First, to the little Biotic Bastids that tried to kill me off: "Nyner-Nyner!! I'm still alive!" Second, to be forthright, the little buggers almost did me in. Through the miracle of the Blog-Time-Warp, I am sitting in Vienna, rediscovering the small wonder of a solid breakfast. The last entry of the blog, however, has me waxing poetic about my penultimate day in Cuenca. Quite a gap, even for a lazy old sod such as myself. Allow me to attempt an explanation.
It was the last night in Cuenca. I remember it well. My boon companion Señor Hansen insisted on treating me to a steak dinner, or at least to as close as one can get to a steak dinner in Cuenca. As he put it, "It was a piece of roast cut to look like a steak." The man is a sharp critic; astute, but sharp. I at least enjoyed the dinner. I also enjoyed the cigar afterwards. Except for the knowledge that I would soon be spending some twenty-four hours on a combination of airplanes, I felt pretty damn good. So where did it all go wrong?
To quote David Bromberg: "When I woke up this morning, everything seemed alright..." It was a jolly morning, a morning of first breakfast, coffee, cigars. We followed that with a lovely second breakfast, including all the bacon any human being should eat. Today we would drive over the Cajas, from Cuenca to Guayaquil, but there was time for one last cigar and the best balcony in South America.
Eventually we had to depart. Bags were loaded and we began the trek to the coast, but not before a fuel stop.
Vintage Detroit Iron, not the most likely sight in Cuenca, Ecuador.
It was your typical Sunday afternoon drive through the Andes. There was the steady steam of cursing at the crazy antics performed by the local drivers. There was, of course, the normal disregard for the idea of lanes and staying in them. Then we had the repeated bracing for impact, along with the gentle unclenching of clenched sphincters. As I said, a typical Sunday drive here in Ecuador.
We saw herds of wild llamas as we approached the pass at Tres Cruces. Rain was falling across the narrow roadway as we began the long drop to the hot flatlands more than 13,000 feet below. Down, down, the road wound down, and with it came added velocity. Everything was normal, everything seemed alright.
In my experience, downhill runs on third-world mountain roads are the devil's workshop. Many of the local vehicles are under-powered, lacking in braking potential, and highly over-loaded. This makes them a cinch to pass on uphill runs. Sure, you curse them for the belching clouds of black smoke, but passing them on a solid double-yellow with a curve approaching on a blind uphill is sort of a kick. Downhill, however, puts gravity and the laws of physics in the favor of the Joad-mobiles. A severely over-loaded freight lorry with no brake lights careening through a dense fog on a twisting mountain road with more than a thousand foot drop to the low side, well now, that crazed truck-jockey, he has him the right-o-way. When you decide to pass one of these maniacs, it is akin to throwing your mortality into the gauzy whiteness of the impenetrable fog ahead of you, hoping that you don't see your own life flying past you on the grill of an oncoming banana truck. What a strange last view of life that would be.
But we survived. Señor Hansen piloted the Hansen-mobile past the ob-stac-les in our path. We were on the flatlands, back amidst the wonderfully moist tropical heat. Cacao, sugar cane, bananas, and mango trees pushed up against the highway. Waves of green upon green, wet, verdant, clusters of chaotic fruit stands pushing up to the edges of the roadway. The locals continued to perform crazy driving antics, veering on and off the highway in search of that perfect pile of mangos, but without the advantage of gravity. We dodged them and continued into the maw of Guayaquil.
Guayaquil, Ecuador. Water and city, city and water. Straddling a massive tidal plane and river estuary, this is the largest city in Ecuador, and the city with the worst reputation. The Cuenca Ex-pats love to talk about how dangerous the city is. On of them called it "The Somalia of Ecuador," which drew howls of protest from the Guayaquilians reading the same forum. I think she meant the "Mogadishu of Ecuador," but whatever. Anyway, Guayaquil gets a bad rap, complete with tales of thugs on motorcycles robbing folks in open-air cafés. I am skeptical. Señor Hansen is not. Take your pick.
We drove past the airport and checked into our hostal. The air was wonderfully wet, thick, moist and chewy. I was wallowing around in it like a kitten in yarn. Señor Hansen was not quite so thrilled. Following the vague directions of our host, we set out for a stroll to the recommended local eatery. A few twists and turns aside, we arrived at Los Asados, complete with friendly hellos and smiles.
The smiling woman who waited on us rattled off the choices of the day. No, there were no menus. C'mon Gringos, throw down with your bad-ass command of the Espanol. Which I commenced to do. Sort of. In my defense, we did end up getting some food, and it was pretty close to what I thought I was ordering. Everything tasted great, the folks were really nice, and we were proudly presented with business cards with which to remember our dinner.
Then there was the walk back through the city streets. No motorcycle banditos assaulted us, but it was a short walk. We enjoyed a quiet cigar on the terrace, awash in the sultry evening heat. It had been a good day, a good travel day, and a good companionship day. Just like the man sang: "Everything seemed alright..." but perhaps the little bug had already been planted. Or perhaps I was tripped up with some event yet to come, some sip of the wrong water of chip of the wrong ice.
I think it best if we just leave it here for right now. As I slip into my bed in Guayaquil, all is still well. Why bring up the long, slow trek of suffering that is going to begin very soon? Let the poor fool sleep in peace, yes? Maybe the evil biotic buggers are already at work, but who knows? There are several possible clues scattered in the story, little tidbits about this or that consumed. Has it started or not, the invasion? Well Dude, we just don't know.
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