Scottish in style. About 30 local people idly watched from the side of the pitch or the nearby banks and woods. As at a Hindu wedding they all ate and chatted, happy to have been brought together by the occasion but not obligated to give it the greater part of their attention. Horses, cows and an enormous bull grazed indifferently by one goal mouth. Only Michelle, with a degree of support from Zoe, Heidi and the dog, yelled out unceasing partisan encouragement throughout the game. The final score was either 7-5 or 8-5 in favour of Andres' team (the reds): no one knew whether or not a very late penalty, which was certainly scored, was disallowed for some obscure reason.
After the match the reds taunted the blues with chants that they always beat them and they're a bunch of girls. Andres, though, made a point of speaking to the players from the blue team on his way out.
From the match Zoe and I went directly to the market with Andres and Michelle. Zoe helped them buy and carry the weeks' supplies while I listened to a live band who were playing in the square in honour of an engagement or a christening. The drummer relied largely on a huge bass drum, while the front line featured a quartet of saxes and a trumpet. Tired, sitting under the Equatorial sun, their jazz, in which the same melodic line was endlessly repeated, became hypnotic. Some locals, both men and women, stood with the band swaying gently to the music in their shawls and felt hats; for only a few of the older guys did the swaying rise discernibly into anything like normal dancing. Many other locals, young and old, sat watching from bus roofs wedged in between bags of groceries.
As well as the week's supplies, Michelle and Andres bought their regular Sunday treat of chicken soup, which they kindly shared with us. This was the first meat we'd eaten since leaving Quito and the girls fished the chicken pieces from the broth and, with commendable appetites, fell upon it like starving beasts.
This morning we all did another horse ride. In fact, Paula and I had mules this time and the horses and mules lacked the pep of those we'd had last week. The mule I rode was older than me. We walked right down to the floor of the canyon and the highlight for me was the steep descent. The mules were the more sure-footed, skidding and sliding through a cloud of dust with none of us speaking and only the sound of the hooves in the sand and the encouraging clicks of our guide Miguel breaking the silence. We took lunch near a suspension bridge over the river that courses through the canyon, where we met a couple of Polish travellers who were walking to Sigchos with their bags carried by a donkey.
The other phenomenon I must mention is the brightness of the full moon: while I've seen very bright starry nights back in Somerset I'm not quite sure that I've seen the ground illuminated so well as it is here in the small hours. When you step out at a few different times in the night, as I have, the path of Mars across the night sky is also particularly clear. I know that being two miles closer to it is immaterial, but it can't do any harm, can it.
Incidentally, it seems increasingly likely that I'm going to go down a hundred bucks or so when Hillary becomes the next Democratic presidential candidate. When we were in the Galapagos Islands I overheard a couple of Texan guys who were very G-U-N talking about who would succeed doubleya. They liked Rummy but recognised that he's unelectable. They liked Condy but felt that she can't sweep the South. They were in no doubt that Hillary is the person to beat. In the face of all evidence, I still can't see how the Democrats find her the best person to field to win hearts all across the nation. Even though the current guy is making Clinton's foibles (both on the personal level and in his more callous moments of foreign policy) seem pretty innocuous I wonder how she can be elected after she and Bill have already been exposed, according to the unimpeachable late Alastair Cooke - my favourite ever journalist, stealing furniture from the White House. It's one of those small things, like the box revealed under Bush's jacket during the debate with Kerry, that you'd think would sink someone forever. Genuinely, I think Americans are just more forgiving. So, like Thatcher, Hillary will apparently be excused for her brusqueness and minor misdemeanours and admired for her presumed competence.
