Seven Days in Ecuador - Part One

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Seven Days in Ecuador - Part One

Sun 11/05 - Thur 15/05/08

I leave New Zealand after five weeks of frustration, financial ruin and wasted opportunity. I look at my flight schedule. Shit. I know I'm in for an ordeal. My journey to Cuba to attend the wedding of one of my oldest friends will be long and hard. First, I have to get to Ecuador, where I'm due to stay for a week. A long time ago, when I began planning my travels, the idea behind this short detour was to see Galapagos, but this is now impossible. Tours are expensive, often two or three thousand pounds - I don't even have two or three hundred.

Once I'm in Ecuador, I have a feeling everything will be fine. I have little idea what's there - I didn't invest in a guide book or do much research on the internet, but I am filled with positive vibes. I just need to fucking get there. I check the schedule again. Holy shit. It doesn't make pleasant reading. I'm used to flying by now. I have a taste for airplane food and women in uniform. I almost enjoy the crippling back pain and being seated in the upright position. But there is a limit to everything. Can this shit really be right? Is there some reason for this complex web of to-ing and fro-ing I see before me? I pay my airport tax, and step through into the departure lounge. One last glance at the schedule. No mistaking what it says. I walk up to the bar and examine my remaining dollars. Beer and a shot please - fuck knows, we won't make it sober.

The Twelve Step Programme - How to Become an Alcoholic in 48 hours:
Step 1: New Zealand to Fiji - Stomach Ulcers
My first flight takes me from Auckland to Nadi, Fiji. Things go smoothly until I board the aircraft. Someday I'm gonna catch a break and get a seat next to some bohemian bombshell with a tight figure and loose morals, but for now I have to settle for a fat Polynesian with severe gastric problems. The spread of his bulging gut forces his legs wide open, encroaching on my personal space, violating one of the basic rules of air travel; that you don't cross the lines of the seats.

This kind of behaviour tends to send me into a murderous rage, and I have to engage Zen-like breathing techniques and focused visualisation in order to bring the green monster within under control. Still, when the man employs his wife to administer violent blows to his lower back, alleviating his discomfort with loud claps of gastric thunder, I'm tempted to weigh in myself. Even if I miss and punch him full in the ear, the pain and shock might have some positive effect on his condition.

Step 2: Waiting in Nadi - Bars and Boredom
The flight to Nadi lasts just over three hours, and arrives at 4pm local time. I now have six hours to kill until my next flight, a vicious long haul across the Pacific Ocean to Los Angeles. As you would expect, Nadi is not a big airport, and there is nothing to do in the departure lounge apart from eat and drink. I've already had two beers in Auckland, and three glasses of white wine on the plane to get me through the stomach upheaval of my neighbour, so it would be cruel and irresponsible for me to stop now. I head straight for the bar and order a bottle of Fiji Gold.

I get talking to a few of the other bar flies, mostly youngish guys like me, from various corners of the world. Gradually we all disperse - one guy goes off to find women, another to make a phone call, one more on a mission to locate his lost credit card. I do a few laps of the room, then end up sat back down, nursing a beer, playing solitaire on my mobile phone and watching the world go round.

Finally, they call the flight.

Step 3: Fiji to LA - 10 Hours and a Baby
I board flight 810 to LA at 10pm. I look at my boarding card. I have a window seat. Maybe now things will improve. Maybe now I get to meet those nymphomaniac Swedish twins who have been one step ahead of me all this time. I walk down the plane, looking for row 35. I see it up ahead. A Chinese woman is occupying the aisle seat - there doesn't appear to be anybody in the middle. My spirits pick up - it might not be the twins, but at least I may have some leg room at last. I reach my row, and the inevitable come down hits me like a bucket of sloppy testicles to the face; the seat is not empty. It just looked that way because it is, in fact, occupied by the women's baby, a toddler of no more than two years old. Dumb, fucking luck.

The flight is a sweaty, doom-laden nightmare, the kind where you wake bolt upright in bed, wide-eyed, screaming, and dash downstairs to pour yourself a stiff drink and make some urgent phone calls to loved ones for reassurance. First, the plane is delayed due to "technical errors", which makes people shift in their seats and glance around nervously. Then, we take off.

I hate my personal space being tampered with when I travel. I just want to be settled in my own little bubble - I leave other people alone, and I ask the same in return. Unfortunately, the world is full of inconsiderate fucks, who tilt their seat back as far as it will go without warning, crushing your legs or sending your drink flying. People snore loudly, hog the arm rest, take their shoes and socks off - the list goes on. Babies, though, are a different kind of enemy. Firstly, they have no understanding of the concepts of which I speak. This means that today, for example, I get repeatedly kicked, trodden on and mauled by tiny hands. And their lack of awareness means you can't really hold it against them or complain. How can you get angry with a two year old when they cry because the cabin pressure hurts their ears or because they're tired and can't sleep?

