Day 265: Schindler's Lift (20/10/2011)

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

Day 264: Vice Cops (19/10/2011)

I was looking for a police man.

Someone pointed me to the Ministry of the Interior - there were lots of policemen there.

I walked to the front door but the officer on duty was busy talking to his wife on his mobile phone. I had a peice of paper with the instructions for obtaining a police report written on it in Spanish. It was the only thing that the officers at the bus stop had given me.

I took it out of my wallet and tried to show it to him but he was deep in conversation. He waved me through, clearly on the basis of a misunderstanding, and I walked up the imposing steps and into the cool atrium of the Ministry.

Just as a large entourage was walking out.

Burly security officers were about to move me to one side when an old man in the middle of the crowd called out and instead of being manhandled to the fringes, I was absorbed into the melee.

Before I appreciated what was happening, old man grasped my hand, embraced me and uttered something unintelligible in machine-gun Spanish.

Then he was off and I was left standing in the wake of the receding ruck of people.

I never did get to talk to a police man.

That, however, is how you get to meet the Vice-President of Ecuador.

Day 263: Police Report (18/10/2011)

Twenty-four hours is all you have.

After a robbery, you have to get to the police station and obtain a report within this time or it will be refused.

I got off the bus at Quito and marched to the terminal police station.

My Spanish is worse than poor. Their English was no better. After half an hour of meaningless hand gestures, we hit on the idea of using Google Translator. It worked.

A bit.

I managed to convey to them that I had lost my bag but Google didn´t know what to make of 'dirty, thieving toe-rag'. It suggested 'wash your hankerchief' and the officers scratched their heads.

So did I.

Eventually, it became obvious that the language gap was too much. Fair play to them, they spent the best part of an hour trying to understand my attempts at charades. The problem was that there just wasn´t a book, play or film that could properly convey the tragedy and drama of the last few hours.

They sent me on my way with the suggestion that the city police would fare much better trying to interpret by goose-stepping, arm-waving expression of the wronged citizen.

We caught the bus into town but I was acutely aware that time was slipping away. By the time we were booked into the hostel, it was 4pm. Nearly half my time was up.

I looked at Lonley Planet and headed for the main police station carefully marked on the map by the number 18.

It was a museum.

I stopped a Policia Transito in a bright yellow vest but he denied all knowledge of a police station. I asked him were he worked and he was a little shifty.

I tried a Policia Touristico with more hope.

His dog bit me.

Eventually, a private security guard pointed me to the Mother Ship. He tried to hail me a cab to the far side of town to a place only referred to as Y Roca. I couldn´t find it on the map and the taxis wouldn´t stop for him anyway.

They fear gangs that hijack the taxis for robbery purposes, ironically.

A private car driven by Popeye stopped eventually and for half the usual fare he raced me off into the rush hour traffic. It was nose to tail as we got out of the old town and when we reached the barbeque smoke floating off Parque Arborito, things had come to a complete stop.

It was 5.30pm. They were bound to be closing soon.

We communicated by non-verbal means and had a surprisingly illuminating conversation about the Ecuadorian Nuclear Industry.

Or, it might have been football but there were lots of explosive hand gestures.

Eventually we arrived at a large blue and white building that he swore was what I needed. I went inside, past lots of promisingly dressed men in shiny riding boots and smart epaulets. After three floors of blank faces I ended up in a room with a sign that said 'Organised Crime'. I assumed it wasn't actually the hub of Quito's Cosa Nostra but they were helpful and told me this was the wrong place.

The right place was down the street.

I went to the Police Archives, the Evidence building, the Justice Forum and the Crimes against Donkeys unit on the basis of various recommendations before stumbling on the Tourist Police office behind some bins.

Inside the officer was the image of helpfulness and ten minutes later I emerged with a crisp police report on white paper, counter signed by someone very important with an improbably complex signature.

The taxi home was nice.

The driver wore great aftershave and gave me a 30 minute Spanish lesson.

It cost three times as much but it was worth it.

Day 262: Oh Bollocks! (17/10/2011)

They told me.

I was warned.

It happened to Brian just the same way.

And still it happened to me - just don't let it happen to you.

