The National Vow is the largest basilica cathedral in South America.
And the most difficult to get into.
A modest $2 buys a ticket ambiguously entitled 'Entry to the Cathedral'. I strode to the front door, proudly extending the light blue docket to the the low browed munchkin on the front steps and after a second was shooed away. Ever diffident, I respected her 'atowatay' and slunk away to regroup in front of the twin bell towers.
I thought perhaps entrance hours were restricted or maybe cameras were not permitted.
I went back to the ticket office where the man at the counter took pains to explain that I merely needed to show the ticket and I would be admitted. I tried to explain my predicament.
He shooed me away.
Feeling more confident now, I strode once more to the door and fixing her eye, handed her the ticket with a no nonsense expression on my face and waited to be admitted. I did well - and held my ground for a few seconds before I wilted under the heat of the look emanating from beneath those furrowed brows. My eyes followed the direction of her extended arm even if my ears did not fully grasp the precise meaning of the stream of words that emerged from her mouth.
There was something - 'pig-dog' perhaps and maybe 'malodourous gringo' but I can't be sure as by now she was swatting me with her rolled up copy of the of the South American edition of the Catholic Herald.
I beat a hasty retreat to the ticket office.
The man rolled his eyes and told me to go to the side door.
Which I did, and was promptly sent away by another newspaper weilding maniac after I questioned the need to pay another $2 to get in.
I needed some time to think so I retreated to the park outside and took some pictures. Distraction was the only answer. It worked in the movies so surely it should work here - only I didn't have a small explosion in my pocket to let off at the far end of the Basilica order to divert attention away from my efforts to by pass the paper wavers.
I resorted to Plan B.
Watching her movements carefully, I noted that the guard at the front door - for that was what she was - routinely walked the full length of the portico before returning to her station. That gave me at least twenty seconds to cross the giant plaza, pass the columns, skirt the portico itself and walk into the lift to take me to the top of the bell towers.
Timing it to perfection, I started at a quick trot across the plaza as soon as she turned to walk away from the entrance. I stopped for a moment behind the first of the columns and craned my neck into the portico to check she wasn't diverting from her routine, before darting across the marble floor and pressing the lift button.
Horror - the lift was still 115m up on the fifth floor. She would be back to find me, caught in the open with nowhere to hide. I pressed myself flat to the wall and jabbed the button again and again. Although I was still obscured from her by the line of columns, I could hear her jack-booted heels getting closer.
The lift took an age and thoughts of escape routes raced through my mind.
What would she do to me if she caught me?
Would the Embassy help?
Was the Spanish Inquisition really over here?
Finally the lift door slid open and I threw myself into the welcoming interior, pressed the only button on the wall unit and turned to wait for the doors to ease closed.
Then I saw her beetling out from between the columns, a full five seconds ahead of her schedule. She turned her head and saw me, changed direction and made a bee-line for the rat-trap that the lift had now become.
There was no way out - my only means of escape had become my certain means of capture.
Closer and closer she came. The arm was raised and the fist was clenched. In it the paper was tightly rolled. Twenty metres and I jabbed wildly at the button. Ten metres and the door began its agonising advance. Five metres and I could see the spinach in her teeth.
The doors closed and I was safe.
But her paper jabbed through the gap and as I retreated in horror to the back of the lift car, I could hear her fingers scrabbling at the doors, trying to pry them apart.
I offer my thanks to Schindler's Lifts for their well sprung door closing mechanisms.
The view of Quito from the top of the Basilica was beautiful.
On the way out, I used the stairs
And the most difficult to get into.
A modest $2 buys a ticket ambiguously entitled 'Entry to the Cathedral'. I strode to the front door, proudly extending the light blue docket to the the low browed munchkin on the front steps and after a second was shooed away. Ever diffident, I respected her 'atowatay' and slunk away to regroup in front of the twin bell towers.
I thought perhaps entrance hours were restricted or maybe cameras were not permitted.
I went back to the ticket office where the man at the counter took pains to explain that I merely needed to show the ticket and I would be admitted. I tried to explain my predicament.
He shooed me away.
Feeling more confident now, I strode once more to the door and fixing her eye, handed her the ticket with a no nonsense expression on my face and waited to be admitted. I did well - and held my ground for a few seconds before I wilted under the heat of the look emanating from beneath those furrowed brows. My eyes followed the direction of her extended arm even if my ears did not fully grasp the precise meaning of the stream of words that emerged from her mouth.
There was something - 'pig-dog' perhaps and maybe 'malodourous gringo' but I can't be sure as by now she was swatting me with her rolled up copy of the of the South American edition of the Catholic Herald.
I beat a hasty retreat to the ticket office.
The man rolled his eyes and told me to go to the side door.
Which I did, and was promptly sent away by another newspaper weilding maniac after I questioned the need to pay another $2 to get in.
I needed some time to think so I retreated to the park outside and took some pictures. Distraction was the only answer. It worked in the movies so surely it should work here - only I didn't have a small explosion in my pocket to let off at the far end of the Basilica order to divert attention away from my efforts to by pass the paper wavers.
I resorted to Plan B.
Watching her movements carefully, I noted that the guard at the front door - for that was what she was - routinely walked the full length of the portico before returning to her station. That gave me at least twenty seconds to cross the giant plaza, pass the columns, skirt the portico itself and walk into the lift to take me to the top of the bell towers.
Timing it to perfection, I started at a quick trot across the plaza as soon as she turned to walk away from the entrance. I stopped for a moment behind the first of the columns and craned my neck into the portico to check she wasn't diverting from her routine, before darting across the marble floor and pressing the lift button.
Horror - the lift was still 115m up on the fifth floor. She would be back to find me, caught in the open with nowhere to hide. I pressed myself flat to the wall and jabbed the button again and again. Although I was still obscured from her by the line of columns, I could hear her jack-booted heels getting closer.
The lift took an age and thoughts of escape routes raced through my mind.
What would she do to me if she caught me?
Would the Embassy help?
Was the Spanish Inquisition really over here?
Finally the lift door slid open and I threw myself into the welcoming interior, pressed the only button on the wall unit and turned to wait for the doors to ease closed.
Then I saw her beetling out from between the columns, a full five seconds ahead of her schedule. She turned her head and saw me, changed direction and made a bee-line for the rat-trap that the lift had now become.
There was no way out - my only means of escape had become my certain means of capture.
Closer and closer she came. The arm was raised and the fist was clenched. In it the paper was tightly rolled. Twenty metres and I jabbed wildly at the button. Ten metres and the door began its agonising advance. Five metres and I could see the spinach in her teeth.
The doors closed and I was safe.
But her paper jabbed through the gap and as I retreated in horror to the back of the lift car, I could hear her fingers scrabbling at the doors, trying to pry them apart.
I offer my thanks to Schindler's Lifts for their well sprung door closing mechanisms.
The view of Quito from the top of the Basilica was beautiful.
On the way out, I used the stairs
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