You've may have heard them muttering in public bars. Those pretenders that
refer to themselves as internationalists, the world citizen types. Probably
some git that has backpacked it through India or some pretended who claims
to have ridden a motorbike across a few latitudes. A favorite expression of
this motley group is that "a border is just a line on a map". The
implication is that cultural change is a subtle and dynamic phenomena
largely unaffected by political segregation. I've hold my hand up amongst
the guilty confessors. So what's this about? Has Ralphino been struck down
with heatstroke or Chagas disease on the brain. Well perhaps, but I am
referring however illucidly to the crossing of the Peruvian border entering
into Ecuador.
We left the last urban settlement in north Peru (City of Piura) and out of
the desert oasis proceeded north west out of the coastal desert plain into
the pre-Andean foothills. The greenery returned gradually as the topography
began to increasingly undulate. Then round a corner there it was. The bridge
over the river of the same name that precedes town of Macará on the
Ecuadorian border. Country number three just over 2 months and 12,000 km.
Not much there really; on each side small buildings for customs and
migration, a couple of hole in the wall restaurants. Not even much of a
queue of vehicles at 11.30 am. The procedure for leaving a country is always
simpler than getting in. Particularly with your own vehicle. And so it was.
Surrended temporary importation certificate for swinehunt to Peruvian
customs and drop in tourist card to migration.
On the other side of the creek we were cheerfully greeted by Ecuadorian
customs who were most interested in the `hunt. They dispatched us to
migration first where the maximum 90 days tourist card was easier than
wheelie-ing an ST2. On return to customs a nominated officer leapt on the
back and instructed me to proceed to the customs office in the town proper
only a km away. As he wasn't concerned about wearing a helmet I presumed I
could get away without as well. He enjoyed the occasional jest to his mates
through town that he had confiscated this contraband motorcycle.
At the customs office I was introduced to the head honcho of customs for the
region and then handed over to the in house customs lawyer. They were
friendly and cheerful, welcoming me to the country and eagerly inquiring
where we had been on the bike before reaching Ecuador. Meanwhile back at the
frontier Mary Ann was sharing a freshly cracked watermelon with the rest of
the drug busting customs crew. She was pleasantly surprised when they made
an effort to ensure that all scraps made it into the bin - in sharp contrast
to the Peruvian attitude of "throw it on the ground" rubbish disposal. I was
away for about an hour in total but emerged with a temporary motorcycle
import permit for 90 days to match the tourist visa.
The ride to the first major town, Loja was a pleasure of swerving bitumen.
Clumsy in parts where sections had fallen over into the valley or where the
impact of landslide from above had left their scars. Climbing to a modest
height of 3,000 meters with great views of the crumpled topography,
smothered in a green patchwork of fields, some at ridiculously steep angles
that would preclude the working of a bullock and wooden plow. Therefore I
presume hand tilled. We stopped for lunch at Catacocha a small town hanging
across the steep ridges of the central Andes just of the Pan American. The
fish was good and for the second time since the border crossing we were
struck by how easy it was to understand the locals in contrast to Peru. In
fact many contrasts were beginning to dawn. No evidence of roadside dumping
of household rubbish. Roadside signs promoting preservation of trees and
native flora. Drivers generally keeping to their side of the road in (blind)
corners. Ecuador was becoming a feelgood type of change after the cynicism
of the latter part of our Peruvian 5 week experience.
Loja was more modern than Peruvian cities by comparison. Not necessarily
architecturally modern though the standard of (re)construction and
shopfitting was noticeably so. The population was noticeably better off
economically. Standards of dress were such that I felt it necessary to go
for a haircut and beard trim - almost unheard of on holiday. At least this
stopped the school children from screaming and running and nursing mothers
from crossing to the other side of the street. Not that these advantages
were universal of course. In the tradition of increasing inequality that has
haunted the last 30 years or more on our fragile globe the tribal peasants
that had found there way into the big smoke, for what ever reason, radiated
the dejection of serious squalor. It was Friday night. After finding a hotel
we scrubbed up and got out on the town just after 8pm. The center of town
was like a mortuary - everything was closed. This trading hour conformity
was a bit of a shock after the urban chaos of Peru where entreprenerialism
means every man for himself until you drop, Sunday being the exception for
many.