A few nights ago we had a couple of very nice Swiss guys here - "ar-chee-tects" from Zurich - who could have walked out of a Jean Paul Gaultier fantasy ad. Last night we had a couple of lightly-bearded more elderly guys (Zoe asked if they were brothers) from San Francisco, who could easily have come straight from Maupin's Tales of the City. (By the way, does anyone know whether they made any more of the series with Olympia Dukakis, and, if so, whether they're available on DVD - we saw only one or two seasons then it dried up.) And we've had plenty more Europeans, including several Brits. On Friday we all did the Quilotoa hike with a couple of the Anglos - Phil and Kate - this being the walk that Paula had done with another party the previous week. It's an exceptionally fine trail, starting with a traverse half-way round the rim of the volcano looking down on the copper blue-green lake and then turning down across the grassy plains and into, and finally out of, the canyon that severs the landscape just below Chugchilan. The altitude falls from 3,800m at the volcano down to 2,500m at the bottom of the canyon before rising again to 3,200m here at the Black Sheep Inn. Most people find it a tough walk. In part this may be because most people get lost; since Paula had done the walk already we didn't. The girls coped admirably, and we arrived back within the guide time of five hours. The previous couple of weeks of gasping up the path to our room had apparently prepared me well and I felt as aerobically fit as I can remember being: the walk seemed easy and I secretly harboured a light-headed desire to run it. It helps that I'm maybe 20 pounds lighter now (I guess) than I normally am at home and so I've shaken off the feeling of being too tall, of simply having too much mass, for a runner.
The next day we tried out the relatively new sauna that Andres and the guys have built here and it was great to feel cleansed and to loosen up the muscles. On the subject of the facilities, I should say that the only illnesses we've seen here since my first blog are ascribable either to altitude effects or to bugs that incoming travellers have brought with them. No compelling body of evidence has developed to support a telling health-based critique of Michelle and Andres' eco project and so the only real facts are that they're not depleting the region's resources with 1st- and 2nd-world levels of water usage, let alone air-con or other tourist destination standards. For sure, the hygiene here is incomparably better than it is in the local community and if you want to stay somewhere that's not simply another identikit resort transposed to a different exotic location this is as good as it's going to get. In fact, after identifying my recommended three month itinerary in one of my Africa blogs and my recommended one month itinerary in a Corsican entry, I can also propose a two week vacation: get yourself on a plane to Quito (BA fly direct from London) and come to the Black Sheep Inn for as many days as you don't spend travelling. Michelle and Andres are the best of hosts and can tell you what to do and fix up whatever you want. It's easy and I can't see anyone failing to take away some special memories from this place.
Also on the subject of the facilities I want to back-track a little, kind of, regarding my prior comments about the guys here seeming to dislike computers. It turns out that Andres has tried to get satellite internet installed but, for regional reasons, it just hasn't worked yet. Speaking to him he reminds me of how I came to feel after the first few months with my current employer. The corporate inability to cope with an impossible self-imposed set of IT standards reminded me of nothing more than the novel The Master and Margerita (which, by the way, is whispered in Greek throughout Kristi Stassinopoulou's wonderful track Sti Fotia). After a while, I discovered that I'd developed an aversion to computers. The pathology of the infrastructure at work has improved somewhat since then but I only truly regained my sense of personal IT satisfaction when I bought a mac.
Amongst the North Americans and the Europeans we've also had a party of Ecuadorians here from Quito. It was supposed to be a party of 14 but a car-load of five of them inexplicably drove past the BSI without noticing it and didn't realise their error until they had reached Latacunga several hours later. Those of them who made it were delightful. They all spoke perfect English. One of the guys is going to Dorset soon for a wedding, not too far from where we hang out; sadly, we'll be here. A younger member of one of the families, Juan Pablo, is moving to England in two weeks to study at the London School of Commerce near London Bridge for a couple of years. He's a nice guy and if you feel like buying him a beer to help him settle in I'm sure that both he and I would be grateful - let me know and I'll arrange the contact. His mother is called Carmen and looks a little like Carmen Maura. I'm hoping that we get to hook up with them during our very short pass through Quito in a week or two. Of course, they managed to tease us with a fistful of recommendations for exciting things to do in Ecuador, which we'll have to postpone until our next trip. Anyhow, we're enjoying being here.
