THROWN FOR A LOOP

Arriving in Latacunga, we hardly had a clue of how to tackle the Quilotoa Loop. We had read several articles on the subject, yet it somehow still eluded us. We decided to equip ourselves with hand drawn maps and confusing directions from the web and figure it out along the way. (Side note: The experience made me realize how helpful others' blog posts were in putting together these puzzle pieces and that I should pay it forward. More on that later.)

The bus ride to Zumbahua went through the central highlands, passing families herding their sheep across fields of long grass dancing in the wind. The sight, so real and so beautiful, moved me. From afar I could see the white, fluffy, wooly mammals grazing as their shepherds, dotted in blue, yellow, red, orange cardigans, watched on.

Laguna Quilotoa reminded us of Crater Lake, immense in size and beauty. We hiked the upper northern rim of the lake and crossed a narrow ridge at the hilltop. The gale forces were so strong, we could have conceivably toppled over. We hugged the ground and moved slowly and carefully to safety. Aside from the indigenous people of the villages along the often unclear route, we came across only one fellow hiker traveling in the opposite direction. The countryside, the valleys, the hilltops, the vast land, and amazing views were otherwise shared between only the two of us. The hike from Quilotoa to Chugchilán spans about 11 kilometers, which we tackled in 5 long hours. For stretches at a time, there was no indication that we were going in the right direction, slipping down steep, sandy hills, only to get back up and climb up other ones.

The next day we faced the hike to Isinliví head on. It was supposed to be faster, less complicated, more spectacular. From high above, we could see and hear the Rio Toachi wedged between walls of earth. We followed a switchback down through a small village to the water, but after 3 hours of hiking, we realized a wrong turn set us back an hour or so. On long-distance hikes like this where signs are lacking and trails are unclear, a misstep is so defeating. With each passing hour, our morale lowered along with our energy levels. We crossed meadows and pastures, we climbed up cliffs and down hills, we passed farms to our left and villages to our right. With the help of loud Christmas festivities, we followed the sound of music and after 7 hours since leaving Chugchilán, we finally made it to our hostel in Isinliví.

On our last day, we took the easy way out and hired a truck to Sigchos and then back to Latacunga, the best way to relax the muscles, hang back, and really enjoy the rest of the loop. 

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OH, OTAVALO

We came to Otavalo for the Saturday market and, though our first day of exploration was full of predicaments, we stayed for more. It was our first taste of Ecuador and we were smitten. The town is small and humble, its people so incredibly hardworking, yet friendly and compassionate. 

El Lechero is a magical healing tree that we went in search of, but never found. The journey took us up and down farms and gave us a small glimpse into how the people on these lands live. Some farmers were tending to their corn fields and livestock while their wives were doing laundry or dishes. A fair number of dogs chased after us, barking and snarling, alerting their owners of our presence, unafraid to back down. One farmer fashioned a whipping stick out of a tree branch for us and wished us safely on our way.

Parque Condor sits on top of a hill and is home to many beautiful species of hawks, eagles, and owls. Curiously, we saw only one condor. He nervously paced back and forth before us and a couple of times spread his wings to show us who's boss. We stayed long enough to catch a demonstration of these birds of prey take flight and admired how majestically they glided through the sky. We wondered what made them always fly back to their trainer and couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt over their loss of freedom. Their wings could take them to such distant lands if only their owners would let them. 

To get to La Cascada de Peguche from the park, we took the longest, most obscure path possible. We had asked 3 different people and they each ensured us it was a way to the waterfall. Once on it though, we questioned the last time it was used by a farmer at all, let alone 2 unknowing travelers. The hike took us along barbed-wire fencing, narrow and steep trails, and down a long, soft dirt, mountain bike path. We finally made it just minutes before dark only to later realize that it was along a bus route that we would end up taking over a dozen times.

The Saturday market was a dizzying labryinth of crafts and wall hangings, baskets and hammocks, antiques and stones. I have a weak spot for textiles and wanted one of everything, but settled for a couple of some things. There's only so much we could carry from country to country and for the next several months, I tried really hard to remind myself.  The biggest treat was observing the locals come out in their traditional attire. Colorful accessories adorning the ears and necks. Hand-woven belts and hand-embroidered tops. Wool everything from head to toe. Babies strapped to their backs. I was intrigued.

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BOGOTÁ BY BIKE

We had been filling our days with hikes and walks and our nights with long-distance bus rides. Our bodies were tired and, though busy and crowded, Bogotá was for us a much needed place to decompress. Eight hours after leaving Salento, we once again found ourselves arriving at the bus terminal in the middle of the night, but heeding to past experience, we slumped down onto a bench and waited for the sun to come up before grabbing a cab to the hotel. Not a hostel, not a hammock. A hotel.

We checked in early, took a short nap, and as difficult as it was to pull ourselves away from modern amenities - we hadn't had a hot shower since leaving home - hopped on a bus to La Candelaria and joined a bike tour of the enormous city. It was a pleasant way to take it in, flying past heaps of people, weaving in and out of traffic, while still seeing and smelling everything around us. 

In just a short amount of time, we rode nearly 30 kilometers through 2 major parks, a stadium, the Red Light District, private neighborhoods, universities, the German and British cemetery, and busy plazas and shopping areas. We even picked up some pastries and enjoyed them by a lake where we were given a brief history lesson on Colombia: the Spanish colonization, the revolution led by Simon Bolivar, the two political parties that gained power, the two guerrilla groups and, subsequently, the paramilitary that formed as a result. We learned the significance of each stripe on the national flag: yellow representing gold; blue, the two bodies of water on either side of the country; and red, the blood spilt by the people for their country during the revolution. After the tour, our guide Juan walked us to Place Bolívar, decked out with holiday decor, where we watched families out and about, enjoying the last few hours of the long weekend. We got a taste of our first oblea - a popular, traditional dessert consisting of jam, caramel, and cheese spread between two thin wafers - and freshly brewed herbal passion fruit tea, both so sweet and so delicious.

Juan gave us a tip on the city's layout, which helped us to navigate our way back to the hotel. Calles run east/west while carreras run south/north, everything numerically ordered. Addresses begin with the calle, followed by 2 numbers separated by a dash; the first is the intersecting carrera and the second, the location of the building. He also taught us Colombia's 11th commandment, No Dar Papaya, an expression that's translated as Don't Give Papaya and that means not to give others the opportunity to take advantage of you. He saw us off on our bus, making sure we got on safely and didn't give any papaya. With our newfound knowledge, we made it back without a map or the guidance of a local.

The next day we grabbed lunch around the corner from the hotel and realized how markedly different the area was from the rest of Bogotá. Juan had said that Parque de la 93 is an upperclass neighborhood, but not until that early afternoon did we notice the men scuttling around in suits and ties, the women made up, their hair and skin looking fresh and silky. There were no panhandlers or litter to be found. Restaurants offered a broad range of international dishes and prices were higher than elsewhere. 

We enjoyed our $8 burritos from Sipote, a Mexican fast food joint with an uncanny resemblance to Chipotle, parted with the comforts of first-world privileges, and then boarded our longest-distance bus yet, a dreaded 25-hour journey to Ecuador. 

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