For as long as I can remember, my family's style of travel and choice of destinations could never be the products of quick and easy planning, with sights typically off the beaten path, transportation mildly unreliable, and decision-making somewhat capricious. It goes without saying that if you want a more adventurous trip, be prepared for more convoluted logistics and plenty of unpredictability. I thought this was already well-ingrained into my experience and wandering lifestyle... until I attempted to travel during a global pandemic.
The year 2020 was the first year in my life I spent more than 365 days in a single location. And with every country in the world imposing entry and visa restrictions, all changing on a near-daily basis, travel planning over the past 1.5 years has become a literal headache. Tack on the additional stresses of Covid test scheduling, unexpected flight cancellations, and airline refund feuds to upgrade that headache to a full migraine. Yet for those of us who live and breathe Travel, where there's a will, there's a way to escape the suffocation of local confinement. After losing an Italy trip to the earliest Milan outbreak, as well as a Bolivia trip to a sudden mandatory quarantine just before departure, I once again found myself in a cloud of depression surrounded by expiring airfare credits. The bulk of my money was ensnared by Copa Airlines, essentially limiting me to finding somewhere in Latin America before the year's end. But where could I go that I haven't been before, that also wouldn't be enforcing a 10-14 day quarantine for all arrivals?
Ecuador had never been on my "essential" list, having already been to the Peruvian Andes, Venezuelan Amazon, and Colombian frontiers that would make Ecuador seem like a "light" version of everything else around it. But as I frantically rerouted my cancelled La Paz flight to Quito, speed-planning a whole new itinerary while praying for no impulsive immigration changes, I began to realize that this little nation straddling the Earth's navel just might have more than I initially gave it credit for. Nevertheless, the call to physical freedom and mental rejuvenation ultimately came to two words - Go. Anywhere.
Quito - Balancing Myself on the Equator
Down plummeting ravines and up soaring cliffs, the little yellow taxi twisted its way along a narrow brick road that summited a vast plateau upon which Quito sprawled, its colorful neighborhoods clustered amongst green volcanic hillsides fading into the distant thundering mist. Rattling down cobblestone alleyways lined with the crumbing facades of colonial antiquity, we were met by the cacophony of street vendors of all ages peddling their household wares. It was a peculiar sight to see vendors roaming the streets, most simply ordinary pedestrians in passing, and all anxious to sell you whatever random product they seemed to have acquired that day - from a plastic bag of potatoes, to a single broom with dustpan, or even a coffee mug and already opened box of incense sticks. The maze of stone corridors radiating through the plazas and monasteries were bustling with diverse Quiteños: little old cholitas in textiled skirts and Andean sombreros hawking fruits; young mestizo ruffians with gold chains and torn jeans meandering by motorbike; suited and wired security men on an empanada break from the ministry; a curvaceous tight-dressed woman exiting a leather shoe store; that one disheveled madman still screaming unintelligible obscenities at the Presidential Palace. Likely the most noticeable aspect of life in Ecuador's 2850 meter-high capital was simply Life itself, with people out and on the move in every direction, a stark contrast to the empty sidewalks of SoCal suburbs. It would almost seem as if a pandemic didn't exist here, had it not been for everyone's faces concealed by masks whenever in public, fever checks at building entrances, and the supermarket cashier handing back your change doused in liquid alcohol.
From our little hotel nestled in a renovated colonial house with central courtyard, we made frequent trips to the Plaza Grande in the heart of the UNESCO protected Old Town, taking in the dazzling display of Baroque Catholic cathedrals with their glowing golden interiors, Andalusian style villas overgrown with flowering plants, and covered stone colonnades interspersed with tiny bodegas and bakeries. Numerous family-ran micro-restaurants advertised their special almuerzos of the day, giving us the opportunity to stuff ourselves with the savory satisfaction of dishes like encebollado and estofado de pescado - classic stews of sea bass with fried plantains and avocado over rice, for as little as $2.50-$3 per entree. From the glittering gilded altars of the Iglesia de la Compañia de Jesús, we crossed paths with Che Guevara-emblazoned demonstrators protesting Covid-derived mass unemployment, before taking a sweet afternoon flan and climbing the vertigo-inducing steeple of the Basilica del Voto Nacional for unrivaled views of the city.
