january 1 2009 : playa grande, colombia, south america
We left early yesterday morning for our first drive through Colombia. The roads were fairly well marked and with only one stop to ask a trucker for directions, and one toll booth circled through twice, we were on our way north to Playa Grande for some beach camping.

The drive was nice. Roads were in good condition and very lightly traveled once out of the city. The road was heavily tolled and cost us over fifteen dollars for under two hundred miles, but it appeared the money was actually spent to keep the roads up. The high tolls, along with the high cost of gas, meant that there were hardly any personal cars on the road. Moto-taxis and buses ruled in the country. The price of gas caught us by surprise. At over four bucks a gallon it cost more than double what it did in Panama, and roughly forty times what it cost in neighboring Venezuela. I guess we’d been hoping for something somewhere in the middle. Most of the country along this stretch was lightly populated, all except one large shantytown on the outskirts of Barranquilla. Here the shacks stretched side by side for miles on land that appeared to sit below the swampy water most of the time. It made us appreciate the holiday decorations that much more.

Military checkpoints were abundant along the road. We passed through at least a dozen of them, yet were only stopped twice. At both of them the officer came right up and shook hands. Very friendly and non-threatening. At the first we were simply asked where we were from before being waved through. At the second we ran into a problem I knew we were going to have at some point. We were first asked for our vehicle permit. Okay, easy enough. We handed over the wad of papers. Then came the dreaded question, “Seguro Colombiano?” Colombian insurance papers. As you all must be well aware by now, Ali and I are not big fans of insurance, even in countries where purchasing a policy might actually be of some benefit to us in the event we ever needed to file a claim. In countries such as Mexico, Nicaragua, and Colombia we are even less inclined to purchase insurance. Searching out an agent in Cartagena to sell us some sort of policy seemed ludicrous to me, though I admit I didn’t mention this to Ali.

“Seguro Colombiano?” he repeated. I mumbled to Ali that he wanted insurance paperwork. She already knew this, but I didn’t want Ali to point this out to me in front of him, instead we needed to play stupid together. “Seguro, seguro,” he said over and over again. We just looked at him and pointed to the wad of papers in his hand, occasionally throwing out, “No entiendo” we don’t understand. Thankfully he didn’t know the word insurance, as it would have been awfully hard to continue the charade if he had. After two or three minutes he gave up. He wasn’t the least bit angry about it either, he just smiled in resignation, shook our hands again, and waved for us to proceed down the road. I’m just wondering how many times we’re going to have to play this game and whether or not we should print up some of our “self-insurance” papers like we did in Greece with the boat.

By early afternoon we arrived at Playa Grande, a campground along the Caribbean coast sort of in the middle of nowhere. Being New Year’s Eve there were probably around a hundred Colombians there already setting up tents and playing in the rough water. We navigated the soft sand and parked ourselves just one row of palm trees away from the ocean to celebrate the New Year in one of the most unique places we’re ever likely to do so. Surprisingly to us the celebration was really subdued and didn’t contain one firecracker, something much beloved in the past few countries we’ve passed through.

A couple of random observations here. The Colombian peso is about 2200 to 1 USD at the moment. That means everything has a price tag that at first sounds astronomical. The other day at the port I was getting some copies made along with our Argentine friend. When the copier asked me for 1200 pesos the Argentine guy looked at me and said, “What, what did he say? I don’t understand, these numbers are so big.” I thought it was pretty amusing that even a native Spanish speaker had a hard time deciphering the currency. Twelve hundred versus twelve is un mil doscientosversus doce. They could really make things easier by shaving a couple of zeros off the end.

Food here largely consists of beans, rice, and a piece of meat. Even more so than in Central America from what we can tell so far. Ali’s getting a little sick of it but I’m not too bad yet. The great thing about it is that for two dollars you get a set meal of the day consisting of a big bowl of soup to start, a fruit drink, and a heaping plate of beans, rice, salad, fried plantains, and your choice of a thin piece of steak, chicken, or fish.

january 3 2009 : san martin, colombia
We enjoyed a few days on the beach alongside a couple of hundred Colombians. We were surprised by just how many of them were out camping. I don’t know why camping seems to us like such an American thing to do, even though we’ve seen these sorts of camping areas jam packed in country after country.

We got to talking to the owner’s son who told us a bit about the background of the place. The nearby mountains are a prime coke producing area, and the drugs were easily brought down to the ocean along the river a mile down the beach. He told us the local drug lord whose giant hacienda is just on the other side of the river used to pay the locals $150 for two days of work (an average month of work would be $200) unloading the boats and packing the ships. The whole operation got busted up in the 90’s and now the people in the area don’t have any good work. They still lament the loss of their drug operation. We don’t know how much of the story to believe but it does sound like they all had some good times back then.

Today we made a long, hot drive along the edge of a couple of huge mountain ranges. I’ve decided that the Colombians are all suicidal. The main thing that distinguishes drivers is their passing technique. In Central America it often seemed pretty nuts, but the drivers at least seemed to think they could actually make it when they took off to pass. It might not of looked like it all the time, but I do feel they believed it. The guys down here though take off to pass knowing full well that they have no chance of making it past before the oncoming truck is on them. Instead they rely on either the car they are passing to slow down or move onto the narrow shoulder creating a sort of half lane in the middle for them, or they expect the oncoming vehicle to hit his brakes and create the opening. At times the road in front of us would just be a mass of cars scattered all over until suddenly just enough room would clear and a car would come barreling through from the other side.