We got on the bus from Banos to Quito. A man, who looked like the driver asked us to put our day packs in the over head locker so as not to block the gangway. We obligingly complied, not being ones to challenge authority in a strange country.

We talked.

The guy in the seat behind calmly took the bag containing the computer and a few other things before unobtrusively stepping off the bus with it tucked under his coat, just as we were leaving.

The doors closed behind him and the bus pulled away as I gave chase. The real driver didn't speak English and the opportunity to retrieve three months of the best photos and video of South America I will ever take, was gone.

I watched the thief disappear into the crowded bus station, impotent to do anything.

I swore alot.

At Clare, at Berni, at the bus driver, at the thief, at the world.

Then I didn´t say much for a while.

I feel alot better now as lots of friends have offered their photos from the same trip but it really made me sad for a while.

Until I heard that another friend lost everything in a fire.

Then I felt stupid and ridiculous.

I owe several people an apology for the way I behaved. They know who they are.

I am very sorry.

Maybe the guy who stole the stuff will get a couple of hundred dollars. He probably needs it more than me but if you are stealing stuff off buses for a living, its not going to end well for you in the long run.

Good luck mate - you'll need it.

Day 261: Everything's a Dollar (16/10/2011)

Outside Banos sits the Devil´s Cauldron.

We hired bikes and cycled through the square and onto the road out of town. Closer inspection would have been wise as the buckled wheels wobbled and the brakes squeaked but did little to slow us down on the hill that Banos sits on.

We passed roadside barbeques roasting the local favourite - Guinea Pig - and sped through clouds of smoke that the fatty skin produces.

Dogs barked at us as we entered their territory and a few tried to bite the tires as we raced away from them. A heel to the head soon saw them off and they retired to bark some more as we disappeared around the next bend.

The road was not pretty and the highway out of Banos winds through a series of ribbon developments made up of a few swanky villas set back from the road but mostly breeze-block single storey construction with bars on windows and reinforced steel rods protruding from the roof - to fend of the taxman who can only collect on completed buildings.

The purpose of the ride was not to see the local man made architecture but rather the nature's work.

Banos sits at the top of a hill and a ravine snakes away from it, collecting the tributaries that flow down from the surrounding mountains. The small river that flowed passed La Casa Verde, the beautiful Kiwi run hostel that we stayed in, had grown to a raging torrent a few short miles down the incline.

We stopped at the first waterfall after thirty minutes of cruising down the hills, with intermittent foot dragging to scrub off the excess speed that we were accumulating.

A brightly painted block built shed sat on the cliff edge and from it emanated a deep roar from an old, unloved deisel engine. From the shed strung wire cables that stretched across the valley to the waterfall that was a thousand metres away. A small yellow cable car inched across the ravine in the distance and the cries of excited tourists echoed across the valley.

We watched as they disappeared into the distance and again as they returned to the shed, smiles beaming from their faces as they approached.

The waterfall continued impassively in the distance, spilling its water 70m down the distant rock face, pooling at the bottom and continuing on its way, now part of the larger river.

A few minutes further down the track, zip-liners launched from a raised platform and screamed down the valley until their voices were lost in the sound of the surging water below us.

Further still we passed through road tunnels and flattened ourselves to the wall as the happy-pick up trucks took whooping day trippers down the ravine, accompanied by hooting horns, pumping reggae and flashing lights. In the tunnel the sensation was over whelming as the sound and light refelected in every direction but away from us.

Finally we reached the Cauldron, so called because the Devil´s face is visible in the rock from several angles.

We parked the bikes at the cliff top cafe and locked them to the post conveniently marked 'Bike Lock'. What the sign unhelpfully failed to mention was the 'Live Wire' that was also attached to the post.

Mains current surged through me as I fed the chain around the back wheels and after I instinctively pulled my tingling hand away, my jellied legs gave way and I sat in a heap of adrenalin and jangling nerves.

Remonstrating at the till with the cafe owner produced the typical South American shrug and rather than bang my head against a brick wall we got on with the business of the Cauldron.

A truck had been cemented to the top of the cliff, minus the wheels, cab and wagon. The engine and chassis sat, attached by a large winding wheel, to the cannibalised vehicle's drive shaft which lifted and lowered a ricketty cable car to the valley floor,  750m away.

