Down in the Garden

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I returned to The Old Town in Quito with a strong feeling of achievement. The Galapagos cruise that had been weighing on my mind for so long had been a huge success and was safely “out of the way”. With three days remaining, I could look back on my entire trip and see an amazing run - not one bad day came to mind. I was also excited to be going home, something that surprised me. I had an energy building inside me that I wanted to get home and focus.

I felt a little weird about this final half-week.
I had always pictured a seamless transition from the island beaches to the airport but instead I had a few days to fill before my flight (back) to Buenos Aires, and home. Checking in to The Secret Garden, I was glad that I had the foresight to reserve a place via eMail from sweltering Peurto Ayora, the place was completely full. The hostel is very popular and they deserve their excellent reputation, I was made to feel very welcome from the moment I was let in. It was yet another spot that I had only heard about on the road, sufficiently “secret” to avoid detection by the Lonely Planeteers. From the first moments, it had a great cosy feel that was constantly being reinforced.

As I huffed and puffed up the four flights of stairs to the rooftop reception (the kitchen and bar), I passed bright murals and funny little painted characters helping each other to climb the double-size steps. The hostel staff are almost all travellers themselves and were outstanding, they were acting as if it was a Five Star hotel, nothing was too much trouble and they were genuinely friendly.

After stashing my gear, showering and having a chat to the other people in the dorm, I wandered up to the terrace. This is the reason for all of the stories; the view of the city is stunning. With their position in a tall building on a steep hill, they have created a warm rooftop hideaway with sweeping views of the Old Town and beyond. Below, comfortably disorganised white-walled buildings meet at their red rooftops and stretch right out to the misty mountains that ring the city. All around the edges of the balcony are little planter boxes full of fresh vegetables and herbs. Above these, stringy green plants reach down from their hanging pots and add to the feeling of being wrapped up.

Sinking into a hammock, I swung back and forth and let the sun send me away. Somewhere below, a scratchy gramophone started up and sent the unmistakable sound of Piaf drifting out over the rooftops. They were playing the soundtrack to Amelie (which happens to include one of my all-time favourite pieces of music) and this delicate, emotive music was the last piece of the puzzle - I was having a good day.


From my experience, the majority of backpackers in Quito are either at the beginning or end of their trip and this made for some interesting conversation amongst the bunks. It was gratifying to “have all of the answers” for those heading south and funny to compare war stories with the quieter ones on their home stretch. One of these explained why I had been asked if I would like to ‘book in’ for dinner when I arrived - the hostel employs a professional chef with reservations required for their sit-down dinner on the terrace. This hostel was quickly proving itself to be unlike any other that I had come across so far. Sitting down to the long, candle-lit table I chatted to a few familiar faces and made good use of the complimentary poncho service. Until this point I had managed to completely avoid poking my head through one of these and, looking back, it is sad that I faltered so close to the line but… it was cold up there at night.

The food was spectacular. Not just ‘good because I was missing my food’ but genuinely delicious. The chef and his little crew buzzed around happily and served up an amazing array of food over the three nights that I was there (Sushi, Tomato Quiche, Chocolate Brownies with “Creamy Cream”). This combination of flawless food and incredible atmosphere was unmatched at any other point along the way. Suspended candles flickered above our heads, out of step with the twinkling fairy lights - strung there for those of us facing the wrong way to see a similar view of the city. Just when I thought I could want for no more… they revealed that they could make incredible Caiprinhas. As the Australian owner of the hostel explained the rules of Happy Hour - “You can order while still drinking but no ‘double parking’ allowed” - I set about putting away as many of these drinks as possible, as if I could somehow store them for later enjoyment (quite the opposite).

When I eventually woke up from that little adventure, I set out for the Basilica, a landmark that people had been consistently recommending. It was very quiet when I arrived and I was almost alone as I explored the odd staircases and bridges that wind around to the top of the towering church spires. This is not an activity for the vertigo-inclined, I was cr*pping myself and I am normally fine with heights. Most of the access was via ladders and, just for fun, the gauge of the rungs varied between ladders… just the kind of curveball that you need when trying not to plummet to your death. At the highest point, inside the pinnacle of the tower, the floor is nothing more than a metal mesh. From here, I leaned out of the conveniently located suicide-hole and took some cool pictures of the tiny stuff below.

With that decidedly weird experience out of the way, I wandered down past the main plaza and walked around until I got lost and then walked until I found my way home again - always a great way to see a city properly.