While the kitschy Equator Village was a site that could easily be skipped, the highlight of my time in Quito was unarguably the aerial ascent up the slopes of Pichincha Volcano via the city's celebrated TeleferiQo Tramway. At nearly 2.5 km long, our "flight" soaring us above clouds and cliffsides overlooking the entire valley was beyond breathtaking (metaphorically, though also physically at 4100 m/13,450 ft in altitude). Taking in the views of a miniaturized Quito over a hot cappuccino and passion fruit cheesecake from the summit lodge was as romantic as it was refreshing, practically owning the entire mountaintop to ourselves in light of the pandemic-induced decline in tourism. Black volcanic soil carpeted with fields of lush grasses and manzanitas were crisscrossed by trails extending along sheer ridges overlooking the entire capital, misty clouds rolling and rising to envelope us in a cool, moist embrace. It was the perfect distancing from a world of masks and hand sanitizers. But an even bigger escape was still yet to come.
Rio Cuyabeno - Cleansing Myself Deep Within the Amazon
As the canoe sliced through the stillness of black obsidian water, rippling infinite reflections of dense emerald foliage, we snaked our way along the Rio Cuyabeno deep into the western Amazon. A flock of blue and gold macaws squawked among each other while pecking for palm fruits, while the canopy of the ceiba trees rustled from a pack of leaping squirrel monkeys. Sapphire blue butterflies wafted between the vines as a light and refreshing rain sprinkled down upon us like holy water from the hand of Mother Nature herself. The Cuyabeno Reserve, spreading from north of the Rio Napo to as far as the wild Colombian frontier, is one of the last vestiges of virginal Amazonian rainforest left in South America. Despite always being under threat of oil drillers coming from the fields of Lago Agrio, the Ecuadorian government tasked the Siona and Kichwa tribes with being the caretakers of this extensive Eden. We originally had planned to visit the Siona while staying in the jungle, though the threat of coronavirus to the highly susceptible indigenous community had given them a perfectly acceptable reason to keep outsiders at arm's length. Nevertheless, simply returning to and residing within the most biologically diverse region on Earth meant that there was no shortage of other phenomenal sights to behold.
Our journey to Cuyabeno was exhausting, having left Quito around 11pm on a seven-hour bumpy bus ride plowing through a lightning storm and torrential downpour that continued through the following morning. After another four hours by land and river, we arrived at Caiman Lodge, a small grouping of thatched huts hidden in the vegetation along the banks of a large black lagoon, where our young native Kichwa guide, Elvis, was already busy packing another canoe to take out on a night spotting. As the light between the heavily saturated rain clouds began to fade, the intensity of the clicking and buzzing symphony began to rise to deafening levels, occasionally interspersed with a colorful whistle, high-pitched squeal, or foreboding howl. After settling into our spider-filled cabaña and setting up our mosquito nets, we set off with Elvis into the eerie depths of the flooded lagoon, armed simply with a flashlight whose beam sliced through the blackness and scanned the banks to illuminate the golden glows of predatory eyes. The scaly prehistoric faces of caimans surfaced above the black waters, hidden among flooded branches that served as the perfect perches for an occasional slithering snake. Elvis grabbed a baby caiman, a precious little crocodile in miniature that felt delightfully slippery and textured to the touch, its piercing eyes seemingly penetrating my soul.