We paid a dollar each and climbed into the ramshackle contraption before a twelve year old fired up the truck engine, slipped the engine into first gear and pumped the throttle as he lifted the clutch, all the while sitting in the seat that used to have a cab around it. We held our breath as the car surged away from the concrete docking station while the owner's Alsation craned its neck around the parapit to watch us recede into the distance.

A two thousand stomach churning feet later, the car -  made of periodic peices of tubular steel welded into the shape of an elongated shopping cart - crashed into the restraining ropes at the far end, and after releasing ourselves from our impromptu restraints, we hopped over the gate that was stuck, paid another dollar to cross the rope bridge over the river and edged closer to the Cauldron.

Indiana Jones would have been satisfied with the wild oscillations of the bridge as we crossed and, mightily relieved we stepped onto solid ground at the other side to pay a further dollar to enter the grounds into which the waterfall crashes to river level.

Ignoring the kitsch efforts of the owners to spoil the natural wonder of the scene, we by passed the plastic signs, avoided the rough stone built pond fed by white drain pipes, nipped through the superfluous arch and hiked 80m to the falls.

Above us, perhaps 100m, the river is split before the drop by a giant rock protrusion. As a result, two falls crash to earth in an explosion of water vapour that alone would justify the image of a boiling cauldron. At 30m distant we were wet and grinning. At 10m the rocks were fiendishly slippery and it was all we could do to stay upright.

Between the falls was literally a breath taking experience.

The water crashed down with the force of falling rocks. The plunge pool seethed and boiled as a hundred fire hydrants were discharged into it at the same time. The spume roared into my face and the wind generated by the falling water made me lean to keep my balance.

The noise was incredible.

I was grinning so much that I swallowed mouthfuls of sweet tasting water and it was only later that it occurred to me that a dead sheep a few miles upstream could see me laid up for a week.

Suddenly the prevailling wind relented and the direction of the falls moved two metres to the right. Instead of crashing into the plunge pool, the water hammered into a large flat stone just to my left. It dawned on me in an instant that from a safe distance, the waterfall looked exciting, but fundamentally benign.

The water now sounded like an angry Fury hurling boulders down the ravine and the prospect of wading into the plunge pool under the falling water seemed absurd.

I retreated in a hurry, slipping and sliding on the algae covered rocks, and at a safe distance, turned to marvel at the only waterfall I have seen that I could get beneath and still be frightened by.

We crossed the bridge again but it no longer thrilled us.

We rode the cable car to the top but it seemed a pedestrian experience.

We we picked up by a lorry that was passing and ferried 20km back to Banos, for another dollar.

Every night since, I have fallen asleep to the memory of those moments in the Devil's Cauldron.

Day 260: Rocket Man (15/10/2011)

Banos.

The ´n´should have a hat on and it should be pronounced Banyos but the keyboard doesn´t have anything fancy like that.

Most of the time it means toilet but sometimes it means bath, especially if your town has a thermal spring. It can lead to embarassing misunderstandings, like the time I was asked to leave the restaurant for taking a wash in the toilet bowl or when I used the swimming pool for...well never mind, you know what I mean.

Banos is very lovely, regardless of whether you are thrown bodily down the steps of the thermal baths by a burly women with a recently adjusted opinion of the British.

Volcanic ash settles on this spa town more often than is entirely necessary. The necklace of active volcanoes that ring the town, erupt to one degree or another, every five minutes, shelling the hillsides with rockets made of red hot boulders the size of cars.

The closest is a mere 5km away and were it ever to do more than burp, Banos and most of the surrounding countryside would be a thing of the past.

In the meantime they get as much super heated water as they want, completely free, albeit that it is brown and smells of urine. There is only one problem.
 
It´s the hydrogen cyanide and arsenic that would worry me if I swam there more than once in a life time. To be fair to them, it is an informed choice as the large sign on the wall above the main pool spells it out in letters three feet tall.

But, it probably explains the odd behaviour that the Banyans display from time to time - like lynching people, burning bodies and throwing people off bridges. I think the constant strain of never knowing whether you are going to be obliterated by a wall of lava travelling at 600mph may also have a part to play. It probably also explains whey some of them have such a lacsidasical approach to life.