On the road today we were offered a variety of animals for purchase. First there was the guy with a squirrel in one hand and a turtle in the other. Another guy held a cage full of parakeets. A bit further on was the armadillo salesman. His large animal was the only one killed prior to being offered for sale. Later there were the baby macaws. Cute and fluffy, but entirely impractical in the bus.

january 4 2009 : aratoca, colombia
Last night we got a room in a tiny hotel twenty feet off the highway where this morning I set to work in the parking lot to try and fix the brakes. Again, what should have been a simple process turned impossible. The catch this time was the axle nut which needs to be removed before the infamous brake drum. Last time this nut slipped right off with no effort. This time it wouldn’t crack, it was put back on last time with way too much torque. I visited three mechanics along the road, but only one had the necessary tools, a 36mm socket and a five foot long pipe extension for me to jump up and down on. Even my 180 pounds perched out on the end of that bar wouldn’t loosen the nut though. After a couple of hours we had accomplished nothing; I put my tools away and we continued on down the road towards the mountains with a leaky wheel cylinder and a fresh bottle of brake fluid.

One of the things we’ve noticed so far on our drives here has been the complete lack of home security. In all of Central America homes are surrounded by makeshift fences and windows on all levels are barred. Here there is none of that. It just struck us as a little surprising, though certainly a nice change in attitude.

Once we hit the mountains the drive slowed considerably, winding constantly back and forth, climbing, and falling. Some of the scenery was pretty spectacular, one mountain valley in particular with every shade of brown lining the surface as far as we could see. The only kink in our drive came when we hit a three mile traffic jam that slowed us for over an hour. By the end, sitting in the scorching sun, Ali stated that “there better be blood on the road.” As we came around the final bend we finally saw the hold up; a one lane toll booth had stopped holiday weekend traffic in its tracks.

Late in the afternoon we started to think that we might not make it to the town we had intended before dark. So when a nice looking hotel up on a hill presented itself we decided to call it a night. The proprietress was a sweet lady with a very curious son, Miguel. She showed us a room, which looked nice enough, especially for the price of about $11.

Back at the desk we filled out the standard hotel register and then she asked us something that we couldn’t quite make out. It took a while before we caught the words, “Quanto hora?” How many hours? That’s an odd question. We told her one night, which brought an equally confused look from her. Young Miguel was eagerly following the conversation with his head on a swivel, before he finally broke in and explained something to his mother and a look of recognition came over her face. At the same moment recognition came to me. I said to Ali, “I think we just checked into a love hotel.” Maybe the black velvet blanket on the bed should have tipped us off sooner, but it didn’t. That alone goes to show just how different our standards have become over the years. Anyway, I think we were all sort of embarrassed at this point, so the lady just smiled and waved the whole question off. I’m sure the fact that it was my birthday was purely coincidence.

At dinner we were sitting along the highway watching the crazy traffic and insane blind corner passing. We got to talking about a small accident that had happened right in front of us during the day. We were cruising along at about 45 when we suddenly realized that the truck in front of us was no longer moving. The moto-taxi that was following us decided when I hit the brakes that he would pass me. By the time he realized traffic was stopped it was too late. He skidded for about thirty feet and then had to drop the bike. Fortunately him and the passenger were almost stopped by that point and nobody was hurt. But the point is, the truck didn’t have any brake lights, which we’ve found to be extremely common. It seems like they bust them when they back up to a loading dock or something. So when we were talking about it I said something like, “God can you believe how many of these trucks drive around without brake lights? Idiots.” Ali just looked over at me like I was the real idiot and reminded me that we’d driven about 6,000 miles across Alaska and Canada without them. Oh, yeah, but that’s totally different.

january 5 2009 : san gil, colombia
Needless to say, we didn’t linger in the morning. We didn’t drive too far though either. Just a couple of hours away was the small town of Barichara, a colonial city in remarkable condition for its three hundred year old age. This place was off the main road back up in the hills so parking the bus along the main plaza drew plenty of curious admirers. While we ate ice cream we watched as passersby stuck their cameras up against the windows.

Back out on the highway we spotted a sign for camping and pulled in to check it out. It was a balneario type place; water parks (usually two swimming pools and a restaurant) that are extremely common and popular here. The lady running the place was happy to see us and took special care in her pronunciation and slow speech for us. The place had been an absolute zoo just the day before, but now on Monday it was just us and two or three families. We ate yet another meal of meat and rice, took a dip in the pool, and just hung out enjoying the mountain view laid out in front of us.

