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Published: August 22nd 2011
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A lot of the time, coming into a new city, it makes sense to use a cab, at least on your first day. Generally you've just come off a long bus trip, or a plane, and the expense is worth it. In Quito we did just that. The driver seemed to know where the street was, so off we went. Helpfully, someone in Quito, probably a public servant, had changed the numbering system. The street was there, but the numbers on it bore no discernible relationship to the address we had for the hostel. We even had to ask directions from some bloke walking down the street – an Australian male, asking for directions...the walls shook, the valleys trembled. Still, the hostel was pretty good.- flying duck graphics on the walls and a view over the old centre of Quito – what's not to like.
Quito is a reasonably high city – around 2800m – and from the terrace of our hostel we could see it spread out along the valley, surrounded by cloud shrouded peaks. It was a hell of a view, I don't mind saying. From our vantage point, looking directly across, you could see quite clearly the
spires of the cathedral, bathed in weird coloured light that just, sort of, worked.
There was a kitchen at the hostels, but the rules made us feel like we were back in Oz, so, bugger that. Dinner at a Chinese place. We were now into Chifa territory. A Chifa is what the Latin Americans call a Chinese restaurant. The one we found was cheap, and really not bad at all.
And, the beers were big – 650mL of amber goodness for $1.20 held the promise of a good trip through Ecuador. The sight of folk walking past on the street with cardboard boxes held over their heads filled me with anticipation. A party? A protest? A strange Andean ceremony? No, simply pissing with cold rain. Tops. The walk home, back to the hostel up the hill after a large meal of Chinese food, the altitude sucking the oxygen out of MSG laden lungs – all was made a bit special with the addition of soaking cold rain.
Breakfast on the terrace was a treat. Included in the price of the hostel, it consisted of a plate of fruit, scrambled eggs and some sort of grilled croissant. It
made crawling out of bed a reasonable proposition. Enough fuel to have a Captain Cook at Quito, supposed to be one of the premier cities of Latin America. And so it proved to be.
We grabbed a map and our cameras and decided to tourist it up for the day. The Chicago Hostel was located a short walk from the Old Town, so we headed up to Plaza Grande to begin the walking tour outlined on the map. Our first stop, though, was the post office. We had to send some postcards for 5 different countries. Tight arses that we are it was going to be cheaper to send them all in one envelope from Ecuador – those bloodsuckers in the privatised Colombian postal system had wanted $5 to send one postcard! (but that's the free market for you).
Errands run, we played tour guide as we wandered about the Old Town and its various sights. The whole walk was about 4km if you did the lot, and there was quite a lot to see. Being the super cool people we are, we did it backwards, just to mix it up, starting at number 12 on the tour
list, because that's how we roll.
Actually, it worked out that we could finish our walk near the office of the tour company we planned to use for our trip to the Cuyabeno reserve in the Ecuadorian Amazon. This process took the rest of the day, but we emerged from it with a ticket for a 4 night 5 day tour, all meals and lodging included for $240 each. Not bad, really.
A lunch of seafood at an unexpectedly expensive, but very good, restaurant and, like clockwork, it started to rain. I asked the waiter if it rained often and he replied with a bemused look, “Por supuesto, es marzo. Hay lluvia cada dia por la tarde.” It rains very day in the afternoon, you can set your watch by it.
This was good, though, for the umbrella sales people who wandered about to take advantage of suckers like us caught unprepared.
The day finished with a nutritious dinner of two minute noodles, tuna, beer and rum on the terrace on the hostel, watching night and clouds descend on a damp and cheerful Quito.
Once more, up at stupid o'clock, simply to go to a
market. Readers may or may not know how I feel about markets. Still,l I had hope, at least a little, that this one would be different. Not sure why, to be honest – a market is always going to be a bunch of people selling stuff. This market, known as the Mercado do Ponchos at Otavalo, is on every Saturday and is the largest open air market in the Americas. And it was big, with more than ponchos for sale.
Authentic fake copies of football jerseys, scarves, all types of handicrafts, alpaca goods, hats, goat horn knives and cow foot water bottles. It was actually worth the 2 hour bus trip.
Catching the bus there was fairly straight forward, as is all bus travel in this part of the world. We grabbed a taxi from near the hostel to the Carcelén terminal in the north, This should cost about $8. It is possible to take the trolley bus, but that involves a bit of stuffing around and for 4 people is only a couple of dollars cheaper anyway. Hopped out at the terminal and sometimes it pays to look like a tourist – in Latin America you simply wander
about the bus terminal looking a bit lost and someone will sing out your destination. You have to keep your wits about you and make sure the bus isn't complete crap, but it generally works out all right.
So, in the end, I picked up an officially fake Barcelona scarf to go with my Faux-didas jacket, Klaire picked up a really nice traditional scarf we'll probably use as a table runner or something, and the older folk picked up all sorts of crap, including 4 hammocks.
A quick lunch, and back on a bus, now packed with people returning to Quito with all their newly acquired goods.
A day of bludging, really. But we took the time to wander up to the Centro Historico to visit the supermarket. As is usual in this part of the world, particularly in the bigger cities, the authorities close off huge sections of the centre to motorised traffic on Sunday. An action like this would make idiots take to the streets in Brisbane, fighting for their god given right to drive their cars wherever the hell they want, but here it's an occasion for celebration. Masses of people turn out, the place
is thick with people riding, walking, skating, and generally wandering about.
We picked up our stuff for dinner and headed back, joining with the throngs of Sunday wanderers. We hadn't got very far before I heard the unmistakeable sounds of a wailing blues harp echoing off the historic buildings. We followed the sound, pleased to hear the sound of something other than Andean pan pipes and Mexican brass, eventually finding the source.
A free jazz and blues concert in front of Teatro del Sucre. There were three blokes, one with a bass, on on the drums and one strangely dressed young guy with wailing on the harp. He may have been dressed like the Flash, but he played the harp better than anyone I've ever seen, at times playing three at once.
When the unmistakeable notes of the theme from the X-files rang out, in a Jazz, Blues funk style, we gave each other a knowing smile, as did the various other gringos scattered throughout the crowd – it did seem a little lost on the local fans, but they got into it nonetheless.
The walk home, nicely lubricated by some Sunday beers, took us through
an excellent park with a canal dug straight through the middle. Tell you what, if they dug a hole in Gardens Point and put swan paddle boats in it I'd be there every Sunday.
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slowfeet
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Otavalo y Quito
Brings back memories that does. Good post and enjoyed the photos.