My fascination with rainforests began as a child on my first Amazon adventure in the remote south of Venezuela. To return after 25 years to this pure and cathartic landscape was like a nostalgic step back in time for me, with each step taken in the dim light of the cathedral-like canopy revealing some hidden natural beauty of my childhood fantasy: a trail of mesmerizing leaf-cutter ants, dutifully carrying their floral cargo across the red earthen floor; aerial roots and swingable vines radiating from branches covered in orchids; a family of tamarind monkeys prancing in a palm studded with gem-like mushrooms and mosses. Yet this Eden also has its darker side: a scaly boa coiled and camouflaged in a large bromeliad; a parasitic fungus growing out of the head of a dead zombie bullet ant; a massive bird-eating tarantula pouncing out of its burrow after coaxing with a stick. However, the worst mood killer for any hike through paradise came in the form of a bee. Then 10 bees. And then 20 bees. The next thing I knew, I was running through the bushes and screaming in terror as a swarm of Amazonian bees attacked and bit me all over, crawling into my ears and into my shirt with a barrage of pinch-like nibbles into my flesh. After fleeing the area, Elvis helped to pick out the remaining bees that were in my hair and still nibbling at my scalp.
Amazonian afternoons were unrealistically idyllic, with pods of pink river dolphins playfully trailing as our catamaran drifted down to the vast lagoon to catch a radiant orange sunset between the rain clouds. However, all traces of bliss and ease would die after the last light of day extinguished, the hour when the frightening creatures of the night would reveal themselves. Armed with only headlamps, Elvis took us on a night hike deep into the forest, our tiny lights illuminating a nightmarish world of insects, arachnids, poisonous frogs, and venomous snakes. Naturally, Fate would have it that the greatest number of "monsters" to cross my path also happened to be my greatest phobia - spiders. Every leaf, branch, vine, and stump was coated in the webs of spiders ranging all shapes and sizes, their millions of beady eyes glowing in the light of our headlamps as we struggled to avoid collisions with them suspending from the eerie darkness above. Elvis toyed with a large hairy tarantula, which surprisingly didn't terrify me as intensely as the long spindly-legged golden silk spider or other bulbous orb spiders. By far the most horrifying creature we encountered was the bizarre whip spider, a hand-size arachnid with long pincers that could easily have arrived from another planet. We concluded the hike by taking a minute pause without the use of any flashlights, standing still in the complete pitch blackness of an alien world echoing with the calls of a billion creepy-crawlers that were likely perching upon my shoulders or descending upon my head. It was the longest minute of my life.
The Amazon is the wettest place I've ever been, and when there aren't hours of torrential rainfall, the air is still saturated with a humidity that makes even laundry drying a frustrating impossibility. Yet however inconvenient it may be to hike while soaked, muddy, and often in a cloud of mosquitoes, the life-giving rain still brings out a veritable magic within the heart of the jungle. Everywhere radiates with the brilliant color of emerald, the sound of droplets trickling upon leaves and down vines, the moist air rich with the scent of aromatic earth and floral accents. Elvis spotted the healing trees for quinine and anticancer compounds, as well as the toxic lianas for curare poison and the vines of psychedelic Ayahuasca. A whole variety of medicinal plants and fungi were pointed out, including acidic ants used by natives as a natural mosquito repellent and the black copal resin burned as cleansing incense. Some plants were simply used for fun, such as the "cigarette" vine, whose hollow stem is lit and smoked, warming the body with a relaxing earthy feeling. Even my father took a couple hits, making faces highly reminiscent of a grumpy capuchin monkey. Paddling our canoe in the rain, towards a secret lagoon filled with hoatzin "stinky" turkeys, blue anis, and kingfishers, we reached an area of flooded huito trees where we cast lines hooked with chunks of raw pork. After stirring the black waters to imitate a struggling animal, Elvis caught several small white-bellied piranhas, followed by my father who hooked the grand prize of a massive, highly aggressive red-bellied piranha. In a comical demonstration, Elvis began to prune the small branches of an overhanging tree with the fish, its razor-sharp teeth snapping through the twigs with a sound reminiscent of a pair of wire cutters. Understandably, we opted not to swim.
Our memories in the Amazon were as nostalgic as they were mesmerizing. The pure air and refreshing rains were as pacifying as they were cleansing. And upon our last winding canoe ride through the jungle towards the dock on the edge of civilization, just when we felt Mama Amazonia had granted us enough, she gave us parting gifts of two rare animal sightings - an anaconda basking on the shores and a huge sloth sleeping suspended from a branch over our boat. The timing couldn't have been more perfect, nor the encounter more humbling.
