Doce de febrero

There is a Herbalife convention in Quito, Ecuador. Herbalife acolytes with their matching branded jackets and "I love Herbalife" badges are visible at every gallery, museum, and basilica. While Mel and I ate omelettes for breakfast on Wednesday a man across from us placed four heaped spoonfuls of a pink powder into some water and used the mixture to wash down a dizzying combination of pills. He looked pretty healthy I guess. But he was the only person at the table dining alone, surrounded by chattering Gen Y types. I bet he couldn´t wait to get down to the convention centre.

We have loved Quito. In the daytime it is noisy and smelly but energetic, and a lot of walking over the past four days has revealed to me some interesting little touches. The traffic is dominated by clean electric buses and horribly polluting diesel buses, most decorated with a calligraphic name on the front (Garcia Moreno or Los Pueblos or some other patriotic name or slogan) and golden curtains along the windows. On one the Entrada (entry) and Salida (exit) signs were inexplicably written as if in blood, drips falling from the text like in vampire movie titles. The gulf of luxury between the worst bus and the best bus in town reflects the gulf between the poor eight year old shoe shine boy with the joyless look on his face in the main square to the opulence of president Rafael Correa´s residence (that he doesn´t even use) in the presidential palace. Another eight year old served us in the mini-mart we stopped at today, and one assumes that a crackdown on child labour is not imminent.

There are numerous delicacies available to buy on the street, my favourite being the man who scoops ice cream into cones and then inverts them onto an ice block, patiently rotating them so they don´t melt before they are bought. While crossing the road to buy such an ice cream one needs to be vigilant, because the cars are coming from the right and they don´t necessarily stop at red lights. Red lights appear to be just a suggestion to consider stopping, and the green man walking signal should be shaped like a figure shrugging, saying "by all means attempt to cross but don´t hold me responsible for the outcome". Roads and sidewalks are sometimes poorly demarcated, the colourful cobbled pattern of the path continuing onto the road, and as such I continue confidently onto the road in the same manner only to dance backwards at the sounding of a bus horn.

However, for the alert (and let´s face it, quite anxious) tourist it doesn´t really seem dangerous. Every person we have engaged with has been friendly and forgiving of shattered Spanish, although many have continued to speak Spanish very quickly to us long after it has been clearly established that we don´t understand. Today we stopped in at an innocent looking restaurant only to find the menu dominated by what appeared to be seafood. We were too exhausted to move, so bravely ordered as safely as we could manage. It is now five hours since I ate the fishiest soup in the world and followed up with a paella-esque rice dish laden with shellfish, and I´m yet to experience any ominous rumblings. Perhaps it will come four hours into the eight hour bus trip tonight.

Our Quito highlight has been La Capilla del Hombre, a gallery designed by major Ecuadorian artist Oswaldo Guayasamin (if it sounds like I had heard of him before Wednesday, I have fooled you) and featuring only chosen works of his. I´m not sure how to write about art, except to say that I was very moved by his renderings of the human misery of the Potosi silver mines in Bolivia, and the shock of the killings and disappearances that followed Pinochet´s coup in Chile in 1973. One painting was dedicated to Pablo Neruda, providing a nice connection to our visit to his house in Santiago. Tucked away in a corner was a painting of Pinochet, painted chaotically with sharp teeth, covered in splashes of blood and hung from a real rope that extended down and around the figure´s neck. This hateful image contrasted uncomfortably with the obvious sympathy and humanity of every other work in the gallery.

Yesterday we drove and hiked up Volcan Cotopaxi, the second largest in the "Avenue of Volcanoes" streching south from Quito. I can´t properly describe how enourmous and intimidating this perfectly cone shaped mountain is but hopefully the photos will show it. Google it or something. We achieved an altitude of 5000m above sea level and touched the bottom of the ice that covers the summit. For this we paid a heavy price, arriving back at the hostel headache-y and nauseous, although this passed early enough in the evening for the following.

I have checked out of our hostel a hero after winning the trivia night. I was required to break a tie by catching a lime in a salad bowl. The fellow (English) from the other team almost missed the lime completely with his bowl, while my lime ricocheted from the bowl onto my person, being briefly caught between my wrist and my groin before being manouvered to it´s preferred destination and sweet victory. For this some other people received a voucher for a hostel near the above-mentioned volcano, and I got a free beer and was permitted to keep drinking it even after the hostel bar had closed. Mel was reading quietly in bed at the time (engagement in Spanish is "compromiso") and she later reported that the serenity was broken by a loud Australian voice shouting ¨You beauty!". Good times.

Today appears to be the start of some holiday, and it is marked by young men spraying young women in the street with water and perfumed foam. Mel made it to five pm before she caught some cheeky Ecuadoriano´s eye and received a spraying of her own. Perhaps I should have defended her honour but instead I laughed and took her photo. Does this mean we´re locals now?

Tonight we bus to the Amazon for five days. Another almost mythical location that I won´t be able to adequately describe. Google it or something.