Oh, I also worked on two small bus projects. First was a taillight that was out. I fixed the loose connection with super glue. Then I noticed that the long bolt holding our battery strap on had fallen out the bottom of the bus somewhere. I fixed this with baling wire. The only reason I mention these two things is that a surprising number of people we meet on the road ask us what we do for spare parts and I always laugh it off and say, “What spare parts? There isn’t anything on this old bus that can’t be fixed with super glue and baling wire.” So today I put that to the test.

january 6 2009 : villa de leyva, colombia
Along the road this morning we spotted a small stand with a sign advertising goat milk alongside a lady busily milking the goat. Somehow we’ve both gotten this far in our life without ever tasting goat milk, and today we decided to remedy that. At least one of us did, the other just wrinkled her nose at the suggestion. We pulled in alongside of her and took a seat while she finished filling another customers four liter order one squirt at a time. When the first goat had been milked out she led her off to a grassy area and disappeared behind a nearby building to fetch another. This would be my bug eyed goat.

We ordered up a couple pieces of sweet cake to go along with the milk and then Ali sat back to watch the reaction on my face, fully expecting me to wince in disgust. And I almost gave her that satisfaction when I first picked up the extremely warm foaming plastic cup. But then I got a pleasant surprise, a sweet, almost sugary tasting gulp of fresh from the nipple goat milk. Along with the cake I’d say it made for a very nice morning treat. I’d even get it again if I saw it. This time I would lean my head back and gurgle it, just for show.

In the afternoon we pulled into Villa de Leyva for another pleasant surprise. It was immediately apparent that this was the most authentic and beautiful colonial city we’d ever seen. It is absolutely perfect, from the cobble stoned streets, to the one and two story white buildings and their picturesque courtyards. We drove right through town to a tiny hotel fifteen minutes from the center, up a dirt hill in the middle of a typical neighborhood. We’d known ahead of time that they offered camping, but were thrilled when they led us to a special parking area overlooking the valley, and showed us the spotless facilities at our disposal. I’m telling you Colombia is fast becoming one of the best camping destinations of our trip.

Once we were settled we walked back into town where we got another surprise, a wide selection of Italian restaurants to chose from. Absolutely nothing would do but a couple of pizzas. And while not anywhere near anybody’s top ten list it was a welcome change from our meat and rice. Afterwards we joined the locals in the town square, buying a couple bottles of beer from the corner store and sitting along the steps outside to people watch. Pretty much a perfect day in our book.

january 7 2009 : villa de leyva
We explored Villa de Leyva a little bit more today. This is what the day constituted: wander around, sit for a while, browse through some shops, sit at the park and drink a beer, eat, explore a few side streets, grab a seat next to the locals drinking Poker beer on benches around the square, have a block of ice cream, feed a skinny dog, drink another beer, and walk home.

We were poking around one store when Ali noticed a teenage boy outside spying on us and practicing saying, “Hello.” As we walked out he smiled at us and said it perfectly. Then, “What is your name?” We get this a lot while traveling, but this boy’s entire family was standing nearby watching. We exchanged pleasantries and then he asked us if we could all take a picture together. We said sure and he said, “Oh WOWWWW!” He was so excited and yet we don’t have the slightest idea why. He had to have thought Ali was somebody famous. Anyway, his sister came over and the four of us posed for a picture taken by his older brother. The family was beaming as we walked away still trying to figure out what the hell that was all about.

january 9 2009 : bogotá, colombia
After updating the website a couple of days ago we got an email from a guy offering to help us out if we needed anything in Bogotá, including a place to stay. So, this morning we left Villa de Leyva and headed for the capital. But before driving out of town we quickly pulled the bus into the main plaza for a quick photo op. Ali and I worked like a team to execute the pictures because there are cops on every corner of the plaza blowing whistles and chasing away anybody who tries to park near there, much less drive right into the place. We got our pics and Ali jumped in the bus just as the cop started towards us with his whistle screeching.

In Bogotá we had directions to take the main highway into the heart of the city, but on my map it seemed easier to get off on a different north/south road through town. The only thing I didn’t notice ahead of time is that the north end of town was Calle 200 and we needed to get all the way to Calle 3. However we negotiated the 200 blocks of heavy city traffic with no problems, and even found Gerson’s KlassicFab VW shop with only a few extra spins around the block. The only hiccup came when we found ourselves in the bus lane at a red light. Directly across the street was a cop standing in our lane waiting for us to come across. We zipped right by him though when a nice motorcyclist stopped traffic in the regular lane to let us back over as the light turned. Ticket averted.

Anybody who knows VWs knows who Gerson is, or at the very least knows the green panels he puts out. Basically what this guy has done, in what to most of us seems an unlikely place, is reproduced just about every piece of metal needed to build a vintage VW bus from the ground up. And I mean everything. In fact today they put the finishing touches on a complete chassis for a ’53 barndoor, and it looks sweet. The cool thing is that these parts are all built one hundred percent to original specs so anybody can chop out their rusty section of metal, pop his right in, weld it, and have a sweet bus. It was fun to see how he did it all and to see the shop in action.

After taking us out to lunch we returned to the shop to get down to work on our seized axle nut. After the two of us had broken some tools in our unsuccessful attempts at loosening it he decided the best course of action was to grab a couple of beers from next door and to put his best man on the job. Fifteen minutes later it was off. Sweet. We finished our beers and got our hands dirty changing out the leaky wheel cylinder.