Cuenca - Refreshing Myself in the Highlands of the Andes
Winding its way into the breathless heights of the highlands, the packed bus literally seemed to float above the clouds, switchbacking through villages perilously perched on vertical drops that descended into oblivion. Coming from the heat of the Amazon, the air was chilled and misty, a low-lying fog caressing mountainous slopes terraced in corn fields and potato patches. Cruising through one quiet village, as llamas raised their heads from grazing, an old cholita in her colorful textile skirt and fedora slowly rotated sizzling guinea pigs on a small coal rotisserie. This is the Andes.
We arrived in Cuenca to the sight of old cobblestone alleys graced by the dilapidated grandeur of Spanish colonial facades and ornate churches, all interspersed with small shops and cafes. Our hotel, La Orquidea, was nestled into one of these antique buildings, creaky wooden floors and crumbling crown moulding creating the ambience of residing within a forgotten era in South American history. We explored the main Plaza de Calderón, shadowed by the imposing Church of the Immaculate Conception with its distinctive blue domes and squat bell towers, the result of a centuries-old architectural miscalculation almost as embarrassing as a misplaced Equator. The scene was one of a picturesque Andean town - vendors peddling colorful floral arrangements outside catholic shrines, the air filled with the smokey perfume of Palo Santo burning on street corner incense burners, with colorful alpaca wool textiles draped from storefronts selling a medley of traditional sweets upon which bees took tiny nibbles. We entered the Mercado 9 De Octubre and worked our way through mountains of tropical fruits and stalls of hanging pork intestines to the upper level, the cafeteria. This is where the real Ecuadorian street foods are, with each smiling vendor anxious to hand you a friendly, albeit hygienically questionable, hand of delicacies to sample. Beyond the fresh juice stands, piled high with multicolored orbs ready for squeezing, were the smokey hornados - whole roasted pigs more than a meter in length basking in their savory oils, their crackling skins red and shimmering. For five dollars, we ordered an overflowing plate of juicy pork, crispy pork rinds, and homemade llapingacho potato dumplings that filled us. A stroll along the Rio Tomebamba helped to work off the coma-inducing brunch, followed by a lazy drift through a quaint archaeological museum filled with Pre-Colombian antiquities to escape the afternoon downpour. Places close early in Ecuador, even more so in the Andean towns, which forced us to take an early dinner at Guajibamba, a hacienda-style restaurant decked out in vintage South American farm equipment and vaquero paraphernalia. The tiny waitress kindly led us to the back patio, where large fiery coal barbecues blazed beneath the slowly rotating daily special - cuy - whole roasted guinea pigs. I've eaten guinea pig before in Peru, as well as tried cooking my very own at home during lockdown, however, the Guajibamba guineas were an experience that completely surpassed those earlier meals. Its crispy golden skin encasing a tender juicy meat was perfectly complemented by creamy boiled potatoes and hominy dressed in a spicy ají salsa. At first the only patrons in the place, by 7:30pm, every table was filled with the boisterous chatter of large Ecuadorian families, all drinking shots of canelazo while gorging on the adorable house pets.
To fully enjoy the natural beauty of the Andes at over 4000 meters, we took an hour bus ride that dropped us off at the humble entrance to the cloud-enveloped Cajas National Park, a light rain drizzling over us in the crisp 5°C air. A humble ranger's office and even tinier restaurant were perched on a cliffside overlooking a green wonderland filled with lakes, rivers, and pampa grasses. After taking a hot coffee and coca leaf tea in the quaint refuge, we donned our rain ponchos and umbrellas to tackle the easy and short Lake Toreadora Trail, which turned out to be a deceptively difficult trek that left us slipping and sliding in muddy and waterlogged pathways, soaking our boots and drenching our clothes with a mildly numbing chill. The trail undulated through the hills surrounding the lake, colorful wildflowers, lime-green mosses, and microscopic geometrical cacti carpeting boulders bordering trickling waterfalls. As the hours passed, the mists drifted more intensely among soaring white peaks while the trail became ever more wet, steep, and overgrown. Finally returning to the cozy refuge after three hours, a steaming lunch of seco de carne (beef stew) and pollo a la plancha (grilled chicken filet) tasted like bites of heaven from our heaven-like observation point above the clouds. Despite being anything but a relaxing stroll through a park, the refreshing and scenic escape from humanity and chaotic city life granted us a brief yet highly desired respite from the underlying concerns of pandemic-era travel.
