Quito is embraced by a necklace of six volcanoes.
Most people probably consider them a quaint reminder of the region's distant past but in geological terms this is a city living on the edge - of a lake of molten lava.
Two hours drive across the mountains from Quito is Banos. While Quito currently only gets a dusting of volcanic ash from time to time, Banos is rocked by eruptions regularly, the last of which was barely 18 months ago.
Lava spurts from the local cauldron and flaming globs of molten rock rain down on the mountainside. The town is peppered with signs pointing the way to 'safe places' but until they invent a sports hall roof that can take a direct hit from a fully loaded, 2000 centigrade articulated lorry, travelling at 600mph, the assurance of safety is probably over-stated.
And so, with this knowledge firmly in the forefront of our minds, we caught a cab to the Pululahua Crater.
Ecuadorian cab drivers seem to share an infuriating tendency to shrug their shoulders at your best pronounciation of the local destinations when clearly they understand what you are asking.
Maybe it is a fare booster or perhaps part of some elaborate game. Either way, more than once we have been reduced to pointing at maps and giving directions to a place that we have never been before.
Our driver, Francisco, it turned out, was the worst offender of all as, despite protesting his ignorance, when we got there, he greeted our host like a long lost friend and even the local dogs only chewed his leg until he scolded them each by name.
The cloud-bound road into the crater is like passing beyond the curtain of mist into the Land That Time Forgot - only without the submarine. We climbed the arid dirt track to the rim and once over the top, descended into the lush, tropical micro-climate of the 30 square kilometre cauldara.
The mountain blew its top 2500 years ago and has remained soundly asleep since. Apart, that is, from recent tremors that sweep across the 6,000 acres of land that is farmed at the bottom of the basin and the ever present lava cone that looms menacingly over the neat patchwork of fields.
Renato bought the land, and built the delightful Pululahua Hostel six years ago but has watched the crater population dwindle from one hundred and thirty to a mere thirty in that time, as youngsters leave the community for the bright lights of Quito.
What they leave behind is a citadel of steep sided ravines on all sides, into which the afternoon clouds roll like clockwork at 2pm, turning brilliant sunshine into a fogbound soup bowl.
The walls of the crater envelope the land in a 360 degree wall of rock, 750m high. Wildlife thrives as people rarely venture into the area without a good reason. It was declared a Conservancy by the government and now has become a twitcher's paradise.
Francisco left his exhaust behind as a testament to the arduous journey into the crater and so horseback is really the only way to get around as there is never a journey of more than a few kilometres.
The walls reflect sound in a eerie fashion - the bellowing cows, the neighing horses, the squealing pigs - everything comes back at you in stereoscopic sound.
For those who leave, the crater is a poverty trap that they are glad to be freed from. For those who visit, this place is a strange and enchanting oasis of calm.
Please, go there if you are passing.
If you do, I defy you to leave without at least asking about the cost of land.
Most people probably consider them a quaint reminder of the region's distant past but in geological terms this is a city living on the edge - of a lake of molten lava.
Two hours drive across the mountains from Quito is Banos. While Quito currently only gets a dusting of volcanic ash from time to time, Banos is rocked by eruptions regularly, the last of which was barely 18 months ago.
Lava spurts from the local cauldron and flaming globs of molten rock rain down on the mountainside. The town is peppered with signs pointing the way to 'safe places' but until they invent a sports hall roof that can take a direct hit from a fully loaded, 2000 centigrade articulated lorry, travelling at 600mph, the assurance of safety is probably over-stated.
And so, with this knowledge firmly in the forefront of our minds, we caught a cab to the Pululahua Crater.
Ecuadorian cab drivers seem to share an infuriating tendency to shrug their shoulders at your best pronounciation of the local destinations when clearly they understand what you are asking.
Maybe it is a fare booster or perhaps part of some elaborate game. Either way, more than once we have been reduced to pointing at maps and giving directions to a place that we have never been before.
Our driver, Francisco, it turned out, was the worst offender of all as, despite protesting his ignorance, when we got there, he greeted our host like a long lost friend and even the local dogs only chewed his leg until he scolded them each by name.
The cloud-bound road into the crater is like passing beyond the curtain of mist into the Land That Time Forgot - only without the submarine. We climbed the arid dirt track to the rim and once over the top, descended into the lush, tropical micro-climate of the 30 square kilometre cauldara.
The mountain blew its top 2500 years ago and has remained soundly asleep since. Apart, that is, from recent tremors that sweep across the 6,000 acres of land that is farmed at the bottom of the basin and the ever present lava cone that looms menacingly over the neat patchwork of fields.
Renato bought the land, and built the delightful Pululahua Hostel six years ago but has watched the crater population dwindle from one hundred and thirty to a mere thirty in that time, as youngsters leave the community for the bright lights of Quito.
What they leave behind is a citadel of steep sided ravines on all sides, into which the afternoon clouds roll like clockwork at 2pm, turning brilliant sunshine into a fogbound soup bowl.
The walls of the crater envelope the land in a 360 degree wall of rock, 750m high. Wildlife thrives as people rarely venture into the area without a good reason. It was declared a Conservancy by the government and now has become a twitcher's paradise.
Francisco left his exhaust behind as a testament to the arduous journey into the crater and so horseback is really the only way to get around as there is never a journey of more than a few kilometres.
The walls reflect sound in a eerie fashion - the bellowing cows, the neighing horses, the squealing pigs - everything comes back at you in stereoscopic sound.
For those who leave, the crater is a poverty trap that they are glad to be freed from. For those who visit, this place is a strange and enchanting oasis of calm.
Please, go there if you are passing.
If you do, I defy you to leave without at least asking about the cost of land.
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