With the bus finished for the day we locked it up in the shop and all headed for home back around the 120’s somewhere. Gerson’s wife had whipped us up a delicious traditional dinner washed down with a few Aguila beers. Right next door was his mother-in-law’s home. She didn’t speak a lick of English, but welcomed us with kisses on the cheeks and a simple, “Mi casa es su casa.” Two days ago we didn’t know a soul in Colombia, and tonight we’ve got an extended family taking care of us.

january 11 2009 : bogotá
The next morning we were up early with Gerson to try and track down a new set of tires for the bus. Three of our tires are still “okay,” but one isn’t wearing properly and is worn through with steel radials sticking out of it. The hunt for tires here was fun. We started out in the tire contraband district, where a few square blocks is loaded with absolutely nothing but tire shops. The unusual bit about it is that everything within that area is contraband, meaning it somehow got to this point without paying import duties. Cops patrolling the streets are paid off and tires are offered at significant discounts to the public.

As we were making our way to this area we drove past a 1953 VW Barndoor on the side of the road. We squealed to a stop and ran across the street to have a chat with the owners. Back home the only place you’ll ever see a Barndoor is at a show.

Going here with a local was an experience. We would pull up and Gerson would announce loudly to nobody in particular what we were looking for. In seconds young guys would be running every direction trying to find the right tires. Unfortunately our size tires, that are nearly impossible to find in the States, are equally as hard to find here. After the contraband district we visited the VW district, about three square blocks of solid VW shops and paraphernalia. No luck on the tires again, but a contact did point us towards a cherry ’52 Barndoor.

Our last stop for tires were the proper tire stores; the kind we’re accustomed to in the States. We tried out a tough looking tire, but it turned out to be about half an inch too big. After hours of touring the city from one end to the other it was determined that there wasn’t a 15 inch 165 tire in all of Colombia. So all of that and we ended up simply switching out the bad tire with our spare.

During the drive around the city we learned all sorts of interesting tidbits. The first thing pointed out to us was the “Colombian left-turn” which in Bogotá constitutes making three right turns. In the city there is basically no such thing as making a left. It makes giving directions a little complicated. Another interesting Bogotá tidbit was the tolerance zones. The government decided there was nothing it could do about certain vices the city had. One of these being prostitution. Driving past the transvestite zone was an eye opener.

For dinner a whole group of us went out to an area filled with classy restaurants around a beautiful park. They got to work on their English and we learned a few new things in Spanish. It was fun to talk about our trip with them. All of the women think Ali is absolutely insane to do the crazy things she does. They seem to expect it from me, but for a girl to partake in this madness is absolutely unfathomable.

Today we decided to give our new family a break and took off on our own to see some of the sights around the city. First stop was the Museo de Oro, the Gold Museum, where thousands of gold pieces that survived the Spanish conquistadors are housed. From there we took a stroll around Plaza Bolivar. The Colombian “White House” is here, but the President wasn’t taking visitors, so we set off for Monserrate along with the rest of the pilgrims.

Monserrate is a mountain peak, well over 10,000 feet, with a church on top overlooking Bogotá. It climbs nearly vertically and seems to hang directly above the city. We took a tram to the top where we joined what seemed like millions of people taking in the view of this sprawling city. The city itself has nine million people and spreads out unbroken for miles and miles until it hits the mountain ranges running all the way around it.

The view was spectacular, but the line for the ride back down stretched on indefinitely. Ali generally has enough patience for about a thirty second wait, so when it became obvious it would take hours to get down she decided that we’d just walk it. Easier said than done. Instead of waiting for hours we walked for hours, along with thousands and thousands of others. Fortunately enterprising locals have lined the path with “restaurants” and “bars” making the excruciating pain in the quadriceps easier to handle. When we got back to Gerson’s we were fed for approximately the twelfth time in three days by his wife Martha Stewart, before crashing at Grandma’s house.

january 14 2009 : cali, colombia
The next morning we finally tore ourselves away. Our new friends didn’t make it easy, and they probably wouldn’t have said a word if we had stayed for weeks, but I suppose being a good guest means leaving after three days, so that’s what we did.

Our drive took us through miles and miles of extended city before finally climbing up one of the mountains ringing the south side of the valley. A couple of hours later we were winding through a beautiful mountain range that appeared too steep for anything, but actually held near vertical farms and unfortunate farm animals. The cows looked to be holding on for dear life. Driving down the road Ali was also holding on for dear life. We passed four rather major looking accidents during one particularly hair-pin filled stretch. Each appeared to be caused by one of the vehicles taking a corner fast and swinging out too far which left us holding our breath around each blind curve. We spent the night in the town of Armenia where a hotel graciously allowed us to park in their lobby.

For the past couple of days we’ve been in Cali. To be honest we haven’t found a whole lot to do here. We’ve walked around town checking out the sights but haven’t found much of interest. Our hotel is an old castle-like mansion, which is sort of interesting I suppose, but not enough to keep us here long. Tomorrow we continue south.

january 16 2009 : ipiales, colombia
Yesterday we drove to Popoyán, a 500 year-old colonial city that was suppose to rival Cartagena as the countries best. We thought it was a nice place, but it didn’t even compare to Cartagena or Villa de Leyva. There was just no character. Not to mention a severe shortage of local drinking dens. After a tough day of wandering the streets, eating cheap “steak,” and being clipped by speeding motorcycles, we needed a dark place filled with smoke and locals drinking mysterious bottles of liquor. It wasn’t easy to find, but after much searching we succeeded. This place had everything we were looking for and more, including booths with privacy curtains, and a men’s bathroom the size of a phone booth, and tiled floor to ceiling with a drain in the floor instead of a toilet. A truly first-class joint.

