Onward

Bags were sorted, brekkie consumed, and the Bozo Bus loaded. Adios Esteli, it was the long downhill run into Managua and the Agusto Sandino Airport. The mountains fell away as we descended, dropping down into the flatlands. Fruit stands appeared along the Pan-American Highway, vendors sprinkling the space in front of their stalls to ward off the dust of the day. 

All too soon it was time for hugs and goodbyes as the Bozos and Bozettes dispersed for flights to here and there. My compadre and I were the only Bozos flying south, bound for Ecuador. At the security checkpoint I was compelled to donate a few cheap lighters and a cigar cutter. These implements had passed through security in three different countries on three continents, but no matter. 

Nicaragua being what it is, there is a comfy cigar lounge in the terminal. Talk about civilized. With time to kill, we held another impromptu gathering and herf session, whiling away the time to boarding. My illustrious compadre, Senor Hanen, had upgraded us to business class. We were in no hurry. Ah, the luxury of special treatment, drinks before departure, and ample seating. It is temptation of the worst kind. Get thee behind me, Satan! I enjoyed it while it lasted.

Managua to Panama City, then Panama City to Guayaquil, all without issue, Easey-Peasy. There was one last hurdle, a bit of customs law that we were attempting to ignore. Ecuador grows some of the best tobacco leaf in the world. Most of the tobacco is grown specifically for cigar wrappers, the most costly part of any cigar. Despite extensive tobacco farming, Ecuador lacks a cigar culture. They get very frowny-faced about folks bringing cigars into the country. The official limit is twenty-five cigars per person. Both of us were well north of that limit. Somewhere on the order of Nome, Alaska, north of that limit. Orders of magnitude north of the limit. As we handed over our passports at customs, I put on my best Village-Idiot expression. When asked if we were traveling together, I blurted out "Yes!" Senor Hansen blurted out "No." I gave him a hugely over-acted look of deep hurt, then turned back to the two customs guys with an vacant idiotic grin. The official gatekeepers shook their heads and motioned us through the open lane, into the freedom of the Guayquil airport. Sometimes being more trouble than one is worth is the ticket. This day it paid off in spades.

We were met at the airport and driven to our Guayaquil digs. Our host was a friend of Senor Hansen, and our accommodations were palatial. Guayaquil was hot, wet, rainy and steamy. We whiled away the evening with fine cigars and good conversation. A steady rain dappled the surface of the swimming pool. Life was grand.

Spoiled, I am being spoiled!

After a fine breakfast and a farewell cigar with our coffee, it was time to hit the Ecudorian road. Guayquil is the largest city in Ecuador, a sprawling metropolis and port city. It sits amidst converging rivers and a swampy coastline, a steaming flatland of fruit farms and jungle. As we drove out of town, I saw cemeteries with above-ground mausoleums stacked like shoe boxes. Dead folks have to remain above ground. Plant a corpse in a traditional grave and the ground water will pop them out of the soil like a zombie champagne cork.

We drove past myriad fruit stands, each sporting a wild assortment of tropical delights. From melons to mangoes, dragon fruit to papaya, it was a frugivore's paradise. Leaving the fruit plantations behind us, the road turned toward the Caja, the westward spine of the Andes. The drive to Cuenca led over the pass at Tres Cruces and an elevation of 13,500 feet above the sea-level we were leaving behind.

Climbing the Caja.

It's a long, slow grind up the Caja. The road is subject to frequent washouts, fog, and blinding rain. Today we had only washouts, fog, and moderate rain. The lower slopes of these mountains are bathed in an almost perpetual fog as the heavy wet air off the Pacific slams into them. Trucks and buses grind up the steep climb, or burn up their brakes threading their way down. It is not a road to be taken lightly.

Nearing Tres Cruces, 13,500' above sea-level.

We broke clear of the fog and rain just below the last climb to the pass. From here on, we were treated to wide views of the Andean highlands. The highlands are dappled with many small lakes, sedgegrass, and wild llamas. The weather is as unpredictable as any place on earth, changing from bright sunshine to freezing sleet without warning. It is wide, vast, and empty. 

The road drops from Tres Cruces into Cuenca, our final destination. At 8300' above sea-level, Cuenca is the third-largest city in Ecuador. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, it is a city of perpetual springtime. It is also home to a sizable Ex-Pat community, some three to four thousand of them.

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig. We trundled our bags up to Senor Hansen's apartment, glad for the long ride being done. Ensconced on the balcony with coffee and cigars, we would travel no more for the nonce, content with where we are.

Santa Honaria.

The patron saint of traveling cigar smokers, Santa Honaria, had watched over our comings and goings. There will be more to come in Cuenca, but that is the stuff of another post. As always, travel often, travel well, and Ciao for Now!