A Quick Stroll

As I speed through the continent, I wished to see a taste of the slow, the rural Indiginous villages. To that end, I made a small side trip to the Quilotoa Caldera smack in the middle of the Ecuadorian Andes, and the little villages that surround it, a famous little tangent known as the Quilotoa Loop.

Next to the caldera was a small, quaint little village with a small store and a few hostels. I stayed in a family-owned hostel, and while I had my own private room, the few of us staying at the hostel ate together with the family in a big dinner. A polite and inquisitive father, a quiet and industrious mother, a boisterous son (except when practicing his improper fractions, quite difficult apparently), a cadre of shy daughters, and a scruffy little dog. Life was slow and tranquil. This was the authentic experience I was looking for.

Except it wasnt. I learned from a fellow traveler at the hostel that this village was less than 5 years old, and created explicitly to cater to the gringos visiting the pretty crater lake. Well, shit.

Still, the town was lovely and the crater lake stunning. I saw it by sunset, watched the sun rise over the rim, and even hiked down to the bottom. The way down was a bouncy and hoppy jaunt down the muddy path to the bottom, only half an hour to the edge of that serene, acidic, fish-killing body of water. However, the return trip was a strenuous huff-and-puff lasting over an hour. At times I felt like I couldnt catch my breath, as if I were slowly suffocating while my heart beat out of my chest. This is what happens at altitude. It shouldve been a sign.

The next day, I decided to walk to an even smaller and actually authentic village, only 14 kilometers away. Starting at the trailhead at the same time were an English bloke, a man whose carefree attitude and lack of wrinkles belie his age, and an ex-pat French girl with a serious chip on her shoulder when it comes to 'proper traveling'. No guides, no giving money to beggers, no staying at foreign owned hostels, always ask spirits for permission to enter ruins... yeah. I enjoyed not having to do the hike alone, but stopping for photos every 20 seconds was deeply aggrevating.

We started up the path, reported to be blazed by blue arrows, and clearly lost our way. We walked out onto the steep sandy side of the crater, and had to precariously backtrack ourselves to find the right way. Repeat at the next 6 forks. This trail wasnt marked at all, and forked all over the place by local farmers taking their cattle to greener alpine meadows. Were the bootprints from farmers or backpackers? Was that pile of shit from a pack mule or a dairy cow? We had no idea, and simply made educated guesses. Except, they were far from educated and wrong more than random chance would predict. 14 kilometers my ass.

We came across an old man and asked for directions. He assumed we'd thus hired him as our guide. When the ex-pat refused to pay him, he purposefully lead us down the wrong path before walking off.

Blazes aside, we had a basic idea about the layout of the trail. It went down, then up, then into a canyon, then out it, then to a village. We found the canyon, small but gorgeous, and could see the village in the distance. Spirits buoyed, we raced the way there, only slowing our pace to chat briefly with the friendly but bucolic villagers we passed. I of course abstained from actually chatting, since I dont know Spanish.

Upon reaching the village, we threw off our packs and all bought a celebratory Coke. About halfway through it, I noticed the name on the store did not have the correct town name. Dreading, I asked the store owner. We were not in our destination, but in fact in a tiny waystation halfway there. Leaving the village, we crested the next ridge, and could see the real village directly in front of us, perhaps only a mile as the crow flies. I mean that literally. Between us and the village was a yawning chasm, a vast and deep gash in the earth. We'd passed a small gully earlier, this was the real canyon.

With resignation, we started down the steep, muddy, twisted, highly unsafe journy down. We passed a local woman on her way up, carrying her baby on her back. From the look on her face, she may have well been carrying Jesus's crucifixion cross. That was what we were in for.

At this point, we were drained, and a wrong turn down this steep path could leave us stranded. Luckily, my companions' slow snap-happy pace had an upside. Coming up behind us were an American couple, and with them a (paid for, we hoped) guide. This time, the guide was just a boy, maybe 15 at best, with an uncanny resemblence to Short Round from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, baseball hat and goofy smile included. We stuck with them for the torturous, but correct, ascent. The ex-pat never objected.

Finally, to our relief, we reached the road that leads to the village, and started to walk along its relatively shallow grade. Almost immediately, our guide lead us up a dirt path, a 'shortcut'. Already in deflated shape, the shortcut was cruelly steep, even muddier, and sprinkled with the town's collective trash. At this point, the hike stopped being fun. When we finally did achieve the pinnacle, we could see the road below us. In my estimation, our 'shortcut' saved us 5, maybe 10 minutes at best.

Still, we made it, and we celebrated by going to a liquor store and getting drunk outside next to a ball court, while young children played nearby. Tired and somewhat smashed, I offered to kick the ball and shoot hoops with a small boy, probably still in kindergarden. I dont know whether it was the booze, my exhaustion, the altitude, or the sheer magnitude of my suck, but the boy schooled me. I even managed to injure my thumb along the way, not realizing it until later sobriety. My new Euro friends just watched.

I'd made friends with these ex-pats, as common struggle often makes for fast and strong bonds. They were seasoned travelers, on the road since before I entered college. I'd learned from them, and knew I could learn much more. Better yet, they were following my itinerary nearly to the letter. But unlike me, they had the luxury of pure freedom in both time and money. I would race far ahead of them to make Tierra del Fuego before Christmas, while they may still be in Peru or Bolivia. They had it right. As I counted the days until hearing back from my Australian schools, I pondered the possibility of skipping my PhD altogether, like them traveling always.

Pure freedom sure, but could I really stand freedom from grounding, freedom from roots, freedom from accomplishment, and freedom from real long-term human bonds? 24 hours along a crater is not enough.