On the road today we were looking forward to a couple hundred miles of beautiful Andean mountain scenery. Instead we got rain. When we did get the occasional clear glimpse it was pretty spectacular. The valleys dropped off below us further than we could see, waterfalls sprouted out of nowhere, and farms carved themselves out of impossibly steep land.

We got to the border town of Ipiales, checked into a hotel, and then headed across town to the Santuario de Las Lajas, a church built right into the side of a gorge. It’s yet another one of those places where somebody once spotted an image of the Virgin Mary. This was better than the typical potato chip spotting though because they built this incredible building right against the rock wall a hundred feet above a rushing river. It’s this border town’s one bright spot.

january 17 2009 : cotacachi, ecuador, south america
We hadn’t really expected to spend over three weeks in Colombia, but time just seemed to tick away. We really enjoyed the country and are glad that we made the effort to see it. Most overlanders ship from Costa Rica to Ecuador instead of the Panama to Colombia route, but we feel like that would have been cheating. Colombia is an integral part of South America, and despite the lawless reputation and thousands of military lining the roads we never for one second felt unsafe. We couldn’t even get all that worked up over the tolls because the roads were in such exceptional condition. Imagine, a country using road toll money for maintaining roads, what a novel idea. As it turns out we dropped $95 to cover 1,574 miles. Really though, Colombia is a great country, and we enjoyed it all, the great friends we met, the crazy drivers, and the step back in time cities.

Quite possibly the easiest border crossing ever was made today between Colombia and Ecuador. If there hadn’t been long lines for immigration on both sides we would have been finished in just minutes. Colombia stamped us out, took a copy of our vehicle permit and sent us on our way. Down the street at Ecuadorian customs the attitude was so relaxed we almost couldn’t believe it. After clearing in with Immigration I went over to customs to get our vehicle permit. The customs officer asked where the car was and I pointed to it parked fifty yards away. Good enough for him. He entered our info into the computer, printed out a copy for us, and we were gone inside of five minutes. This is the process that usually holds us up the longest at border crossings, yet these guys couldn’t have cared less. I was giddy as we drove down the road.

Almost immediately it was abundantly clear that we were now in the Andes proper. The mountains soared above and below us, the traffic slowed to a crawl on every incline, and the temperature dropped to what felt to us like below freezing and then climbed back up to sweaty level in the space of just a few minutes and a few thousand feet. We only drove a couple of hours inland before taking the turnoff for Cotacachi where some Bum friends had invited us to camp in their driveway and eat homemade pizza. An offer we didn’t turn down.

january 19 2009 : quito, ecuador
With the bus safely tucked away at our friends home Ali and I grabbed a full size bus for the capital, Quito. From what we could see the trip was amazing. The Andes are everything we’d imagined, and we haven’t even been up over 10,000 feet yet. That’ll happen soon enough. The bus made it a little difficult to enjoy the view though because most of the windows had the shades drawn, and those that didn’t were covered in English soccer team decals.

Upon arrival in Quito the first thing we realized is that we had absolutely no idea whatsoever where we were. We had a map, and all the streets were labeled pretty well, but we could not even begin to locate ourselves on that map. Quito is a huge city with an old town and a new town located nowhere near each other in the midst of roughly a million square miles of somewhere-in-between town. Fortunately cabs are cheap.

We didn’t do much our first afternoon other than find a hotel, but this morning we were out the door early. We tried the bus again, but after a good start we soon found ourselves being kicked off at the end of the line far from where we had hoped to be going. A cabbie took us back across town the way we’d just come and dropped us off at the Plaza Grande, the main plaza in the colonial heart of town. There we found a few thousand locals flanked by a few hundred police officers in the midst of some sort of political rally. It all seemed pretty harmless except the huge PA system kept giving off feedback that sounded exactly like machine gun fire. Accident? Maybe, but it sure did keep everybody in line.

All around the area are, what else, historic churches. Church after church after monastery after church after cathedral. You have to admit the Spanish went a little nutso on the whole religion thing over here. But hey, the architecture is pretty amazing, and more often than not there is at least one crazy painting in these churches that makes it worthwhile. My personal favorite today was a painting depicting hell that carried specific labels for the crimes committed and the punishment that would ensue. Adultery, breasts cut off. Deception, lava poured down your throat while giant beetles eat your intestines. Idolatry, a dozen spikes through the chest and devils poking out your eyeballs. Amen.

We visited one church that is my new favorite. It is big enough to carry on six football games at one time, it’s extremely dark, it’s gothic, it’s damp, the ceiling is a mile high, and in every nook I expected to find the Batmobile. The place both looked and felt just like the Batcave. They really shouldn’t allow us into these places of worship.

So that was the old town section of the city, a beautiful area filled with historic buildings. In contrast the new town area is hideous. Not that it doesn’t have lots of beautiful buildings, it’s just that it is like a compound for backpackers and expats. There seemed to be thousands of them, all congregated in this six square block area with roughly one hundred overpriced restaurants and nightclubs. Nothing of interest there. Tomorrow we head back to the bus.