The taxi dropped us off on an empty street, metal bars gracing small dark windows niched with crumbling graffitied walls. I buzzed the large solid iron door, to which there was no response. For ten minutes, we waited outside the seemingly impenetrable residence. Was this the right place? The kind taxi driver even waited for us, apparently not wanting to leave us in this neighborhood without knowing we'd gained entry. He used his phone to call the number; the line was no longer in service. Finally an old woman next door popped her head out and told me that the hostel owners - trouble makers, as she referred to them - no longer lived there. And yet, we somehow were still able to make a reservation only a week prior. Welcome to Guayaquil.
Despite being Ecuador's largest city, coastal gateway to the country, and flight hub for the Galapagos, Guayaquil has usually faced a negative reputation. Stories of petty crime, armed robbery, and the occasional taxi kidnapping abound, while many parts of the city could easily pass as the setting for a narcotics action film. However, our brief time in this (in)famous South American port gave us an interesting look into Ecuador's coastal culture. We ended up frantically walking with our packs several blocks down to the main 10 de Agosto avenue, where we took a room at the empty, yet charmingly peculiar Hotel Galería, a 70's style establishment drenched in the painted artworks and gaudy statuary of Guayaquil's local artists and art students (all of which were probably for sale). As a city, Guayaquil is exceptionally eclectic, with an obvious emphasis on its "avante garde" image taking the form of colorful street murals on favela walls, random bronze statues dotting the downtown plazas, and large nonsensical sculptures filling every traffic circle. Everywhere seemed to be touched by the characteristic tinge of mild tropical decay. The heat and humidity of the predominantly Afro-Ecuadorean region additionally gave the city a feeling distinct from the Amazonian or Andean areas we'd visited, somewhere more reminiscent of Panama or even Cuba.
For a big city, Guayaquil was exceptionally mellow. Many shops and small eateries had oddly short hours or weren't open at all, making us question whether this was the product of the pandemic's assault on tourism or simply the lackadaisical culture of the coast. Our activities in the city nevertheless reflected this nonchalant attitude, as we strolled the beautiful yet empty Malecón 2000 river boardwalk towards the sleepy, colorful favela stacked up upon Cerro Santa Ana hill. The steps leading up to the lighthouse and small church winded through narrow laundry-line strung allies of small houses and neighborhood tiendas, children playing impromptu soccer matches in the narrow flat spaces between staircases. The exhausting sweaty climb was rewarded with views of molding skyscrapers lining the mighty Rio Guayas.
With a lack of sights, exploring Guayaquil was a more leisurely affair: meandering through the busy Mercado Central in search of our favorite tropical fruits; drifting above the city on the recently opened Aerovia tramway; taking a rest in downtown's Parque Seminario amidst the massive loose iguanas that call it home. The best part of the day was lunchtime at Picanteria La Culata, our go-to curbside restaurant for coastal seafood specialties including encocado (fish and shrimp in a coconut sauce) and conchas asadas (grilled blood clams). In the early evening, we'd hit up a cheap chifa (Ecuadorian Chinese) place for a change of taste and a chance for my father to speak Mandarin, before finishing the night with a gluttonous gorge on passion fruits, rambutans, and guanabanas. All the while keeping a low profile, Guayaquil was a relatively relaxing recharge before returning to the adventures of the north. Maybe a bit too relaxing.
