Northern Ecuador and the Colombia border
Julio Cesar speaks slowly and clearly and we start to remember that we can converse properly in this language. Marco the taxi driver yesterday was a bit backwards I think. I wasn't even sure he was speaking Spanish most of the time. It sounded like szizss szizss is sis szizss szizss. But this old geezer, I like.
Now we are in the back of Julio Cesar's car. Today he has agreed to pick us up from the hotel and drop us at the end of the day just 30 minutes shy of Ibarra in the north. From there we can strike into Colombia easily enough.
This will be our second taxi tour in two days. We are rushing around now since time is tight. We need to meet Vic in Bogata on the 12th and so we are prepared to pay a little over the odds to pack more in even if this means asking local taxi drivers for a few favours, a blend of covering distance in the right direction while taking in a few tourist activities along the way.
With JC at the wheel we go first to the Mitad del Mundo for the inevitable photos astride the equator line. It's in the wrong place by 300 yards apparently, but early on a monday morning this empty theme park has the feel of a pauper's Alton Towers so a bit of fantasy seems appropriate.
Breakfast is Bizcotti near Pijal. They're like pastry straws accompanied by a fatty goat cheese and sweet white coffee. It's nice. We chat more with JC and he announces proudly that Ecuadorian cocaine is very pure and cheap, the roads are the best in South America, and (perhaps more worryingly still) he wants to compare the prison terms for murder in Ecuador with that of both South Africa and England. When Lindsay is in the bathroom he looks over the top of his shades at me and with a sly wink tells me that Colombian women are very beautiful, and that next time I must come back alone.
Next we are on to Otavalo, famed for its market on a Saturday. On Mondays it's a smaller version focused on indigenous wares. We've seen more than our fair share of this in Peru but prices are good here. We barter hard for various trinkets. One particular old woman is a demon bargainer and at conclusion through gritted teeth I admit to her "Aaaarghhh, you're good man, damn!". But it's her job so I can't begrudge it or even be surprised.
We speed to Cotacachi National Reserve to look at the Cuicocha Lake. Our second crater lake in 2 days is bigger than Quilatoa, but possibly not as photogenic. Crater walls drop steeply into a bottomless blue-grey lake.
Next stop Quiroga, renowned for leather goods. Lindsay buys a new watch strap from an ancient man with blood red eyes who decries the quality of the London watch straps "Plastico! Mirar!"
Before we know it we're hugging JC, giving him US 80 plus US 5 and having our bags slung on a colourful but rusty bus passing along the Panamericano to Tulcan. Now we are those annoying campesinos who get on part way between destinations, sitting on armrests and blocking the aisles. We've come full circle now.
When we finally get seats after 30 minutes it is next to a talkative 22 year old girl. Unfortunately I can't understand a single slurred word. I ask her what language she is speaking and she says Spanish. Turns out she is just hopped up on something or other. She asks us to come back to her house, asks Lindsay to take a picture of her and me (she isn't interested in Lindsay), shows us pictures of 4 year old daughter Sierra Valentina, some glamour shots, pictures of boyfriend and friends. She then asks me how much I earn and starts to sober up. She slumps into a coma like sleep before getting off at an Afro Cultural area called Juncal.
Night falls and we're dumped at one of the only 'safe' border crossings on the Ecuador Colombia border. Other areas along this border are no-go areas with armed militias, FARC rebel strongholds that hold the risk of kidnappings, and narco trafficking problems. Thus ensues the usual hectic scenes with shifty characters in taxis, moneychangers, ne'er do wells, all clamouring for something or other from us. We jump into a taxi for US3.5 to Rumichaga - the border. As usual it looks like a dark and dusty refugee centre with that familiar chaotic and tense mixture of kids running round, grim faced families in unroadworthy vehicles, policemen and uniformed military with machine guns etc.
We get our exit stamps and walk over an unlit bridge through limbo land to the Colombian checkpoint. There are no signs around but an Ecuadorian soldier waves the gringos in the right direction with the barrel of his AK47.
On the other side of the bridge, the usual cambio guys, unmarked rust bucket taxis and even a guy who tries to sell night buses to safer Colombian towns and cities like Cali and Popayan. We have been told not to travel in this area by night due to bandits and kidnappings, so I think about this option for a second but decline.
Questions fired by a fast talking official through a hole in a cement wall that serves as Colombian immigration:
Where are you going? - Ipiales
Not Medellin? - err, no
Are you sure not Medellin? - yes
Where after? - Popayan
Then Medellin? - San Agustin probably
Ok. Profession? - accountant
Bienvenidos à Colombia. Stamps passport, slams window.
We change US20 for 35,000 Colombian pesos, a terrible rate, and jump into a stranger's death trap car for a 2km trip costing 8000 pesos. We are dumped at the Hotel Belmonte - a grimey 3 star brothel on an unlit street opposite a probable dogging site. Paying 25000 we check in, throw our equipages on the wipe-clean mattresses and cautiously go over the road to a stall called 'Dog Burger'. A man with a squint eyed son agrees to sell us 2 burgers with the works for the sum of 3 US dollars and our last remaining 2000 pesos.
The burger is messy, tasty and probably lethal. We'll find out soon. But this is a dodgy border town in one of Colombia's dodgiest regions and we are unwilling and too tired to walk around the corner to the nearest 'restaurant'.
Returning to the 'hotel' we ask what time check out is. She looks at us and says there isn't one. Although this is a first on our travels it's not surprising. I think we might be the class of human being they try to encourage at the Belmonte, and in any event she probably knows already that our type come 7am will be gone. She is right. We try to ignore the noises coming from other rooms, and try to fall to sleep without touching the sheets. Bienvenidos à Colombia.