A few days back I mentioned in passing that a hotel had let us park in their lobby. We didn’t think much of it. That sort of thing seems pretty commonplace in Latin America. But judging by the amount of email we got about it I guess it needs a bit more explanation. The hotel had a parking garage that was too short for the bus, but always eager to please, the guys working the desk hit on the solution of letting us park in the lobby using what I guess would have been some type of service entrance (though it would have been too narrow for any sort of truck). The part of this that we found amusing was when, at seven the next morning, we got a call from the desk telling us there was a problem. I ran downstairs only to find that the problem was that the maid wanted to wax the floor underneath the bus, and they needed me to pull forward a few feet. Apparently this waxing could not wait.

One of the things that we’ve noticed in Ecuador is that we can once again understand the language. At least as much as our Spanish will allow. By the time we reached Panama I was feeling pretty good about my Spanish, but then we touched down in Colombia, where suddenly we couldn’t understand a word. They seemed to have different greetings, different words for food, for drinks, for directions, and just about everything else we’d learned. If it wasn’t a different word it was just a dramatically different way of talking. Either way we struggled with the language more there than anywhere else. Now here in Ecuador everybody seems to be pronouncing nicely again, and slowing it down too.

On the subject of language, around the world we have pretty much always been able to say that we are from America and have it immediately understood. But of course, when you are in Central and South America they can all say they are from America. Therefore down here we need to say that we are from the United States. This should be simple,Estados Unidos, except our brains seem to be hardwired to want to say it the other way around, United first, States second. We can’t ever spit it out smoothly. In the end everybody is confused by our answer to their seemingly simple question.

january 20 2009 : cotacachi, ecuador
Yesterday we spotted a beautiful VW split window double cab sitting right outside our hotel room window. We went down for a look and then left a card on the window. Later that night we got an email from the owner, and this morning standing at the door was Carlos, with a gift of a Quito coffee table book in his hand and lots of friendly conversation. It’s pretty cool how easily a couple of VWs can bring people together.

What had been just a two and half hour bus ride into Quito took nine hours today, thanks to some sort of countrywide protest. I wish I could say what it was about, but nobody we talked to seemed to know. The bus ride started out smoothly, but ninety minutes in the trouble started. Our bus was stopped in the middle of a rinky dink town by about fifty indigenous locals sitting in the road. Everyone took the delay in stride and just sat around talking or napping. After two hours the police finally arrived and cleared the road. For the next fifteen minutes our bus driver ran like a bat out of hell. His helper was grabbing people off the road while the bus was still flying along at top speed, and soon we had a hundred new passengers cramming the aisle.

The excitement didn’t last long though. Just a couple of towns down the road we came to a stop again. For the next three hours absolutely nothing happened. The small group of protesters didn’t say anything, and nobody on the bus or in the hundreds of trucks behind us honked their horns. The frustrating thing was that the entire time there were fifty police officers in riot gear just sitting on the curb nearby watching and not doing a thing while the hours wasted away. The even bigger frustrations though was that there were no bathrooms to be had anywhere, and that there were no food vendors. The entire day we sat around doing absolutely nothing.

After three hours our driver finally got bored and decided to make a run for it. Not through the crowd but by instead turning around and finding an alternate route. We rattled on through small towns on dirt roads hardly wide enough for a bus for the next hour or two before being spit back out on the Pan-American ten miles past our town. Of course cabbies had been taking advantage of this and were sitting on the corner waiting. Well after dark we rolled into town and to the one open restaurant before finally making it back to our bus.

january 22 2009 : canoa, ecuador
Yesterday we thanked our new friends in Cotacachi for the fresh banana bread and for keeping an eye on the bus, then took off back north headed for the coast. Once we turned off the Pan-American Highway there was hardly another vehicle on the road. About the only thing on the road were crops. The farmers here harvest what we think are beans right in the middle of the roads. They start by unloading a truck full of freshly harvested crops in the road. Then the workers spread it out to dry, leaving one lane open. Once it’s dried out in the sun they beat it with sticks which seems to make the beans fall off. They then carefully rake the plants away leaving nothing but red beans covering the road. These then sit in the sun getting flipped over occasionally while everybody sits in the shade watching us drive past.

We pulled into a campground on the beach just before dark. The place was a dank, dark, wet, bug infested jungle that we didn’t care for at all. Apparently nobody else did either because we were the only people on the property. After a quick walk on the beach this morning we got back on the road.

The drive today took us along the northern coast of Ecuador, and it was far different than what we’ve seen so far of the interior. The towns along the road were some of the most hopeless looking places we have ever come across. Wooden plank shacks no bigger than ten by ten feet held families of ten, eight of whom were children under six years old. At least that’s how it appeared. There didn’t seem to be much electricity or running water, and kids gathered pails of water in muddy puddles along the roadside. Dogs were everywhere, nothing but skin and bones lying in the middle of the street. The whole scene was one of depression; for us, and no doubt for them too.

