Capital Power to No Power (and no heat, no water, no roads...) : Quito to Quilotoa

If you want to go to Toronto in Ecuador, go to Quito.

Because Quito was so close to the Canadian Metropolis I now call home, this part of my vacation was both disappointing and comforting. Like many big cities around the world, you can find pretty much anything in Quito. The Ecuadorian capital has its share of stunning architecture as well as slummy barrios; poverty as well as snobbery; crime as well as citizens going out of their way to welcome you. In Quito, I felt like I had been plucked out of my South American adventure, and dropped into a Spanish-speaking Toronto with fewer high-rises and browner skin. It was nice to feel "at home" again, but at the same time, I did not travel thousands of miles south to feel at home.



We ended up staying about a full week in hostel located in the heart of "Gringolandia" (the word "gringo" being the mildly derogatory term for American tourists). For the first time in months, I was living in a neighbourhood with shops and signs with English names, and being served in my native tongue. It was bizarre, and to be honest, a little depressing. Something akin to guilt plagued me my whole time there; I felt that my culture had imposed itself and taken over where it didn't really belong, and the effect was unsettling.

During this particular leg of the trip, my mono was rearing its unattractive, phlegmy, spastically coughing head, so much of that week was occupied by catching up on rest. However, my travelling buddies and I (at this point, Julia, Cor, Meg and Michelle) were able to fit in a couple of sightseeing days. One of the first things we did was to go see the famous Basilica, a towering Gothic style church with tropical gargoyles (think monkeys, turtles, and jaguars) adorning the greystone walls, and gorgeous stained glass windows so intricate they looked like paintings. The TeleferiQo was another stop, where a cable car took us from 2950 meters to 4050 meters of altitude, where the view of the sprawling city is nearly overwhelming. And because of the altitude, the experience literally takes your breath away. We also went to the hyped-up tourist attraction "El Centro del Mundo", meaning "The Middle of the Earth" and straddled the equator.

Despite my best efforts to convince her to do otherwise, this was also the week that Julia got her dreadlocks. Being blessed with amazing, lush, and tumbling chestnut curls, I thought Jules was insane to willingly turn this beautiful feature into gnarly matted ropes, but hey, Julia's insane (I don't pretend to come up with any rational excuses for her behaviour anymore). The process took several days involving multiple South American hippies working on her aching scalp, and although initially her hair looked like an ode to Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons, it looked cuter than I expected when it had calmed down. I believe it took almost six days for the dreading process to be completed. Three weeks later, Julia had chopped her dreads off.
And that's Julia, folks.

Quito was also where Meg and Michelle split to meet another visiting friend, so Cor and I were back to being a twosome. From the bustling Capital, Cor and I's intention was to complete the difficult-to-navigate yet incredibly beautiful Quilotoa Loop.

The Quilotoa Loop is named for the circular tour done through multiple indigenous pueblos in the central Andean highlands, with the scenic highlight being the Quilotoa lagoon. The lagoon is located at the base of a volcano, and because of an accumulation of minerals in the water, the lagoon glows bright green. The entire loop is no more than 200 km and villages are anywhere from 5 to 40 km apart, but this is not Canada, where 100 km equals about one hour of driving. This is Ecuador, and rural Ecuador at that, which means badly maintained vehicles, inconsistent/nonexistent public transportation, and mountain ledge dirt roads that disappear for weeks from heavy rain.

Using our Lonely Planet as our guide, Cor and I painstakingly planned our travelling schedule, which we had to modify several times a day, until we scrapped the whole schedule. The most complicated part about navigating the loop is arranging transportation. Unlike more populated regions in Ecuador, buses are infrequent between these tiny villages, and sometimes they don't exist at all. Often, the only way to get from one village to the next was to hitch a ride (and pay an outlandish price to the independent drivers who basically had the monopoly over the roads) or in one case, catch the 3am milk truck, riding in the back with crates of cow juice.






The first destination within the loop was Zumbahua. So far so good. We reached this one with little trouble, and the ride there was probably the most beautiful bus ride I will ever go on in my life. Conveniently, our driver was also the owner of a hostel in Zumbahua, so he dropped us off at his establishment where his wife set us up with a single candle and a teapot of hot water in our room. Of course, by the time we had arrived, night had fallen and so had the temperature, and the town was experiencing a power outage that we were assured would only last 20 minutes. Four hours later, Cor and I had resorted to layering on nearly every item of clothing we brought in order to stay warm (the altitude and early sunset make these highland towns get very cold, very fast), and huddled around our candle stub to read our books.


The next day, we got up early and aimed to climb a few a the many peaks scattered around the town. In the daylight, we could see how unique Zumbahua was. It looked like someone had reached a giant hand under the earth and pushed their fingers upwards, creating many sharp and narrow peaks in close range of each other. Cor and I climbed a couple, ate our lunch with a herd of sheep that unexpectedly joined us, then headed back to the hostel to collect our luggage and catch our next bus to the neighbouring town.