Returning to the dorm, I met a girl from the UK, newly arrived from the same border crossing that I had used. Somewhere along the line, someone had stolen her bag. She had also been forced to get off the bus and backtrack alone to get a passport stamp (to prove legal entry) when she realised that the bus had not stopped for her at the immigration checkpoint. She was trying to make herself feel better with the knowledge that “at least” she hadn’t experienced what some others had; another guy’s bank account had been emptied (3000 Euros) and a girl robbed by her taxi driver, at gunpoint.

Immediately after this discussion, I met a French girl who had just started her trip by arriving without her pack - the airline had lost it. She was managing to be very philosophical about it at this stage, not knowing that she would have her purse stolen the following day on her way to make another call to the airline.

I could feel the weight of my three months of amazing luck pressing down on me. Almost the entire trip completed without one thing being affected by bad weather, it had barely rained on me once. I arrived in new places to tales of miserable weather and ruined plans but they always seemed far-fetched with the sun following me around on a string. Now it was stacking up, like a game of karmic Jenga, one little butterfly flaps it’s wings and the whole tower comes crashing down, the compounded effect of hundreds of consecutive lucky pieces. I was suddenly struck by an irrational urge to hide in the safety of the hostel cocoon until it was time for my flight. That uneasy feeling followed me around, at a distance, until Sydney.

Breakfast was almost as impressive as dinner! Easily the best scrambled eggs that I have ever had (they insisted that they only added Oregano) and unlimited plate-refills. I ate four eggs and about ninety-five bread rolls just to prove that it could be done. While munching away happily, I met a great couple from San Francisco and it turned out that one of them had been working in North Sydney last year. We exchanged our former business addresses and worked out that we must have walked past each other at some stage. How is that for a small world?


It was time to do it.
I had almost completed an entire international holiday without one visit to an art gallery. I decided to end my Ecuadorian experience with a day at the home of the country’s most revered artist, Guayasamin (http://www.guayasamin.com/). The Capilla del Hombre (Chapel of Man), was recently constructed on the grounds of his estate and it is a graceful architectural feat, one of the most interesting buildings that I have seen in South America. The art is both massive and confronting, anguished faces brought to life through shadow and marble-dusted paint. My guide escorted me in reverent silence around the walls of the cavernous building and stopped to explain the significance of each major work. It was as much a history lesson as anything, a sobering glimpse of life under the heel of dictators. Guayasamin was a vocal campaigner for human rights and his messages stare down at you from the towering canvases. Rivers of blood, mothers weeping over starved children, naked figures shielding their faces from their executioner. In careful, quiet English I was educated about the politics of terror in South America, citizens kidnapped and dumped from planes over the ocean, miners literally worked to death and children executed “so that our enemies may not grow to be men”.

At the request of Amnesty International, a bright flame burns in the huge space at the centre of the building.

As hollow as I felt, I was immediately glad that I had been given this opportunity to hear Guayasamin speak. Thankfully, he also had positive creations, messages of hope filled with stunning blues and golds. Earth as mother: Pachamama, creator and provider for all. Inca suns and moons, corn as the unifying element of the fragmented South American people, and the fingers of a closed fist as hope for the cooperation so desperately needed to fight off the systematic rape of their continent.

Eventually drifting out of the building, I could see that it had been raining.

The ride to the airport was exactly what I needed. My driver was bursting with life, he was listening to cheesy Rock Classics in order to learn English and would sing up to a word that he didn’t know and then ask me to explain it in Spanish. I was shocked at how good I was at this game and we got right into it, I even sang along with him. Hotel California, Imagine, Walk Like an Egyptian… the city zipped by. Shiny red utilities with smiling school kids hitching a ride in the back, thick black exhaust pouring on to the road, a crooked-toothed old lady begging for money at the traffic lights. As we talked, I explained that he was my final ambassador for this part of the continent. It was fifteen minutes that really framed my Ecuadorian experience in a positive light (despite a weird moment when we rolled up to the doors of the terminal with Unchained Melody blasting from the speakers).

A handshake, a slap on the back, and it was adios Quito.

Big smiles for the airport staff. Big smiles back.
I love this game.

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Photos

In the toilet at The Secret Garden
What a cool vibe.

View from the bar
The Secret Garden

This guy could COOK
The photo-effect had nothing to do with the cocktails

On the ceiling
Those round bits are the other side of the ceiling inside the Cathedral. High.
The first step creaks and sways, you could do a roaring trade in new undies at the other end,

On a busy street in Quito
You tell me...

Hill with statue of The Virgin Mary on top
Mary is hunched over like she has been shot. Weird.

Something like:
"Leave a light burning, I will always come back".