We crossed the equator with little fanfare. Our map had a highlighted area marked Equator Monument, though when we got there all we found was one small sign and a line painted across the road. There was no turn off, no magically reverse flushing toilets, no souvenir trinket salesmen, and certainly no monument.

As we moved south out of the thick jungle and into the drier lowland coast things started to improve slightly, but we still weren’t prepared for what we found in Canoa. We turned off the highway onto a dirt road and followed it straight down to the beach where a dozen restaurants and nice, but low priced, hotels lined the sand. We pulled up to one with a collection of nice looking bungalows and asked about camping. No problem. They pointed us to a beautiful spot out back on the well manicured grounds. The restaurant is good, the beer is cheap, and the surf break is fifty yards away. Seriously, after what we’d spent the morning looking at, this place was like a mirage.

january 24 2009 : canoa
Canoa is our kind of beach town. Laid back but busy, inexpensive food and lodging, and a local to gringo mix of about twenty to one. And the surf is absolutely perfect for a guy like me, with a shallow sand break stretching a good couple of hundred yards, consistent three or four footers, and maybe, maybe a dozen local and two tourist surfers. The locals surfers can be a little surly in places, but here when a guy just about sliced me open wiping out on a wave he came up sputtering, “Lo siento, lo siento,” and then introduced himself and shook my hand.

So really all we’ve done the past few days is hang out on the beach surfing, trying to get our tans back, watching the local scene, and drinking one dollar grande Pilseners. You really can’t beat that. The one downfall of this town, if you can call it that, is the sheer number of dogs. Ali adopted two girls who look like they’ve had a pretty tough life. She’s been feeding them constantly, picking dozens of blood thirsty ticks off of them, and bringing them pail after pail of fresh water. Not to mention giving them constant loving. I’m starting to get a little jealous in fact. It’s a tough place to be a dog lover and tonight she said, “I think we should get going tomorrow. I’m getting too attached.” There was a little hitch in her voice. In Latin America you see way too many dogs and wish that there was more you could do to help them. But about all we can do is try to make a couple of days easier for them.

january 26 2009 : guayaquil, ecuador
So we left our dogs behind and continued down the coast, across a bay on a ferry, and on to the small town of Puerto Rico where there was a resort with camping on the beach. After an hour there we were bored. It was out of town, there was nothing going on at the beach, and the resort was full of twelve-year-old girls on a birthday party weekend. We should have stayed in Canoa with our dogs.

First thing this morning we got back on our way. Guayaquil is Ecuador’s largest city, with miles and miles of slums on the outskirts, so we were pretty happy when we managed to drive into the center without getting lost. We checked into a hotel and then went out to see the sights. The city is a pretty run down looking place, except for the malecón, the waterfront area, that’s been all cleaned up for tourists. It’s uninteresting. Really about the only things to see in the town were the Parque Bolivar with its hundreds of resident giant iguanas, a couple of churches, and, nope that’s it. Fortunately we did track down a Macca’s, a bar, and a grocery store with a sale on dog food to complete our tour of the city.

january 28 2009 : cuenca, ecuador (40,651 miles : 6 flat tires)
The drive yesterday to Cuenca was grueling, climbing up into the mountains where the world disappeared on us. Fog enveloped us so thickly that for five hours we couldn’t see anything beyond fifty feet in front of us. Either could anybody else obviously, because the roadkill was stacked up like cordwood. Cows, horses, dogs, and cats. Nobody was left out.

The second we came out of the fog the scenery took over. The green mountain peaks towered around us and women climbed the hills in their colorful traditional clothing. The road was pretty brutal though, and it wasn’t long before we had another flat tire. Not a big surprise anymore, and it’s actually kind of fun now to see just how quickly I can make the change. The only real problem is that our only spare is so worn that it has steel belted radials popping out of it. We’re beginning to realize there is no way we’re making it to Argentina on these things.

We arrived in town, found a parking lot and a little hotel, dropped off our stuff, and walked right back out the door to find some food. A block away a guy chased us down and asked if we were the couple with the bus. Turns out he is from Kentucky and drove down here in an old VW beetle. He was also about to meet a local VW mechanic and head out to dinner himself. So half an hour after arriving in the city we were racing across it with an Ecuadorian and a Kentuckian.

Oscar took us all out to a typical restaurant. I’m not just calling it a typical restaurant, that’s what they call restaurants that serve the country’s typical food. Dinner was okay, but the real reason for going to this place was the aguardiente, sugarcane alcohol. It was mixed with the restaurant’s own concoction, sort of like a flowery cinnamon tea, and served hot in a big pot with shot glasses on the side. The night got out of hand quickly and by the end of it we were sitting high up on a hill overlooking the city lights with a giant takeaway bottle of firewater. Good times.

Cuenca is a big city with a small historic central area. It’s called the most beautiful colonial city in Ecuador and from the looks of it we’d have to imagine that’s true. The buildings are great, but even better were the parks. Perfect landscaping and immaculately clean. You just don’t see that enough and it’s amazing what an impact it has on the overall feel of a place.