Travel Schedule Modification #1. Turns out, when we had left for our hike, our hostel husband and wife duo had left to do their bus route and wouldn't be back until that evening. Never having been given a key, we were locked out. Our luggage: locked in. It was about 11am then, our bus was at 1:30pm, and the owners weren't due back until after 6. So we tried to break in. We asked neighbours for ladders, stacked chairs and tables found in backyards, and dangled precariously under window sills, but nothing worked. Our room was completely inaccessible without a key. We decided to kill some time by grabbing lunch somewhere, and actually had one of the better almuerzos I've had in Ecuador, and bonus! No chicken feet in the broth!


At around 3pm, our hostel owners returned early from their route. Cor and I collected our things and decided to catch the next truck going to Quilotoa, even if we had to pay a little extra. Travel Schedule Modification #2.

When we got to Quilotoa the daily rain had started, and it was still very cold (even with the sun out during the days, I don't think it ever went above 15 degrees). Our hostel in Quilotoa was, of course, unheated. As a bonus, it also had no water, except a dingy barrel of recycled water which we used to flush the toilet using the old pour-a-bucket-into-the-bowl method. Washing was out of the question.

Cor and I both had colds at this point, and were rather miserable, so we spent the rest of this rainy day drinking very potent hot cocoa (made from real homemade chocolate!) and reading our books with our woolly-socked feet resting on a wood stove.

After going to sleep in outfits that made us look like yarn-based Yetis, we woke up early the next morning to do the highlighted Quilotoa hike. There are two suggested ways of touring the beautiful sight: a) Hike around the ridge of the crater. At a fairly steady pace and only minor dips and inclinations, this takes about 4-5 hours; b) Hike into the mouth of the volcano right down to the water level, and then back up again. Descent is about 25-40 minutes, incline is about 1 hour to an hour and a half. Having only about 4 hours until the daily 11am rains, we opted for option B, figuring that we could have a better range of sights and also get to see the glowing water up close.


Visually speaking, the lagoon was the most beautiful single sight I have ever seen in my life. Upon my first glimpse of it, my breath literally caught, and I almost felt paralyzed. It was one of those moments when your brain is going, "Is this real? Does this actually exist??". It was so unbelievably spectacular. Trying to describe this experience would be like trying to make an Origami crane out of a wilted banana peel. I just don't have the skills.










At the base of the crater Cor and I were quiet (compared to the standard endless chatter/giggling/bickering that two travel companions develop) while we just sat an stared.

After having a small snack, we turned around to make the steep climb back up. The sky was already starting to cloud over, and because most of the trail was made of soft earth on a sharp incline, we desperately wanted to beat the rainfall. We made it back to the top in half the guide book's estimated time, lungs burning all the way. The first drops started to fall just as we reached the rim of the crater.

Our plan for the rest of that day was to attempt to get to the famous Black Sheep Inn, a luxury ecolodge just outside of Chugchilan, about 25 km from where we were in Quilotoa. Because of the recent frequent rains, the public buses had not been running for two weeks as the roads had deteriorated too much for them to be safe. However, we were told that smaller vehicles were still making the trip, so we found a guy with a pick-up truck who was willing to give us a lift (for an inflated cost, of course).

The following hour of my life is one that I'm sure Cor and I will never forget, because of all the on-the-edge horseback rides, sketchy border crossings, and violent surf encounters, I have never felt so close to death.

The ride started off mildly enough. The roads were a bit lumpy and mucky, but passable, and our driver and his companion were friendly and informative. This lasted for about ten minutes, and then we got to the "main" road: A mud out-cropping ranging in width from about 10 ft at the most comfortable spots to about 6 ft. One side of the road was flanked by the mountain's incline, the other side was a straight drop of several hundred feet.

It was raining steadily at this point, and the muddy road was unpredictable and would sometimes steer our tires so close to the edge that my entire body would literally go numb with fear. At this point, Cor and I were clutching to each other and gritting our teeth, and our drivers were silent and uncharacteristically serious. About halfway to our destination, the road all but completely collapsed, and our driver said he couldn't continue safely. He told us we had about 10 km to go, and we could walk if we liked, as the roads would support pedestrians, but not vehicles.

Travel Schedule Modification #3.

Cor and I actually debated it. We had really been looking forward to the Black Sheep Inn and were anxious to treat ourselves, but we also didn't want to risk getting stuck even further into these highlands with their horrible roads. So, we decided to head back the way we came (even scarier because this time we knew what to expect!), and if possible, to head to Baños early. We were so fed up at this point of being cold, unwashed, scared, and rained-on that Baños, with its many tourist comforts and warm climate, seemed like a Mecca of indulgence waiting in the distance.

The ride back was, as predicted, terrifying, but in the end, we did make it to Baños that evening (safely!). I don't think I have ever been that happy to take a hot shower. I don't think I have ever been that happy to see paved roads.

But, as per usual, am I glad I did it? Absolutely. Would I change anything? Not a crumb. Could I physically/emotionally/psychologically do it all over? Not on your life...

...Well, maybe ask me in a couple of months :)