As the exceptional long-term residents of the BSI we get to participate more in the repeating routines. The girls are never happier than when running around tending to the dogs, cats, pigs, llamas, chickens, sheep (black, of course!) and guinea pigs. Yesterday we tagged along to watch Andres play soccer with the guys from Chugchilan. The two teams wore Subbuteo-perfect strips of red and blue and the game was played against the most stunning backdrop imaginable.
We rode there in Andres' van. Paula, Zoe and Heidi travelled with Michelle and Andres in the (three) front seats. Dozens of local guys crammed into the back, along with two mountain bikes and a large dog. Many more sat on the soft roof, and others, including me, hung off the back, standing on the fender/bumper. I didn't see all the people get in since most of them joined before we did up at the village - watching them all stream out was like beholding real magic. On the return, when there were fewer passengers since many stopped to watch the next match, I tried to count them. The number climbing into the back was still innumerable but I counted 10 on the roof and five of us on the bumper.
The match was lively and fun. The referee didn't once hold up play simply on account of an offside infringement and if he blew for a foul I missed it. The play was enthusiastic and the goal keeping Scottish in style. About 30 local people idly watched from the side of the pitch or the nearby banks and woods. As at a Hindu wedding they all ate and chatted, happy to have been brought together by the occasion but not obligated to give it the greater part of their attention. Horses, cows and an enormous bull grazed indifferently by one goal mouth. Only Michelle, with a degree of support from Zoe, Heidi and the dog, yelled out unceasing partisan encouragement throughout the game. The final score was either 7-5 or 8-5 in favour of Andres' team (the reds): no one knew whether or not a very late penalty, which was certainly scored, was disallowed for some obscure reason.
After the match the reds taunted the blues with chants that they always beat them and they're a bunch of girls. Andres, though, made a point of speaking to the players from the blue team on his way out.
From the match Zoe and I went directly to the market with Andres and Michelle. Zoe helped them buy and carry the weeks' supplies while I listened to a live band who were playing in the square in honour of an engagement or a christening. The drummer relied largely on a huge bass drum, while the front line featured a quartet of saxes and a trumpet. Tired, sitting under the Equatorial sun, their jazz, in which the same melodic line was endlessly repeated, became hypnotic. Some locals, both men and women, stood with the band swaying gently to the music in their shawls and felt hats; for only a few of the older guys did the swaying rise discernibly into anything like normal dancing. Many other locals, young and old, sat watching from bus roofs wedged in between bags of groceries.
As well as the week's supplies, Michelle and Andres bought their regular Sunday treat of chicken soup, which they kindly shared with us. This was the first meat we'd eaten since leaving Quito and the girls fished the chicken pieces from the broth and, with commendable appetites, fell upon it like starving beasts.
This morning we all did another horse ride. In fact, Paula and I had mules this time and the horses and mules lacked the pep of those we'd had last week. The mule I rode was older than me. We walked right down to the floor of the canyon and the highlight for me was the steep descent. The mules were the more sure-footed, skidding and sliding through a cloud of dust with none of us speaking and only the sound of the hooves in the sand and the encouraging clicks of our guide Miguel breaking the silence. We took lunch near a suspension bridge over the river that courses through the canyon, where we met a couple of Polish travellers who were walking to Sigchos with their bags carried by a donkey.
The other phenomenon I must mention is the brightness of the full moon: while I've seen very bright starry nights back in Somerset I'm not quite sure that I've seen the ground illuminated so well as it is here in the small hours. When you step out at a few different times in the night, as I have, the path of Mars across the night sky is also particularly clear. I know that being two miles closer to it is immaterial, but it can't do any harm, can it.
Posted: Tue - September 20, 2005 at 05:24 AM
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Published On: Feb 08, 2006 06:20 PM
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Published On: Feb 08, 2006 06:20 PM