We really liked walking the city, which of course landed us in a couple of churches. We’re not exactly religious people. In fact our favorite saying of all time came out of our niece’s mouth when we asked her one day if she had enjoyed church camp and she replied, “It was okay, but it was a little too churchy.” We use that one a lot. Anyway, in Latin America all of the most beautiful buildings are churches and you couldn’t avoid them even if you wanted to. Today’s church, the New Cathedral, was one of the best ever. Huge, elaborate, and containing Fort Knox quantities of gold. But the best part for us was that just around the corner was an actual Mexican restaurant serving tortilla soup and burritos. What a great city.

Ecuador is one of those countries in which acquiring and maintaining small bills is an art form. They changed over to the U.S. dollars a few years back, but despite the apparent importation of all of those gold one dollar coins we briefly tried out in the States, they’ve still got major small change issues. The other day we paid a seventeen dollar restaurant bill with a twenty. We then waited fifteen minutes as the waiter disappeared down the street in search of three bucks. The real trick though is when you need to conserve your ones and try and push off a ten dollar bill to pay for a can of Coke. It rarely works, but when it does it is a thing of beauty and your worries are over for another day.

january 29 2009 : zorritos, perú, south america
Border crossing day again. When we woke up we actually weren’t sure we would be headed for the border today. The last major town between Cuenca and the border was over a hundred miles away, and we didn’t know if that hundred miles would take us two, three, or eight hours. It was quick, good road though, so we flew on past the town at noon and kept going straight to the border.

The border should have been a straight shot along the Pan-American highway, but once we reached the border town the highway was completely blocked off by a market. A market that looked to be permanent. It took us the better part of an hour to negotiate our way around it, actually ending up right in the midst of it most of the time. This drove Ali nuts, especially since it seemed every person squeezing past us wanted to play the drums along the length of the bus’ panels. We eventually found the border bridge though, and thought we were on our way, only to find out at the customs office that the immigration office was located back outside of town, conveniently four miles from the border itself. That was the only real hiccup in the border process today. So far South America has been even easier than Central America in this department. Best of all is the fact that there hasn’t been one border fee anywhere.

The helpers were in full effect today though. The first guy pointed to the parking space I was already pulling into. He thought this should have earned him a tip. When it didn’t he tried to levy a five dollar bridge toll on me instead. Here is this guy who hasn’t washed in months, has no teeth, and no uniform, trying to convince me that the receipt he is holding is official and must be paid. I can’t imagine when the last time that trick worked for him was. A couple more were on the Peruvian side working their angles. One guy was convinced I would want him to fill out my tourist card paperwork for me. The form was in three languages, two of which I was pretty well familiar with, so I passed on his helpfulness too.

Anyway, we made it through the formalities by two o’clock and continued on down the road, headed for the beach. We found a place that was listed in our guidebook, pulled in, and sorted out the parking just twenty feet from the wide Pacific beach. We had a couple of rubber cheese sandwiches and Pilsen beers to celebrate, all while surrounded by the owners ten Peruvian hairless dogs. Gross. Both the sandwiches and the leathery skinned naked dogs.

january 31 2009 : piura, perú
We spent yesterday hanging out in Máncora, beach resort to the Peruvian middle class. It was sort of a fun place to hang out for a day, but we didn’t see much reason for more. The highlight of the day was when we found a hotel with camping and pulled into the covered garage camping area only to find another bus parked underneath already. The owners were three Colombian friends who had taken off for a couple of months of traveling to Bolivia. We shared pics and stories with them and are now more excited than ever to visit Bolivia. It’s not very often that we meet non-North American or Euro travelers doing something besides the backpacking thing. So we got to practice our Spanish and the bus got to have its picture taken a few hundred times.

Today we struck out for the desert. The road ran along the coast for a while, giving us awesome views over the ocean before turning inland and disappearing into the sand and scrub. This is actually our favorite sort of landscape and we really enjoyed the drive. We passed just a couple of small towns along the way, stopping at one to get our spare tire repaired. They couldn’t fix it properly so we ended up paying for a tube and stuffing it in there to take care of the problem for now.

Late in the afternoon we pulled into Piura, a rather large town in the middle of the desert, where we spotted a whole row of tire shops. Amazingly this time our sleuthing was rewarded with three (that’s all they had) brand new tires. Two of our tires were running on zero rubber, and I’d pretty much been holding my breath around every corner lately hoping they wouldn’t blow, so this was a very very good thing.

Something funny happened as we were talking to the folks at the tire shop. We’d just pulled up, leaving the bus on the very busy road right out front, while we took a look at the tires. Then as we were getting ready to pull the bus into the shop two guys came running up from out of nowhere saying something unintelligible to us while pointing at the roof rack. At first we thought they were trying to say that we were too tall to fit, or something along those lines, but it finally hit us that one of our chairs was missing. They were telling us that somebody had just ripped off our chair.

The funny thing about it is that these chairs cost ten dollars nearly two years ago and were in such bad shape as of late that we hadn’t even been using them. They were just too gross and falling apart. So the fact that some kid had just stolen one of them did nothing but make us laugh. He’ll probably take it home, open it up, sit down, and fall right through onto the ground. It was in such bad shape that I doubt that even if I’d seen the kid grabbing it that I would have stopped him, much less tried to chase after him. Well over a year in the bus now and that’s the first thing that’s gone missing. Oh, that and two or three silver colored plastic tire valve covers. I’m telling you, they’re nothing but criminals down here.