Mindo to Otavalo: Rejuvenating Myself In The Northern Highlands
Suspended at a death-defying 152 meters above an endless sea of emerald green, the tiny 4-person cable car sped across the jungle valley below, cool air flowing beneath one's arms like a bird catching a humid current. The only way to access the prized and protected Mindo-Nambillo cloud forest reserve was to literally take flight and soar above it towards a small hill station on the opposing mountain, from where endless trails snake their way through dense rainforest to paradisiacal cascades and wading pools. Escaping to this Eden, particularly in light of the pandemic's virtual erasure of tourism, was an incredible experience unlike any other, as we meandered alone along misty mountain sides to majestic waterfalls completely void of humanity. Hanging lianas entangled flowering trees in the canopy beside massive ferns covered in mosses, orchids, and bromeliads. Unlike the warm and sticky Amazon, the jungles of the Andean foothills were crisp and refreshing, low hanging clouds slowly wafting over towering rocky ridges into the subtropical valley where the quaint provincial town of Mindo was nestled. We hiked an hour into a concealed canyon to the sight of La Reina, a tall and elegant waterfall that sent a rush of mist through a narrow rock channel decked out with exquisite birds of paradise and elephant ear leaves. Rejuvenated by the water's evanescent embrace, I could not help but feel awestruck by the sheer magnitude and beauty of this life-giving primordial environment. My father nearly stepped on a poisonous snake while trekking back to the hill station, a constant reminder to us that despite its dreamlike facade, the jungle still holds potentially fatal realities.
Further north of Quito, along a sprawling Andean valley dominated by the imposing cone of Cotacachi volcano, sat the bustling town of Otavalo, nationally renowned for its large Saturday market. Buses coming from Quito and the surrounding provinces were packed with families and traders alike, short-statured native men with long braids tailing behind classic Andean felt fedoras alongside squat cholitas carrying their wares on their backs wrapped in colorful textile blankets. Arriving at Otavalo was like stepping off of a time-travelling bus into a scene from Pre-Colombian America. Indigenous Otavaleño women flooded the burgeoning streets, elegantly shrouded in their embroidered blouses over long black skirts, strings of gold beads glittering from necks supporting elaborate head wraps. The people were simply stunning and the central plaza was fully stocked with a kaleidoscope of colorful and complex native textiles, tapestries, and trinkets for sale. Food vendors called out their signature snacks of grilled pork bites, marinated snails, and roasted corn.
The true gem of our day in Otavalo was at a small, recently-opened boutique restaurant specializing in traditional Amazonian dishes of the Shuar tribe. The owner of Maytushka was a jolly and charismatic indigenous man who was all too anxious to explain to me the wide array of dried leaves, fruits, barks, and nuts that lay sprawled out over a wooden table next to a large grill. More like the ingredients of a shaman than a chef, he threw around names like cacao, tagua, guayusa, chonta - even ayahuasca - before lifting the grill lid to reveal a row of leaf-wrapped bundles slowly searing and steaming over the flames. After a welcome drink of sweet yuca chicha, he delivered a large dish of maito, red tilapia steamed in bijao leaves with grilled yuca and a zesty onion relish, followed by another leaf-cooked dish of ayampaco, savory free-range chicken with heart of palm and peppers. This fresh and amazing Amazonian feast was the single most compact form of culinary and cultural replenishment I'd been needing over the past year. The entire meal for two cost $10.
The Return to Reality
As I reflect upon what it took to get here - literal days on the phone with airlines, fighting for refunds on multiple continents, constantly refreshing entry requirement pages, anxiety over test results - all of it seems rather trivial in light of the sublime catharsis I ultimately achieved on this journey. After 1.5 years of physical monotony, mental captivity, and emotional drainage, catching a flight and leaving it all behind for a primordial dreamscape, practically free of people and plague, was a decision in my mind where the reward would have always outweighed the risk. Well, maybe not entirely free from the pandemic, but the Ecuadorians have earned my deepest respect for the lengths they went to, on a national scale, to keep themselves and their very few precious visitors safe. If there's any upside to pandemic travel, it is truly the increasingly rare feeling of being the sole foreigner in an exotic land. Completely unforeseen and nearly unplanned, Ecuador has genuinely impressed me with its unbelievably pristine natural beauty and warm-hearted people, two attributes that aren't exactly easy to come by in Los Angeles. The Amazon Basin is often described by botanists and medical researchers as being the world's largest medicine cabinet, one in which I playfully rummaged and successfully emerged healed.