The next day we went for an excursion to Zamora, 60 km east south east and
lower (600m) in the tropical jungle of the Podocarpus National Park. The
route to take from the center of the city was not at all clear. We had a
couple of goes at connecting but inevitably found our way back to the edge
of the CBD. Sensing our distress a local in a rat green Lada sedan asked us
where we wanted to go. He quickly indicated that we should follow and drove
the 5 km to the outskirts where the overhead road signs announced the route.
He waved us passed with a smile, whereas in Peru he would have had his hand
out for money. Ecuador was really beginning to grow on us.
A great ride down to the jungle. Only interruption was where the road had
fallen into the valley a few days earlier. This was being repaired by
gouging more landfill out of the surrounding cliffs. The one heavy machine
paused for us to ride through over the rough. On the way back to Loja
nuggets of about 2-3 tonnes each had made a late entry after the workers had
departed adding a slalom. We had some initial difficulty in Zamora town
locating the dirt road that led to the national park. In typical guide book
fashion the instructions read follow road along river for 6km. Well there
happened to be several rivers - it rains a bit in the Amazon Basin. We
reached the end of one riverside road which terminated in a gravel path.
Since the disasterously bad advice we had been given in Peru we were a bit
reluctant to ask directions. A girl of about 12 with her mates/siblings came
along and was about to start down the path. I asked her whether it led to
the National Park. She suppressed a giggle (which 12 year old girls are a
bit prone to) but went on confidently to point out a road cut into the other
side of the river bank as the park entry. This turned out to be better
advice that we had got on directions from 99% of adults in Peru!
The national park was the real McCoy. Dense vine and fern clustered
impenetrable undergrowth with high overhead canopy. Clammy humidity. Exotic
birds that we could often hear but frustratingly not spot. Trails of
leafcutter ants underfoot. Gushing tropical streams roaring deep in the
valleys. A series of walking paths well defined but poorly differentiated
gives access. This was part of our "aw my gawd less than 1 month till back
at work, quick lets get fit" routine. In the spirit of world adventureism
I'm proud to admit that yes, we got lost. According to the map of trails in
the ranger's hut we were following the clockwise route 4. After an hours
walk paralleling the river I began to feel suspicious that rivers usually
don't run in circles. We eventually bumped into a small group of European
punters who pointed down stream from whence we had come as the route back to
base. This we followed with a diversion to eventually arrive there. Lesson :
use the compass on foot as well as on the road.
The road north from Loja is indicated as paved but is more accurately
described as bluish gravel. There has been a lot of patching done after both
landslides and natural attrition. This work has however been done using
gravel rather than an a tar/stone mix. Poor durability exposes the remaining
bitumen to further trauma, then the grader and dumptruck come along and
scrape off the bitumen islands before putting on a packed gravel finish.
This plus the sinuous nature, steep climbs and lowered performance at high
altitude mean averaging 70 km/h is a realistic maximum.
Next stop was the small village of Saraguro. This was a surprise after the
(relative) sophistication of Loja. Here was a village that has retained it's
traditional highland culture. To our surprise the men even wore the
traditional dress - extremely uncommon in the Americas. Both men and women
wear predominantly black. Something about mourning for their deity. Ask a
anthropologist for the full story! Narrow brim stiff tallish felt rounded
peak crown hats. Dark shawls, the chaps in knickerbocker length black
trousers, often with a couple of small pom poms on the hems. Long unisex
hair platted behind into a single thick pigtail. To see 20 year old blokes
still dressed traditionally is highly unusual in Latin America. The T shirt,
baseball cap and fake Levi uniform has not quite completely taken over youth
culture.
Now you will forgive me this extravagance, I hope. I'm about to go all dewy
eyed, and reminiscent. Well childless and middle aged, what else is there to
look forward to but the four phases, viz., eccentricity ® senility ®
insanity ® mortality! The cause is the extravagant numbers of vintage
strokers still rattling about the village. Punted by gentry in the full trad
outfit described above. On every street corner you can see the legend
emblazoned on a sidecover "Yamaha Trail 175". The original oriental dual
purpose road/trail rattler that established the category. Time to crank up
the phonogram and put on "Smoke gets in your eyes".