All I can do is insulate myself as much as possible. I put in my ear plugs, and then cover them with headphones - a double layer of noise protection. Then, I try to avoid sobering up by having a couple of drinks, though I feel a bit guilty about drinking in front of a minor. Eventually, I get a few hours broken sleep.

Step 4: Time Zones - Going Back to the Future
We touch down at 13.30, LA time, still on May the 11th. Los Angeles is 19 hours behind New Zealand, so even though I've spent 13 and a half hours flying and at least 6 waiting in departure lounges, we're only half an hour into the future. I'm sure it's all perfectly logical and simple, but I've had no sleep, so the concept just makes me wanna curl up in a corner and shiver.

Step 5: Immigration in LAX
Getting through passport control is a predictably tortuous experience. I'm in line for close to an hour, herded along by well armed fascists. I get sniffed by dogs and subjected to hard stares by Nazi wannabees, eager to whip out their billyclubs and give someone a savage beating. At least I escape a full cavity search, and pass through shortly before 2.30pm.

Step 6: 12 Hours in LAX
This is where things get tough. My next flight is at 1.15am. I have just under twelve hours to kill in LA. I'd venture out onto the streets, but I've got my backpack to lug about, limiting my ability to move freely. This is especially apparent when I try to use the toilet - finding somewhere to put my bags where they won't be stolen or lying in a puddle of urine is not easy. The toilets in LAX are weird and wild at heart, possibly designed the way they are as part of some far-fetched anti-terrorist measure. The top of the door is unusually low - barely above my head height - meaning any reasonably tall individual can look over and see what is happening within without too much effort. At the same time, the bottom of the doors are high off the ground, with enough space for a fat man to comfortably roll underneath. They are, essentially, the mini skirt of toilet door, and not so good if you prefer a bit of privacy when you go. Sure, you'd be hard-pressed to assemble a bomb or conduct a drug deal without being noticed, but I tend to believe that most folk use toilets to go to the toilet, and their right to do so discreetly has been viciously compromised.

Twelve hours in an airport. What do you do? With unlimited funds, it wouldn't be such a problem, but as usual, I'm painfully low on cash. The internet is only an option for a short while, seeing as it costs 20 cents per minute. I eat lunch in a restaurant, chewing my food slowing, and every couple of hours wander down to terminal six to see if the Copa Air desk has opened yet. The walk takes a good ten minutes each way, and every time I'm disappointed, returning back to the main terminal to wait around some more.


Step 7: Still LAX
It's 7pm. I'm been here in LA for six hours. I'm completely bored. I still have six more hours before my flight, and maybe at least three before I can even check my bag in. Wearily, I traipse toward the bar. Beer, please.

Step 8: LA to Panama
Finally. I get down to terminal 6 again at 10.30pm, and at last they're open. Stow the rucksack, head through the x-rays and the scanners, and crash in an empty seat. Not long now.
The flight lasts seven and a half hours. I sleep for maybe two. When the drinks trolley comes around, I'm tipping back my head and begging for all they've got.

Step 9: Panama to Ecuador
Okay. That wasn't too bad. I ended up having a whole row to myself. No babies. No explosive belching.
I only have 80 minutes to hang around before the final flight. Enough time for a brief stop at the bar.

Step 10: Copa Air - Bad, bad food
Most people don't claim to like airplane food. Somehow, after close to twenty flights, I'm quite a fan. Most likely because it's free, and I'm usually poor and hungry by the time it wheels into view. Copa Air bucks the trend, though. The food is very, very bad. It comes in very small quantities. The booze is the same as anywhere. It tastes twice as good when it's free. No coffee thanks - another beer?

Step 11: Taxi
By the time I get through the surprisingly harsh and unfriendly security at Quito Mariscal Airport and into a taxi, I'm about ready to collapse. I've spent 23 hours flying and a further 22 hanging around in airports. I've slept for less than five hours. The half hour taxi ride almost finishes me off. It's hot as hell, and the open window ushers in the intoxicating smell of petrol fumes.

Step 12: Much Cheapness
Finally, we pull up at Hostel Chicago, located on one of the back streets of Quito's old centre. I get out and stagger inside. As I check in, I notice the sign on the drinks fridge: "Beer $1". I hand over $21 - twenty for the key deposit. I walk up the stairs, throw my bags down and recline on the bed. It's 2.30pm on Monday the 12th of May, not that that really means anything to me at this point. I know exactly what I have to do, though. I have to finish this bottle of Brahma, and then I have to close my eyes and sleep. No babies in here. No fat men with stomach ulcers. Just me, myself and 5% proof. Ooo-ha.







* All those who care please note I nicked several of these pics off the net. Don't sue or hate me.

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