Why bother.

Manyana is a word most people associate with sombrero toting Mexicans who have found a comfortable place to sleep off the Tequila, but it applies here too. Not the Tequila, you understand - they do make it and drink it but call it Punta.

It´s just that sometimes, things don´t happen when they are supposed to - and sometimes things do when they are not.

Builders don´t turn up all over the world but here they are very fastidious about phoning you up to tell you they are on their way before not turning up. If a Banyan doesn´t know the way, they will give you comprehensive directions anyway and shrug off the complaint if you ever see them again.

And they spend far too long on festivals - one hundred and nintey days off a year for them, at the last count, each one with at least three competing thirty-two peice marching bands and a life-size icon of the saint in question trundled around the streets in a glass display case with armfuls of flowers and palm leaves.

There must be a large warehouse on the outskirts of town to store it all.

The drum section in every festival band plays at an entirely different rythm to the brass which wanders in and out of tune at will. I blame the altitude - but noone really minds as there is always something more interesting to do.

Like watching the man in the main square letting off rockets from his half finished beer bottle - which he is still holding and from which he nonchalantly sips between launches.

If the choice was between flaming boulders and fire-crackers?

I know which I would choose.

Day 259: Throw Him a Fish (14/10/2011)

Trip Advisor is God.

In every town, in every country, people run hostels and hotels and Trip Advisor can make or break them.

One bad review can be the difference between a bustling bookings sheet and tumble weed in the corridors.

It wasn´t going to take long before the wierdos cottoned onto this and started posting false reviews to screw the competition or just out of sheer spite. A malicious poster was recently ordered to pay $300,000.00 in damages. This is a serious business.

Its probably best that the identity of those involved in this story are not revealed or I may end up in a South American court for perverting the course of justice, but the story is still worth telling.

False reviews started appearing on Trip Advisor for a place we stayed and very much enjoyed. Marmeduke and Philomena (not their real names, you understand) were very concerned. After a bit of detective work, they were pretty confident that they had identified the culprit. Warnings failed to have any effect and legal advice was sought.

It may all be over now.

The allegation was that a disgruntled expat was responsible. You can call him Florence. No one seemed to know what his reasons were but he appeared to have taken a dislike to Marmeduke, possibly because Philomena had declined his offer to kill a troublesome tradesman who had failed to complete a repair on time.

Florence was proud to tell everyone that he was a retired Navy Seal and had killed something in excess of two hundred people. I can´t be more precise because neither could he. I don´t know whether it is normal to lose count of the number of people you have killed. I think I would keep a careful record just in case anyone wanted to know at a later date, but then again, I like spreadsheets so maybe I am not like everyone else.

Also, to be fair to Florence, it wasn´t clear whether he killed all these people during the course of his professional life or whether he was including the people that he had killed whilst in semi retirement. Older people are not good with computers and perhaps he missed the evening class on spreadsheets. Then again, older people do like lists.

I just don´t know what to believe.

To complicate matters, during the course of her enquiries, Philomena came across another chap called Francois who also claimed to be a retired Navy Seal. The two Seals had fallen out after meeting at convention for retired Navy Seals. There were competing claims about who had more scalps. Words had been exchanged and there was some bad feeling. Some people may have been killed.

The plot thickens we we learn that the police and the courts in this country are, shall we say, partial to brown envelopes. The outcome of a hypotheical case brought by Philomena against Florence might be dictated by factors other than the evidence.

The tendency for brown envelopes to influence the turning of the wheels of justice has also led to the exercise of people power in this hamlet. Wrong doers, unpunished by the police, may or may not have been hauled out of jail and beaten to death by a hundred strong brigade of pitchfork brandishing locals, before their bodies were set on fire and thrown off the local bridge.

Which brings me back to Florence.

If he has killed two hundred people of more, then perhaps a hundred strong brigade of pitchfork brandishing locals might be best advised to think twice before taking him on. The odds aren´t that good for them.

But, then again, I don´t really think he was a Seal after all.

Seals like beachballs, not killing people. There is of course, only one way to tell.

Throw him a fish.