Cuenca, the major city of the southern highlands is regarded as the colonial
gem of Ecuador, for the high standard of preservation of its architecture.
There are really two cities; the old and the new. We didn't visit the new,
instead finding our way almost accidentally from the industrial outskirts to
a ramp that dumped us into the cobblestoned narrow streets of decades ago,
but with the current demands of modern traffic. Gracias Dios for the
motorbicycle - the ultimate urban transport tool. OK perhaps not an
appropriate advantage to ascribe to the swinehunt. Something half as wide as
a bus cannot cut the mustard when it come to exploiting narrow gaps in the
traffic. It still has the advantage over Skodas and 4x4 which constitute the
two main road space predator groups. So we were able to avoid the worst and
locate a hotel with indoor courtyard motorcycle parking without drama.
I was struck down by a minor illness in Cuenca, which may have influenced my
appreciation of the city. Though the expanse of historic architecture is
vast over many city blocks it's effect is diminished by modern external
illuminated shop signage, window displays and refitting. This is no
Zacatecas, or Guanajuato (both México) where traffic is restricted or banned
or underground and the touch of the last few centuries hardly evident.
Though neither could it be culturally. Unlike the Méxicanos, Ecuadorians are
not afraid of change, they embrace the future. A future that is looking
brighter in more recent years. Prior and during 1999 the term banana
republic was apt. Not only did Ecuador lead world banana exports but
inflation was 100% for the annum. The banks started falling over. In 2000
the local currency, the Escudo, was replaced by the American dollar. By 2001
inflation had dropped to 25%. This year 10%. In 2003 7% or less is expected.
There is still enormous external debt. From my ignorant, inexpert
perspective this seems to be either or both better managed or of a less
crippling proportion than Argentina. There are no expectations that Ecuador
will default on it's debts and the dollarization, despite the cultural
implications, may give the economy some resilience against the sort of
revaluation pressures that the Brazilian Real has recently been going
through lately.
On exiting north from Cuenca we stopped for fuel and noticed an oil
hemorrhage from the Swinehunt. This was coming from the oil filter cover
forward on the right side of the motor. By this time both fuel tanks were
full so these had to be removed along with the battery before the `hunt was
thrown down on it's left side. Enjoyable as this humiliation was in the
petrolo car park it also served the purpose of extracting said cover without
the engine oil running out. Cleverly BMW has made this task a challenge for
owners. Their "afterthought engineering" has left this common service item
(you need to remove the cover to change the oil filter) almost inaccessible
due to the fitting of crash bars and oil cooler lines a few decades after
the motor came off the drawing boards (1930's?). This was an opportunity to
change the oil filter and to clean up around the cover hoping that a better
seal would result from refitting. Which is what seems to have worked out.
Ingapirca is the largest and best preserved Incan ruin in Ecuador. The Incan
empire at its peak stretched all the way further north to the capital Quito.
None of these other ruins can match the magic of Machu Picchu in southern
Peru but Incapirca is still worth a look. Not highly developed as a tourist
destination the ruins consist of two partial buildings and a lot of low
eroded stone walls. The surrounding country is beautiful steeply rolling
hills covered in a patchwork quilt of plots and fields. Half a dozen very
tame llamas graze around the grounds, occasionally looking wistfully toward
you hoping for a handout of some treat to gobble.
The ride from Ingapirca to Riobamba was at times breathtaking with a
spectacular finish. There was a bit of up (to 4,000m) and down (to 1200m)
with roads clinging to deep cuttings chiseled out of the sides of mountains.
In one section the eastern edge of the range opened out between peaks. Here
the western coastal plain was covered by heavy cloud to the distant horizon
but the ceiling was far below us. Up the steep valleys white fingers thrust
their was a little way up but soon petered out, too heavy with tropical
moisture to make the climb. Great roads and fantastic views - just what you
bring a bike to the Andes for!
Closer to the central Andean city of Riobamba things got a little drier. We
were at the end of the dry season but there may also be a slight rain shadow
effect as the Pan American runs in a valley with high ranges on both sides.
This provides a series of snow-capped giants lining the horizon including,
amongst them the odd volcano. On sighting the swinehunt that morning Volcan
Tunga (Gita) went into convulsions chucking out a long trail of smoke and
dust that adversely affected 4,000 people and 3,000 hectares. On arrival at
our hotel I quickly hid the `hunt in a carpark. Next day the fireworks were
over and the locals were kind enough not to point the finger.
Quito, Ecuador - 07/10/02
Latacunga was out last stop before the capital. It's a town of 50,000 people
rather than a city and easy to get around on foot provided you don't twist
your ankle falling off the ridiculously narrow footpaths. This is a major
center for mountain climbing with several snowy peaks nearby. Scrabbling up
vertical slopes with crampons is not our style but we did take a couple of
day trip rides. The first was to the west to visit lake Quilotoa which is
spectacularly located inside the intact rim of an extinct volcano. The
approach is deceptively level to a dusty area where vehicles are left that
about 20m walk and suddenly you are looking hundreds of meters down onto a
vast green expanse of still water encircled by rough craggy peaked rim over
2 km across. Mesmerizing enough to sit and simply watch for a while. Low
down near the waters edge a few dot-like sheep paused to drink before
disappearing again to wrest scant nutrition from the crater walls. The road
there and back was initially bitumen over the pass but soon turned to
reasonably good dirt. Without the weight of the panniers and with the
memories of suspension failure fading, riding on the loose stuff was again
enjoyable. Smoothness and the caution of always leaving a little in reserve
is however necessary. Four hundred Kg laden weight getting too out of shape
is bad karma!
Next day we were off on another ride. This time to Cotopaxi National Park.
The mountain within of the same name is one of the most popular climbs in
Ecuador. More good dirt road leading in and through the park. The
corrugations were slightly irritating both in severity and frequency but the
beauty of the landscape soon diverted your attention. The mountain itself is
an extinct volcano of 5,897m altitude. The snow (and cloud) begins about 1km
from the top where the base camp refuge is located. A road, of sorts, runs
steeply up to just below the refuge. This defeated all the family sedans and
some 4x4 heroes on the day. I'm glad I had that new clutch fitted to the
swinehunt before this trip! From up there the views are grand between cloud
drifts but the temperature is freezing - too cold to take your helmet off
without supporting balaclava - just a stubbie's throw from the equator!
A big festival come party was about to start in Latacunga on the Sunday but
we had planned to ride into Quito that day to take advantage of the lower
levels of traffic in the capital on the only non-working day of the week.
Not that we were expecting the traffic chaos of Bangkok or the urban
immensity of México City; we just wanted time to find the right place to
stay while spending our last 12 days holiday. Focussed on this task we were
a little distracted to really appreciate the scenery for the 100km journey.
Just before Quito we got stopped by a police motorcyclist. He really just
wanted to have a look at the swinehunt. After a cursory look at our
paperwork he was welcoming us to the country, complementing us on our choice
of motorcycle offering any advice he thought might be helpful; finally
giving an enthusiastic wave to send us off. Another cheerful Ecuadorian
public official - it's either contagious or they have all seen a bit too
much of the high altitude tropical sun.
The ride into Quito looked easy on the map. Reality on the ground was a
little different. We were sent off on diversions by roadworks into the
narrow one way streets of the old colonial city district. From these
mountainside alleyways glimpses of where we wanted to be would occasionally
strobe into and immediately out of view through the narrow gaps between
buildings. Then we ran into the road closures due to political marches for
the October 20th national elections. Finally we stopped and asked a couple
of coppers what was the best strategy. We took this advice and with a few
minor modifications, like jumping the concrete median strip on a freeway,
got back on track through the two tunnels and then left to the "Gringobamba"
district where the tourist hotels are situated. Finding accommodation was
complicated by the fact that we wanted an apartment with a kitchenette for
our last two weeks. The fried meat/stew and rice mantra of the last 3 months
had us longing to be able to prepare our own food now that the variety of
ingredients that a city of 2 million was on our door step. We stopped next
to the tourist office. Along with almost everything else in Quito (and the
rest of Ecuador) this was shut Sundays. After three hours walking around we
found wh